#my personal feelings got taken over and bastardized

[finnieforkys]

I hate this project so much. I completely lost control of my own narrative and characters just because i'm bad with words and have adhd.

[tweedfrog]

Thinking too much about Rhaella in your au and how the children of her friends are lost to her 😭. Jaime in a hated position, Cersei not a pleasant person, and Elia driven away by her stupid son. I’m glad she has her younger kids and her grandchildren but god she deserves so much more! I hope she finds peace and joy and more companionship eventually.

She has friends and companions! I've got her being friends with the septas who were sequestered with her when Aerys was all paranoid and forced her to stay inside Maegors holdfast.

It's sad that her friends Joanna and Princess [insert dornish female name here] are dead and she isn't good friends with any of the children they had anymore but i wouldn't say her life is awful or extremely lonely. She's made her peace with where she's at and she's a lot happier now that Aerys is dead.

[spencerreidenjoyer]

insatiable | spencer reid x reader

Spencer learns how amazing sex is with you, but gets caught up with work. You show your boyfriend how good it can feel even if you’re not together physically, and he shows you how much he misses you when he gets back.

part 1 - addicted to you | part 2

wc: 4.6k, rating: 18+/explicit

tags/warnings: established relationship, phone sex/video sex, mutual masturbation, public (bathroom) sex, brief mentions of typical BAU stuff (not in detail), meeting the family (literally reader meets the BAU), brief mentions of alcohol, making out, vaginal sex, getting caught (not in the act but afterward lmao)

a/n: this is what an insane person does when they're sick for two days and have nothing better to do over the summer. this is a second part to addicted to you (you don't have to read the first part but it does provide some context for some details within the fic), with inspiration taken from a lovely comment I got on ao3 that made me feel kinda crazy. i included some textfic elements in this fic as well which i hope reads well (bold text is spencer)! also I know early seasons spencer technically sets this around 2005-2007 but they have smartphones and video calling (aka present day) so please suspend your disbelief for the length of this fic lmao (p.s this fic is also on ao3!)

Your boyfriend gets whisked away for work sooner than you expect. Spencer’s supposed to have time off the rest of this week, but you suppose killers aren’t exactly respectful of an FBI agent’s time off of work. It’s downright cruel when he’s called in to work on a Friday evening, when you have dinner and wine set at the table, having gotten ready to spend a quiet, romantic evening in with Spencer. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, rushing to change out of his sweatshirt and joggers into his typical work attire. You stand in the doorway of his room, mildly amused while Spencer panics to put an outfit together. “I know you had a whole evening in planned, but–”

“Don’t be, baby,” you assure him. “You have a killer to catch. Oh, that one– the blue cardigan looks good with those pants. It matches your socks.”

Spencer smiles as he looks up at you, reaching for the navy blue cardigan to his left. He tugs it on rather hurriedly, comes up to you and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You’re the best. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

You shake your head. “Just find the bastard quick and come home to me.”

“I know. I will,” Spencer says.

After the both of you found out just how much Spencer liked fucking you, you were really hoping that your weekend together could be spent in his bed, but duty calls. Technically, JJ had called him in, but you’re not concerned about specifics right now.  

You spend the evening alone in Spencer’s apartment, half of the wine finished and his TV playing reruns of some show you haven’t been paying attention to. Your eyelids feel heavy, and Spencer’s bed is so comfortable you can’t bring yourself to leave it. That is, until your phone buzzes on Spencer’s nightstand, and you’re suddenly very alert.

I miss you, darling. > hey, i’m surprised you have the down time to text. i miss you too I’m really sorry I had to leave so suddenly. We’re on the jet right now.  > i told you it’s okay! i’m surprised the jet has wifi lol Taxpayer money, I guess? We land in LA in a couple of hours and we’re heading straight to the PD to work on the case. > my poor boyfriend is working so hard instead of cuddling me in bed :( How you tempt me, lovely. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Are you going to sleep soon? It’s late. > yeah i’m staying at yours for the night and maybe until you get back? really miss you already Okay, that’s good. I know. I’ll call when I’m in the hotel and settled for the day? :-( > yes please. also stop sending emojis with noses they aren’t supposed to look like that!!! They aren’t anatomically correct without them. The way you send them > babe they’re emojis it’s ok if they’re not anatomically correct Hahaha I love you. > lol i love you too! Goodnight, love. > goodnight spence <3 <3

You can imagine, especially from the way Spencer recounts it, how his coworker Derek must be teasing him about smiling at his phone, about how pretty boy’s lucky lady must be one hell of a woman to get Spencer so smitten. 

You would say you’re rather independent, especially in relationships, but Spencer has you acting like a clingy girlfriend. You can’t help but feel an ache in your chest as you long for him while he’s away, feeling like a military wife whose husband is out instead of being normal. To be fair, being with Spencer has never been “normal” – he always has something interesting up his sleeve, or some quirk that makes you even more enamoured with him. 

Your Saturday is relatively uneventful, milling about Spencer’s apartment. You laze around in bed for way too long, enough where Spencer would’ve definitely hauled you out of bed himself an hour ago if he were here. You make yourself breakfast, unsurprised that Spencer only has cereal in his pantry and almond milk in his fridge. You sit down with one of his very sophisticated literature books but you don’t get very far with it, and opt to clean Spencer’s apartment instead. 

It’s when you’re sweeping the floor that you realise just how much you like Spencer, feeling so strongly attached to him already. You’ve said your ‘I love you’s, given him his firsts. You were staying in his apartment even while he was away– hell, you’re even cleaning his apartment for him. 

Just for a moment, you let yourself fantasise about this being your apartment – yours and Spencer’s; about waking up to him every morning, about making breakfast for the both of you that isn’t cereal and almond milk, about coming home to each other instead of an empty apartment. 

You sigh and get back to cleaning.

You’re settled into his bed, surrounded by the comforting scent of him when Spencer finally does call. You almost drop your phone in your excitement to pick up. 

“Hey! Hi, Spence,” you say, unable to help the smile that’s forming on your face. 

“Hello, love,” Spencer answers. He sounds a little tired. You can imagine the little furrow in his brow, obviously exhausted and dissatisfied from a full day’s work of catching some bastard in LA, and you wish you could be there to kiss his frown away. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Spencer. Long day?”

“Absolutely,” Spencer sighs tiredly. “This UnSub is so slippery. No convictions, no paper trail, nothing, and he’s killing every other–” Spencer starts to ramble but he catches himself. “Sorry. I won’t talk about work right now. It’s pretty grim.”

“It’s okay,” you hum. “Do you want to talk about work right now?”

Spencer makes a little noise. “No, no. I don’t want to bring that to you. Let’s talk about you. How are you, honey?”

Honey. The name makes your insides feel all gooey, soft and warm and lovely. “I’m- I’m okay. I stayed at your place, cleaned up around here. I’m thankful it’s not as much of a man cave as I thought.”

Spencer laughs through the phone, a breathy chuckle. “Thank you for cleaning up for me, love. It’s just a lot of nerdy stuff, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s endearing. I tried to read one of your books earlier and could barely get past the first ten pages.” You tell him, garnering another chuckle from Spencer. “I like your place a lot.”

“I miss you,” Spencer says again. “Waking up to you and having you around is so much nicer than this dingy hotel room I’m in.”

“Aw. Taxpayer money couldn’t upgrade you to a better room?” 

Spencer snorts. “No, but I lucked out on getting the room all to myself.”

There’s a pause as you figure out what to say, and Spencer is quick to follow up, “I didn’t mean–”

“Does this have something to do with you missing me, baby?” You can’t help but grin. Spencer makes a distressed little noise over the line.

“Well, I– Maybe, but we don’t have to–” Spencer stammers, unable to find the words. He’s absolutely adorable. 

“I want to, Spence,” you coo. “I miss you so much.”

You hear Spencer exhale shakily. “What– What do I do?”

“A genius like you hasn’t forgotten how to touch himself, has he?” you tease, Spencer whining on the other end at your words. “Does that eidetic memory of yours come with an overactive imagination too?”

“Surprisingly, no. Hyperphantasia is more of being able to visualise different types of situations in one’s mind, and that’s what usually is associated with an overactive imagination. Having an eidetic memory is more about high-precision recall after seeing something even just once. I think having an eidetic memory pretty much ensures you don’t have aphantasia, or the inability to see and create mental images, but yeah.”

Ah, even his nerdy ramblings turn you on. 

“So does that mean you can recall the way I looked in bed a few nights ago?” you prod, and you wish you could see how red Spencer must be by now.

“Well, yes. Of course I can. How could I ever forget how beautiful you looked then?” Spencer’s words are sweet, earnest, and you melt. 

“Then picture that,” you barely get the words out because you’re so smitten. “Imagine I’m right there with you, Spencer.”

You hear the rustling of the sheets, and Spencer’s little telltale whine as he wraps his hand around himself. “O-Oh–”

“I miss you, Spence,” you drawl. “Miss the way your cock fits inside me. You miss my tight cunt, baby?”

“Your mouth is filthy,” Spencer laughs breathily. “But yeah, I do. You always feel so good around me.”

“You’re touching yourself, yeah?” you ask. You get a little whine from him as an affirmative, but your imagination is running wild – you want to see him. “Can you show me?”

“Yeah, I just– Do you wanna switch it over to a video call? I can’t–”

You laugh at your boyfriend’s lack of technical prowess, tapping at your phone screen until the top half of his face comes up. “Hey, I’m just trying to find a good angle–”

“Don’t just flip the camera and show me your dick, please. That would be so unsexy.” You say.

Spencer furrows his brows. “I was not planning on doing that, for the record.” 

You watch the phone move until Spencer comes into frame, the phone likely propped up at the foot of the bed and exposing all of Spencer to you. You might be drooling right now.

“This is… a lot,” Spencer laughs nervously. “I feel so naked.”

“You’re mostly clothed,” you quip. 

“Ha ha,” Spencer laughs dryly. “I’ve just… I’ve never done this before.”

“Phone sex? Or calling your girlfriend so you can jerk off for her?” 

Spencer gives you a deadpan look. “Both, honey.”

You grin. “I’m glad to be your first. Now, show me how you make yourself feel good, baby.”

Spencer’s cheeks are a gorgeous rosy red when he takes his cock into his hand again, his tip leaking as he strokes himself slowly. With his eyes fluttering shut, Spencer’s lips part as he indulges himself in his pleasure. Like this, you indulge yourself in admiring all of Spencer – the flush on his cheeks that runs down to his neck, his breathy panting as he touches himself to the thought of you.

“Spence,” you sigh. “You’re so pretty.”

His eyes shutter open as he looks at you, somehow even redder than he already was. “You’re the pretty one, darling. Are you– Will you touch yourself for me?”

You hold back your moan as you nod. You were already in your underwear when you had slid into Spencer’s bed, but now all it takes is you sliding your fingers past the waistband to feel how wet you already are between your legs. “Oh, Spence.”

“Do you feel good, love?” he hums, voice only a little bit strained from his immense pleasure. 

The embarrassingly loud squelch that results when you sink your fingers into yourself is enough of an answer. Spencer grins, and you’re red in the face as you rock your hips down onto your own fingers. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything, honey,” Spencer laughs. “But I wish I could feel you right now.”

“I know, I miss the way you feel inside me,” you pant. “Please, Spencer–”

“Take off your underwear,” Spencer’s voice is breathy as he pleads with you. “I want to see you.”

You prop your phone up so your angle matches Spencer’s, both of you on full display for each other. You watch the way Spencer’s eyes widen when you slide your panties off, the way his eyes are trained on your figure through the screen. He says, “You’re so wet…”

“All for you, baby,” you sigh, leaning back as you slide two fingers back into yourself. You scissor them rather hastily, craving the hurried way Spencer fucks you. “It’s not the same without you here.”

“I know,” Spencer hums. “You look so good like that. I wish I could make you feel good right now.”

You moan, pushing your fingers into yourself deeper, barely hitting where Spencer reaches easily. The squelch from between your legs is obscene. “You do, baby. You’re making me feel so good, just thinking about you.” 

In practically a whisper, Spencer admits, “I want to fuck you so bad right now.”

You let out a weak cry, impossibly turned on by your boyfriend’s filthy admission because you didn’t even think he had it in him to say it so bluntly. You slide your fingers in and out hurriedly, your palm giving you the friction on your clit that you crave so desperately. “Spencer–”

Spencer lets out a strangled cry, muffled behind his hand, when he comes. It’s sudden, Spencer’s load painting the soft skin of his stomach, his cock twitching. You moan as you follow suit, wetness drenching your hand as you ride out your own orgasm, imagining his cock inside of you. 

“Oh, fuck.” Spencer gasps, head thrown back as you watch his chest rise and fall as he breathes heavily. His forehead and neck are covered in a light sheen of sweat, and his cock out against the rest of his rather soft, innocent looking outfit is making you giggle just a little.

“You look really hot right now,” you say instead, wishing you could be laying next to him while he recovers.

“I think I should be saying that about you,” Spencer laughs. “You’re gorgeous. You’re so stunning.”

“How long are you going to be away?” You pout. “I like it when I can actually kiss you after you compliment me.”

Spencer smiles sympathetically. “I’ll be back soon, my love.”

“I’ll take phone sex with my boyfriend as a consolation, then.” You wink, making Spencer laugh. 

“Remind me not to get too loud, though. I think Emily is in the room next to me and I really hope these walls are thick enough.” He says, sounding vaguely concerned.

You laugh, and stay on the line a little longer just to relish in a peaceful moment with Spencer.

The next day, when you’re out getting groceries to stock up Spencer’s fridge, you get a text from Spencer.

I don’t know how much Emily heard last night, but she’s been looking at me funny all morning. > lol oops? If we call again tonight, we might have to keep it down.  > if? not when? :) I love you so much. > i know and i love you too :) and you should probably apologise to emily about last night Well, if we’re calling again tonight then maybe I should just give her one big apology when all of this is over. > good idea. now go catch your killer so we can go back to having sex irl Okay!

Unfortunately, Spencer gets too busy to call you again that night, the team working overtime to catch their UnSub, whose kills were escalating exponentially. You don’t find yourself bothered by it, by Spencer disappearing for the night with nothing more than a message sent your way, instead relishing in the fact that it’ll feel even more rewarding when he comes home. 

You’ve never felt this way before, craving Spencer so desperately while he’s away at work. While you’ve only been together a couple of months, you respect that Spencer’s work takes up a lot of his time. It doesn’t mean you don’t miss him, though, as much as you enjoy your alone time.

All of the team’s hard work pays off, though, because they’re storming into the UnSub’s lair by Monday afternoon, and Spencer texts you when you’re just clocking out of the office.

Great news! We caught the guy. We’re packing up at the PD and coming home soon. > omg!!! that’s so great The team wants to go out for celebratory drinks.  > you should totally go ahead and celebrate with them spence! you guys worked your asses off on this case We did. But I’m telling you because I want you to join us. I want you to meet the team too.  > oh? i would love to but are you sure they want me there? Of course, sweet girl. Derek wants to know who has me smiling at my phone half the time, and Emily is asking who I’m calling in the middle of the night. > omg so she did hear you … I think so, love. > … i will apologise to her tonight then I’ll send you the address. Love you > love you too spence <3

There’s just enough time for you to get home and change into a nice outfit – a tight, red dress that hits your mid-thigh, your hair curled and your makeup touched-up before you head to the bar Spencer’s sent you the address to. While you know Spencer’s team is lovely, you do want to make a good first impression.

You see Spencer’s gangly form at the bar when you get there, the rest of his team facing away from you as they get their drinks. You see Spencer’s face brighten as he spots you, raising his hand and waving to you excitedly. The rest of his team notices, and turns to look at you too. You would be shy at all the attention, but Spencer’s unabashed adoration of you, especially in front of all his friends, is giving you more than enough confidence to walk up to the group.

“Hello,” you smile, and the warmth you feel from the team makes you feel welcome already. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

You shake hands with Hotch and Rossi as you introduce yourself. While you had heard of Hotch as a rather cold, serious Unit Chief, the way he warmly smiles at you makes you feel at ease. “So, you’re Spencer’s girlfriend. It’s great to finally meet you.”

“It’s great to meet you too, sir,” you answer rather instinctively, making both Rossi and Hotch laugh heartily. 

“Aaron might be Reid’s boss, but he certainly isn’t yours,” Rossi chuckles. 

Before you can feel embarrassed by it, you get pulled into a tight, warm hug by Penelope, and when she lets you go, JJ hands you a drink, and Derek and Emily are regarding you with knowing smirks. 

“Reid, you are one lucky man,” Derek says, after pulling you into a welcoming hug. “Don’t mess this up, lover boy.”

“I know,” Spencer says, his hand reaching for yours. You lace your fingers with Spencer’s, squeezing his hand comfortingly. “And I won’t mess this up.”

“Lover boy is right, considering what I overheard the other night,” Emily says, looking at you and Spencer pointedly. JJ also has a knowing smile on her face, and you feel your cheeks get hot.

“I’m really sorry about that, Emily,” you smile sheepishly. “I hope Spencer’s apologised for it too.”

“Again, I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Spencer says, purposefully avoiding eye contact with Emily. “I would say ‘We won’t do it again’, but…”

You shriek amidst the laughter of Spencer’s coworkers, Spencer laughing along as he holds onto your waist. You feel adored, so readily welcomed by Spencer’s friends, and you feel like you belong, by Spencer’s side.

After you chat with the rest of the team for a little more, they eventually disperse to do their own things, leaving you and Spencer alone. Spencer looks at you with such adoration in his eyes and you feel like you’re going to melt. “Hi,” he says warmly.

“Hi, Spence,” you say. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Spencer smiles. “But I’m here now.”

“You are,” you breathe, giddy with excitement, and lean in to kiss him. It’s a quick peck, but Spencer pulls you back in like you’re the air he needs to breathe. He kisses you deep, eager, pouring every drop of himself into you. His hands cup your face sweetly, kissing you until you feel breathless. 

“Oh my God, Spencer,” you giggle when he finally pulls back, eyes wild as he regards you. “You really missed me, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Spencer laughs. 

“Do we need to pretend to keep our hands off each other or do you just want to go and make out in the bathroom?” You say simply. You don’t expect Spencer to be down, considering how quickly he’d rattle off the statistics about the germs in a public bathroom, but Spencer smiles at you and pulls you toward the single stall.

You’re thankful it’s a relatively big, clean-looking single stall bathroom, Spencer locking the door behind you as you lean back against the sink. Spencer’s taller figure crowds you in with ease, and you feel swallowed up by him as he kisses you again. He’s desperate, eager as his tongue slips into your mouth, his little noises so deliciously sinful as you kiss him back.

“Spence–” you gasp, in between kissing Spencer back. “Oh, baby–”

“What we did over the phone wasn’t enough,” he murmurs, eyes unblinking as he gazes at you. “I need you right now.”

Sure enough, Spencer’s hard in his pants. He pushes his hips forward, pressing his erection against your thigh. You whimper, drawing your lower lip between your teeth. “Please, Spence. You can take me right here, right now.”

You feel just as desperate as Spencer seems, his hands eager as they roam up your body. He’s eager to touch and squeeze and grope whatever he can get his hands on, and you relish in the way his large, sturdy hands grab your thighs, your waist, your breasts.

“You look so good tonight, my love,” Spencer grunts as he presses his face to your neck, his lips kissing up the column of your neck hurriedly. “So gorgeous. Letting me show you off to all my friends too– Thank you, you’re so perfect–”

“Spencer,” you gasp, hand sliding down to rub at his hard-on. You’re so turned on by how aroused Spencer is already, from just kissing you, from just touching you. “Fuck me, please?”

Spencer exhales shakily, lifting you up slightly so you can sit back on the countertop, your legs spread to accommodate Spencer between them. You’re soaked through your underwear, and you watch Spencer marvel at the sight. His hands are shaking slightly as he undoes his belt, pushing his pants down just enough to get his cock out. He’s hard and heavy and leaking, and you find yourself drooling as he strokes himself momentarily.

Spencer’s biting his lower lip in utter concentration, pushing your dress up and out of the way. You expect his hands to slide your panties off, but instead his fingers push the fabric aside, revealing your slick, wet entrance that he presses the head of his cock to. “Oh–”

“Like this,” Spencer says, breathless, his sentence not even fully coherent but you understand, especially when Spencer pushes the tip of his cock into you. You muffle a sob into your hand, feeling so on edge as you accommodate Spencer’s length. 

The burn is perfect, the slow drag of his cock inside of you teetering between pain and pleasure. It’s a primal urge the both of you desperately need to fulfil, and the way he presses into you satiates you so perfectly. Your arms slung around Spencer’s neck, you cry out weakly as he rocks his hips into you, already brutal and hurried with the pace. 

You’ve never felt this undone, so desperate that you’d let yourself get fucked in a bathroom stall. You barely have any alcohol in your system, for you to feel reckless enough to do something like this. Hell, Spencer hadn’t even taken your panties off before he’d started fucking you. The fact that prim and proper Spencer of all people is making you like this makes your head spin. 

“Oh, fuck, baby,” you whimper into his shoulder. “So good, Spence, oh–”

“You feel so good,” Spencer groans, hips stuttering as he tells you just that. “You’re so perfect. I love you.”

“I love you so much,” you hiccup, feeling Spencer drill into you, the muffled slap of his thrusts hitting the back of your thighs. You’re so overwhelmed, pleasure zipping through you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, as Spencer fucks you like you’re the only person in the world that matters right now. 

“I’m close,” Spencer gasps, pace growing uneven, hurried, as he chases his pleasure while trying so hard to make you feel good too. “Please, I–”

You cry out as your orgasm hits you, too sudden, too quick. You clench around Spencer as your body shakes, Spencer fucking you through it with desperation. You don’t expect to come so quickly, but you suppose missing Spencer has an effect on you. 

You squelch obscenely with your release as Spencer continues to fuck you, needy and hurried, moaning in your ear as he stumbles into his orgasm too, wracking through his body like he has no control over it. You feel his load spill inside of you, hot and messy, his hands trembling as his thrusts slow.

“Oh, fuck,” you say, laughing slightly. “Holy shit, Spencer. We just had sex in a public bathroom, this is crazy.”

“We just had sex in a public bathroom,” Spencer echoes, sounding mildly panicked. “Oh, my God.”

“It was very fucking hot.” You assure him, holding his face in your hands to look him in the eyes, stopping him from overthinking. “But we should probably go home, because I’m a fucking mess between my legs right now.”

“I might need to take a shower,” Spencer says, his voice wavering slightly. “The sink is technically the most germ-ridden surface in a public bathroom, the damp environment makes it a–”

“Spencer, I love you so much, but for your sake and mine, let’s not talk about germs right now.” You shudder at the thought. “I think I need to take a shower after that too.”

“Let me clean you up, and we can go home.” Spencer, despite his germ anxieties, is rather sweet in cleaning you up. Your panties are ruined with fluids, and you’re starting to feel Spencer’s load trickling out of you when you stand back up, but you relish in the fact that you’re going to be back at his apartment soon enough. 

(The fact that Spencer hadn’t corrected you when you called his place home, makes your heart sing.)

You clean up your makeup and make your hair look as presentable as it can be, especially after your boyfriend has literally fucked you in a public bathroom, and when you both look presentable enough, you try to slip out of the bathroom casually.

Unfortunately, Derek and Emily are right there, catching you in the act of leaving, obviously noting the way you and Spencer look absolutely dishevelled. 

Derek raises his eyebrows, grinning. “Damn, lover boy.”

“Shut up,” Spencer retaliates weakly, his voice slightly shaky. 

“We’re heading home first,” you say with all the confidence you can muster, trying very hard not to feel extremely embarrassed in front of Spencer’s very smug friends. You’re still holding Spencer’s hand, and you feel a little less afraid. “It was fun getting to meet you guys.”

Emily shakes her head playfully, smiling. “We’d love to hang out more with you another time. Maybe when Reid isn’t so desperate to get alone with you?”

Spencer makes a displeased noise, but you smile and nod at her. “Definitely.”

Derek and Emily let you slip out of the bar without saying much else, and you hope that the rest of Spencer’s team doesn’t hear about it. 

As you and Spencer step out of the bar and into the cool, evening air, you kiss his cheek once more. “I love you. Now, let’s get home so we can shower. And then we can have sex again in the comfort of your bed?”

Spencer grins, any earlier embarrassment seeming to melt away. “That sounds perfect. God, I love you.”

[retroaria]

SOMEONES JEALOUS!

summary: (Sakura, Suō, Kaji) when they’re jealous seeing you with another guy!

WIND BREAKER M.LIST | enjoy 🥀 -aria

ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩 ᡣ𐭩

Sakuras jealousy is a recurring issue. Once you’re his and he’s accepted that fact, he hates when anyone else gets more attention from you than he does. It makes him question everything, feels like he’s having a mid life crisis.

He sometimes get jealous of the way you interact with the other Bofurin boys as well. Is afraid you might think one of them is nicer than him, or that they could protect you better than he could. you constantly have to reassure him, which makes him feel even worse.

If he sees someone actively flirting with you right in front of him, he goes into fight or flight mode

Acts like you’re about to be murdered and his only way to save you is obnoxiously interjecting himself in the convo. “hahaha right MY PARTNER is soooo cool! you guys friends? Never heard of you before hahaha strange.” “Hey BABE, you seem to be having a lot of fun over here…WITHOUT ME.” The guy would just awkwardly walk away lol

Once he’s gone Sakura goes back to normal and tries to act like what he just did wasn’t borderline insane. “What do you mean? I was just talking to you how I always do.” Yeah suuuuure.

Just make sure he knows you love him and no one else. Appreciates when you include him in convos with strangers while you two are out, hates being left out of the loop.

Ren definitely feels like you are the light of his life, his sunshine on a cloudy day, the only pure thing about him, keeping him sane and at bay. Deep down he’s terrified that you’ll find someone more gentle than he is, someone less angry and tense all the time. So when something threatens to take you away, he gets rather aggressive

He prefers if you don’t see him that way. So anytime someone seems to be a little too flirty, or trying to get a little too close to you, he stalks his pray and waits it out. Once the interaction is over (you obviously rejected them), he’ll wait until you leave, head off to the bathroom, or just aren’t paying attention to shoot them the most devious glance imaginable.

Eyes of a killer as he bites down hard, cracking the candy in his mouth. sending them a signal of what might happen to them if they don’t back off. If you aren’t around, “you shouldn’t go for someone so far out of your league” “back off”.

Suo doesn’t tend to get jealous. He’s got you whipped (just as much as you have him) and he knows it. A confident king.

On the rare occasion he does feel threatened by another man, it’s usually by someone of his same stature, coy and nonchalant. It almost makes his blood boil to see someone teasing you the way he does just to see that cute flustered face.

Thinks its disrespectful for other men to bother you when they should already see how fruitless it is. In his head, someone like you is surely taken. (Though he still finds it hard to believe that he was the one who was able to take you)

He’s likes to let it go on for a little, wanting to see what tactics the guy might employ. He also wants to see the look on this persons face when they are inevitably rejected by you.

If they keep pestering you even after you’ve declined their advances, Suo will step in. “Hey darling, do you need my help here?” “How bold of you to assume you’d have a chance.” (He’s saying all of this with the most devious smile on his face, probably giggling too. Cheeky bastard.)

[ladyempty]

"Do you think you can just deny me? No, the answer is no"

° | This is a yandere work and may contain triggering behavior. I'm not in favor of that in real life.| ° | pairing: Yan!Maegor Targaryen, o cruel x Wife! Reader ° | !English is not my first language!|

You were certainly a cursed woman for arousing the almost immediate interest of the cruel king after his bloodthirsty ascension to the throne.

Maegor already had three wives at that time, two wives he liked and one he despised with increasing hatred.

But you were different, it was an overwhelming feeling that caught you off guard in the first contacts.

There was something fascinating to the king in his every little gesture and movement. Her so easily adorable personality and impeccable looks.

So this was love? This flame that burns without being seen? That feeling he despised when bards sang softly on banquettes and celebrations, and now it had taken over his body.

Already convinced of the strength of his feelings, the king did not delay in a proper court, he thought he had already made his obvious interest clear. The king's way of showing interest was something... Peculiar... Certainly constantly chasing you, ordering guards to follow you and always so fixedly analyzing your slightest movement, it wasn't the most gallant way.

In any case, the engagement was not long in consideration, with Maegor coldly threatening you father:

"I will have your hand beheaded or I will have your daughter's hand in marriage" His tone was as cold as the blade of his sword held firmly at his hip.

The wedding was only in Valerian traditions, the king's warm crimson blood mingling with his own and the taste of copper on his lips.

Maegor would never stoop to marrying in the faith of the seven. An action that only caused more chaos and anger from the religious.

The wedding night was certainly not a fairy tale. The king was focused on creating an heir and finally freely exploring his body. His touches were rough, strong and not at all gentle.

You better not consider moontea...

As a husband, Maegor is not the kindest. His displays of affection are not delicate and he does not demonstrate his love through words at all.

But compared to his treatment of other people, he is much softer on you.

He will still punish you if you disobey his numerous and strict rules.

Jealous and possessive are an understatement to describe feelings and behavior. You are His in every aspect of the word. Your body and soul belong to him and him alone. And not even his other wives have the right to take their You attention away from him. Your world should revolve around him the same way his world revolves around you.

Maegor is simply crazy about you, he loves you in a way he's never loved anyone else, even if it was in a distorted way, he doesn't want anyone to get close to you, touch you or even breathe and look in your direction. Anyone who approaches you will regret it bitterly when the blade of your sword pierces the person's neck without mercy.

He admired strength... But you couldn't get hurt, he liked your bravery, but there is no way he will allow you to get hurt. Never.

Maegor will not change your reason if you don't trust him. He will even think you are smart. For a while. After your patience runs out, he will simply demand your complete trust in him.

"I am your lord husband, who is more deserving of your trust than me?"

And things only got worse after Alys's deformed stillbirth...

Tyanna's whispers in her ear about infidelity and the child being nothing more than a bastard only served to increase her paranoia. The mere thought of you cheating on him was enough to make him simply lose his mind.

He imprisoned you in your private chambers, no one was allowed to enter unless authorized by the king. Guards guarded the door to his quarters.

Then, in an act of desperation, Maegor took three wives at once. But all three had deformed stillbirths just like Alys… Tyanna had lied and the king simply didn't know what else to do. He was desperate for the first time in his life.

But like a ray of light... Were you pregnant? For the first time in almost decades... Maegor smiled widely.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Yoichi Isagi's older sibling.

"Who's that?" In the middle of their gathering as this happened to be their first week off at blue lock, Chigiri was the first to notice the presence of other from afar. "Yeah, who's that? They've been looking at us ever since we got here." This time it was Bachira whom have been long aware of the other person presence ever since they have gathered in the cafe. "And they're good looking too." Eita spoke that causes everyone to look at the person they were talking about. It was a person wearing shades and a mask, so how could Eita tell they were good looking? "Who- ah. That's my older sibling." This time it was Isagi who spoke. "Who-?! What?!"

Imagine, as far as you are aware of. Your younger brother Isagi was supposed to be on that so called project, blue lock? Was it? So now that you have seen him in the midst of the crowd in the middle of your agenda. You cannot helo but to observe him in the far distance, was that really your younger brother? Come to think of it, your mother has been urging you to attend some game just a couple of days ago as well as making you come home last time. But you cannot, you are busy nowadays.

Imagine, just a couple of seconds ago you are pretty sure they were all looking at you. And now, they are all in front of you with Isagi at front leading them in tow. "It's really you kiddo." You spoke in awe once he was in front of you. "Are these your friends? That quite... a lot." With all sorts of hair color variety too causing you to sweat drop. "Well... things happened. But! These are my friends from blue lock, and this is my older sibling, Isagi (First name)." "It's a pleasure to meet my younger brother's friend." You chuckle, removing your mask as you throw your arm around Yoichi's shoulder and making a two finger salute towards his friend that have their jaw dropped. "You bastard! You never told us you have an older sibling let alone a them being a model!"

Imagine tagging along with them. Sure you were in the middle of your agenda butttt that could wait, you haven't hangout with your brother for a while now. Besides, it was fun to have them around, youths have their own ways of enjoying and it's really fun. So you tag along, paying things on their behalf as the oldest among them despite those punks being loaded as fuck. Damn, they even have the Mikage heir among them and that young model you have seen before. Still, the point is that you are the oldest, and you have taken a liking on these punks so it was your treat. Not that you played with them though, you just watch them from the side. Looking at your brother fondly with a smile on your lips.

Imagine having a smoke break, a piece of cigarette yet to be lit up on your lips as you lean against the wall on an alley when you heard a footsteps coming towards you. "You smoke?" You shake your head, finger reaching out for the cigarette on your lips before signing your brother to come closer. "Why are you outside? Aren't there more time left at the karaoke?" "Oh, I just went outside for a breather." You nod once again and silence take over the place. Suddenly you really want to smoke but held it in as you open your mouth. "So.. How's blue lock?" It was an unexpected question coming from you, at least for Isagi. You have never taken interest when it comes to such things after all. But now that you asked, his eyes sparkle unknowingly. You on the other hand listened as your brother rant about his life inside the blue lock.

Imagine in the middle of their bowling match, in the midst of fun, you receive a text message from your manager causing you to bid your goodbye to them. "Oh." You look back at them that was watching your departure. "It might be too much to ask but please take a good care of my brother." You bow before standing up straight again. "And Yoichi." Before he knew it, a card was thrown in his face. "Feel free to treat your friend and buy whatever you want, you're at home till the end of the week right? I'll come home tomorrow." You spoke looking at him. "Well then, goodbye." With a silly as salute and a wink, you turn your back at them.

Imagine, Isagi always found you intimidating. Maybe it was the age gap between the two of you or the difference in your personality but you were quite hard to get along with to be honest. But now that he think about it. "Woah, you have such cool sibling, Isagi." His friends- his team mates exclaimed, even Aiku and his team could only agree. And with a laugh, "Yeah, so cool, right?" Isagi said smiling.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2024°

[lionneee]

Favourite Uncle

Masterlist

Taglist

English is not my first language, please be kind

OC!Aemond x Fem!Reader - OC!Jace x Fem!Reader

•Warnings: smut, kissing, taking of sexual themes, cheating, incest, secret relationship.•

To Jace, it almost seemed funny that he got to marry his niece just as Daemon did.

He was happy too, you were kind, innocent and sweet, the perfect wife, despite the father and the uncle.

He could still remember the glance the two brothers gave him when the engagement had been announced, and Jace kissed her hand.

But eventually, everything went good, he found himself satisfied with marriage, and also with his two young white haired boys his sweet wife gave birth to.

He had sighed loudly in relief as soon as he saw the white hair on the babies, happy that they would have never had to go through what he did, just because of his brown hair.

He smiled as he saw his wife come inside their shared chambers, her hair perfect as always.

“Have you already taken a bath, wife?” He asked as he stood up from the bed.

“Yes, I had, uncle.” She smiled up at him as he approached her.

“You don’t have to call me uncle anymore.” Jace smiled softly as he caressed her cheek. “Actually, not even husband. Call me simply Jace. We are family.”

She nodded with a sweet smile.

“It’s almost a shame your husband can't see you like this.”  Aemond smirked as he kept pounding you from behind, your tits bouncing up and down as you gripped tightly the edge of the table. “Being fucked like a cheap whore.”

His hips snapped forward, thrusting deep into her heat. The feeling of her slick walls gripping him was intoxicating. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a searing kiss, tongue delving deep to tangle with hers.

His hips slammed against hers relentlessly, the force sending ripples through the wooden surface beneath them. The wet sounds of their coupling filled the air, mingling with Aemond's low groans of pleasure.

“I always thought you had favourites, you know?” He smirked as he thrusted into her deeply, feeling her hot wetness envelop him. “I’m pretty sure I’m your favourite uncle, not that bastard husband of yours.” His hands gripped her hips tightly as he pounded into her, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the room.

"Fuck, niece." He growled. "You feel so good around my cock." His words were punctuated by swift, powerful strokes that sent shivers through her body. He could feel her walls clenching around him, trying to milk his release. “That dumb brother of mine married you to the wrong person.” He moaned as he pulled back slightly, only to slam back into her with renewed vigor, the force of his thrusts made the table creak ominously beneath them.

She moaned softly as she bit her lip, her back arching off the table as she straightened up. She threw her head back enough to see the expression of pleasure of her uncle as he fucked her unce again.

He gazed at her with burning intensity, purple eyes nearly black with lust. His free hand slid up her body to cup her breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak as he continued to drive into her.

"But it’s okay. We found a way to fix it, didn’t we?" He chuckled as he looked down at her, her short, petite form squirming as he kept fucking her raw against his table. "Let's give your husband another kid." The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through her, making her moan a bit louder.

“Yes, uncle… put a baby in my belly, please -” She panted as his hand moved down to rub her clit. “Oh, I will, my sweet niece -” He smirked.

“Okay… Jace.” She smiled. “I have great news.” She said as a shiver went through her body as he felt Aemond’s seed starting to run down her thighs. “I’m with child.” 

Jace’s eyes lightened up at the news and quickly hugged her.

“It's wonderful news!” He exclaimed happily. She hummed in agreement as she looked at the door ajar, where she saw Aemond looking right back at her.

“We shall celebrate tomorrow!” Jace hugged her tightly.

Aemond scoffed a laugh as he turned, walking back to his chambers.

“Imbecile.” He mumbled to himself.

Taglist: @ka1afbr @cynic-spirit @ladythornofrivia @zenka69 @queenofthekeep @adorewhatever @diannnnsss @kotadislikesthissite @iloveallmyboys @valyrianflower @dixie-elocin @gelacat0413 @quinquinquincy @mamawiggers1980 @darylandbethfanforever9 @rhaethoughts @believeinthefireflies95 @urfavnoirette @summerposie @sk1mah1 @queenofshinigamis @anukulee @chlmtfilms @m-riaa @p45510n4f4shi0n @malfoycassimalfoy @agoldenwoe @sapphirevhagar

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Chibs with a reader around the same age as Juice and they do it on Chibs’s bike at the club house thinking nobody is there but they get caught by a few of the members

Teach Me How to Ride.

Synopsis - Chibs is teaching you how to ride (in more ways than one).

Pairing - Filip 'Chibs' Telford x Female Reader

Warnings - smut. cursing. age gap.

Age Rating - 18+

Word Count - 1k

Author's Note - thank you SO much for this request, anon. it made me feral. that old man owns me and i'm not sorry about it. always open to SOA and chibs requests. <3

Masterlist. Inbox.

"Any weekend plans, darlin'?"

You smile at the blonde man sat on the other side of the bar you're wiping down.

"Nothing too exciting. I think I'm gonna try and get out on my bike."

His brows raise in curiosity.

"You have a bike now?"

"Yeah. Chibs is teaching me how to ride."

"I bet he is."

You roll your eyes at the snickers that come from the other guys who are dotted around the room.

"Real mature, Jax."

"Is he charging you for these lessons, or are you paying him in other ways?"

You put down your cloth and look up.

"I'll jump over this bar and beat your ass right now, Tig. Don't think I won't."

They all laugh, and you can't help but chuckle along with them. You know they mean well. They'd do anything for you, in a heartbeat.

Eventually, the sun sets, and all of the guys make their way home. You've been restocking the bar, not minding staying a little later if it means you get the job done.

You're crouched down filling the fridge when you hear a familiar Scottish accent echo though the clubhouse.

"You still here, sweetheart?"

You stand up and smile at him, grinning wider when he reciprocates.

"Still here. Trying to get my shit done."

"That's my girl. Always working ten times harder than the rest of us."

You laugh, throwing him a beer.

"You're here late. How did the run go?"

"All good, nothing to worry about," he winks.

You think back to Jax's comment earlier, and decide you've had enough of avoiding the truth. You want answers. You also just kind of want to know what he'll say.

"Why does everyone think we're fucking?"

Chibs practically chokes on his drink, taken aback by your sudden brashness.

"What?"

"You heard me."

He takes a moment to process, before a slow smile etches itself onto his face.

"Why do you ask that?"

"Just something Jax said earlier."

"Ignore that bastard. He doesn't think before he speaks."

You chuckle in agreement, finishing up your jobs for the day.

"You wan' a ride home?"

You nod gratefully, making sure to lock up before walking over to where Chibs is leaning against his bike. He's parked by the door, under the shelter, obscured from the yard. He slips a helmet onto your head, before standing in front of you to do up the buckle. His rough fingertips slide under your chin, clasping the straps in place. He swipes a thumb over your bottom lip gently, eyes never leaving your face.

"You're too good for me," he murmurs. "Pretty young thing like you."

"Everyone already thinks we're fucking anyway," you whisper, smirk on your face.

He chuckles lowly, before leaning in to capture your lips with his. He kisses you with need, unbuckling the helmet he just put on you and dropping it to the ground. He's grabbing at you - your hips, your ass, anywhere he can find. You've got your hands tangled in his hair, yanking roughly when he bites your lip.

The two of you waste no time. Chibs is shrugging his jacket off while unbuttoning your pants, pulling them down. You're fumbling with his belt, undoing his jeans with shaky hands. You're both high on adrenaline, desperate to feel the other person. He smashes his lips back to yours and you groan, reveling in the way he tastes like smoke and peppermint.

Chibs grabs your hips and walks you backwards, twirling you around so you're bent over his bike. You can't help but laugh, remembering what Jax had said.

"What?" he chuckles into your ear, hot and heavy against your back.

"Nothing," you giggle. "I'll tell you later. You gonna fuck me, old man, or just stand there?"

He growls under his breath and smacks your ass as punishment, smirking when you whine.

"You gonna ask me nicely, sweetheart?"

At this point, you're not above begging. Besides, you know it'll do wonders for his ego, and you don't entirely mind that.

"Please, Chibs," you whinge. "Waited so long for this."

"Oh, ya have?" he coos. "Better not keep you waitin' then."

In one smooth thrust he slides home, both of you groaning in unison. He plants a hand on the back of your neck, the other with a firm grip on your hip, providing him with leverage. He sets a steady, even pace, careful not to knock the bike over.

He tilts his hips upwards a little and you keen, seeing stars.

"Right there? Yeah? That's it, isn't it?"

You only nod in response, holding onto the motorcycle for dear life. You trust him, though. You know he won't let you fall.

"Fuck, darlin'. You feel so good."

"So close," you choke out.

"I know, I know. Can feel you squeezin' me. Come on, that's it. Good girl."

The lilt of his accent combined with the glide of his hips is lethal, sending you over the edge in no time. You see stars, heart racing and mind blank.

Your undoing is also Chibs'. He groans as he finds his release, leaning over to rest his head between your shoulders. You're both panting, chests heaving as you recover.

After a moment, the bike groans, and you both jump up, laughing as you do it. You're redressing, Chibs stealing kisses from you, when you hear a voice cut through the darkness.

"Well, shit. I was only kidding earlier."

You can hear Jax's teasing drawl before he comes into view, cocky smirk drawn across his face.

You groan as Chibs rolls his eyes and throws his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him. Both of you know you're not going to hear the end of this for a long time.

[thesoftuglywrites]

Satoru Gojo doesn't sleep.

Well, that's a lie. He sleeps, he just doesn't sleep well.

The man averages about two to three hours a night, when the average adult human should be getting about seven to eight consecutive hours of sleep. One could either blame it on the constant stream of input of cursed energy or information from his Six Eyes technique, or the monotonous flow of reverse cursed energy to try and keep his brain at optimum performance, or the busy schedule that's imposed on him due to his special grade status, being "The Strongest" and all that malarkey.

That is, until he started to share his bed and his home with you.

You remember how you pleaded with Satoru to try and get some rest after a day of lessons, the exorcism of a special grade curse that roamed the grounds of an abandoned primary school, and the paperwork that came with it. It seemed that had become his everyday schedule. Early mornings to mid afternoons, lessons. Afternoons to late evenings, missions. Evenings to the dead of night, paperwork. He barely had any time to take care of himself.

Even through the blindfold that he was wearing, you could see the bags were starting to bruise past his eyes and transcend to his cheekbones.

He was dog tired and in desperate need of rest.

You approached him as he was hunched over his office desk, typing up a report on the mission that had transpired that day. You noted that the plate of food that you had set out for him was picked clean, so you were at least grateful that he had taken the time to get something in his stomach.

You attempted to place a hand on his back, but were stopped with mere nanometers to spare by the invisible barrier that covered his body.

“You know you don’t have to use your Infinity with me around, right?” you gently chided.

He let out a soft sigh and the barrier lifted, allowing you to touch him. “I’m sorry. I’ve just…I’ve got a lot on my mind,” he groaned, letting his head fall forward and land on the keyboard. Consecutive ‘F’’s started to fill the screen where he had left off typing.

“‘Toru, it’s almost midnight. You’ve been at this report for the past four hours, and then some.” Your hand slid up his neck to get to his hair, oscillating between scratching and massaging his scalp as you threaded your fingers through his silver white locks. “You should get some rest. You, of all people, certainly need it the most.”

“Mmm… feels good, babe,” he moaned, his voice slightly muffled by the keyboard. He sits up straight, lifting his head off the desk. “As much as I want to, though, I can’t. I gotta get this report ready for Yaga so he can spare me a meeting with the higher-ups.” His nose upturned at the mention of the sickly, old, conservative bastards that sat behind paper screens.

“The higher-ups can eat shit for all I care. Right now, I’m concerned about you, ‘Toru.” You crouched down beside him and pulled his blindfold off, allowing you to look him in his eyes. “You keep going like this, and you’re gonna end up burning yourself out, my love. I won’t stand by and let that happen, not if I can help it, at least.” You reached up and gently held his cheek as you leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “Please come to bed.”

A moment of silence passed as Satoru drank in your concerns as well as your physical affections. He was a weak man when it came to your touch, being rendered to putty sometimes, with the euphoria that your body offered him. You were really the only person that he allowed freely to touch him, as no one else was really allowed the privilege.

You could have almost sworn that he started to purr underneath your fingers.

“Okay, I’ll go to sleep… if.”

You raised an eyebrow. “If?”

“If you come to bed with me. I don’t like the idea of you going back to your apartment so late at night, especially if I’m not there with you.”

You gave him a half-hearted smile with a breathy chuckled that followed. “Sure, ‘Toru. I’ll come to bed with you.”

You grabbed his hand and pulled him to a standing position, letting him stand to his full height. He nearly stumbled after you as you guided him to his bedroom.

Satoru, when presented with the large California King sized bed, damn near face planted into the covers.

He was more exhausted than he initially thought he was.

Satoru turned onto his side, and even in total darkness, you could still see the glow of his blue eyes as they searched for you. He made grabby-hands at you as he stretched out his arms towards you, trying to get you into bed with him.

You clambered up beside him, quickly being swept up into his embrace as he pulled you into his chest, his warm exhaled breath tickling your exposed skin.

“Can… can I try something?” You hesitantly asked, unsure if he was going to take you seriously or not.

He pulled away, giving you a mischievous look with a small smirk starting to quirk up at the edge of his mouth.

“It’s not like that, you perv. I wanna try something different tonight. I think you’ll actually come to like it.”

He decided to humor you. He opened his arms and you maneuvered your way out of his embrace. You pulled back the covers and laid flat on your back with your head on his pillows.

“Come here,” you beckoned, patting the space beside you.

Satoru wasted little to no time, eagerly climbing up next to you, laying his head on your chest where he could hear your steady heartbeat. He nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck, his breaths now lightly cascading over your collarbones. He wrapped you up into his arms, pulling you nearly inhumanly close to his front, almost as if he wanted to merge bodies with you.

“Shh… go to sleep, ‘Toru. I’ll be here when you wake up,” you softly cooed, your hand finding his scalp once again as you weaved your fingers through his hair, lightly scratching the skin there.

“Mmm…promise?” He sounded drunk.

“I promise. Get some rest.” You leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of his hair.

It didn’t take long for his respiration to even out, letting out soft puffs of air, and his grip to loosen only the smallest fraction. He began to lean a little bit more heavily into you as he wasn’t conscious to be mindful of his weight on top of you, but you didn’t mind.

You laid there, staring at the ceiling as you continued to stroke his hair, listening only to the steady rate of Satoru’s breathing and the soft hum of traffic outside of his high rise apartment.

You honestly can’t remember the last time that Satoru just took some time to breathe. Even on the rare occasion when he had downtime, his brain was still on high alert, no thanks to his Cursed Techniques and his high-ranked status in the Jujutsu world. He worried for his students and his co-workers safety, he fought the higher-ups on… basically everything, but his main concern, above all, was you.

You, the little non-sorcerer that managed to capture his attention by being at the right place at the right time. You, who knew nothing of the Jujutsu world, treated him like an actual human being instead of the weapon that he was always deemed. You have shown him genuine love and care, to the best of your ability, at least, trying to be a foundation for him to lean on even in his darkest moments.

It was an unorthodox relationship between the two of you, but you somehow made it work.

As time passed, Satoru remained in the same position with him tucked away at your side and his head on your chest. In his slumber, his hand started to drift up and grab hold of your shirt, fisting into his grip as he held onto you tightly, somehow afraid that you were going to slip away into the night and get away from him.

Eventually, you started to succumb to your own drowsiness, your eyes growing unbearably heavy as you laid there, the comfortable bed and the heat from Satoru’s body starting to lull you into a deeper sense of tranquility. You pressed another kiss to the top of his head and closed your eyes, waiting for sleep to come for you.

The two of you remained undisturbed for the rest of the night, finding solace in each other’s embrace.

[lanawrx]

Johnny Joestar crushing on Reader at first sight

a/n: Johnny is so sos o sos o soso soooo cuuuteeee <33 my cutiepatootie my lil gumdrop, my lil sad blue Kentuckian 🥺

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Johnny had been staring at you from a distance, like a moth drawn to a flame, since the very moment he laid eyes on you before the Steel Ball Run began. He couldn't quite explain it, but there was something about you that stirred something deep inside him, like the first taste of sweet tea on a hot summer's day.

The Steel Ball Run was about to kick off, and while Johnny's focus was on the race, he couldn't help but keep an eye on you. Your presence seemed to shine brighter than the desert sun. He saw you laughing with friends, your smile as warm as a southern sunrise. It was a sight he couldn’t shake from his mind.

As the race progressed, Johnny’s heart skipped a beat every time he spotted you by chance. He had a rough exterior and nerves of steel when it came to the competition, but when it came to you, he felt like a schoolboy with a crush, unsteady and unsure.

Despite the numerous women he had bedded in his prime, the feelings he had for you were new, pure, and most of all, terrifying.

You were beautiful, and even with your dusty riding gear and dirt-smudged face, he couldn't help but freeze at the thought of going up to you.

He didn't deserve you. He was so sure of that.

But he wanted to, though. So badly.

The day of the next stage, he found himself at a dusty tavern, nursing a drink and trying to calm the jitters that had taken up residence in his chest. Gyro, the charismatic person that he is, was chatting animatedly with some locals. Johnny, however, was distracted, his gaze frequently darting toward the door.

And then, as if the universe had heard his silent wish, you walked into the tavern. Johnny’s heart leapt. He watched you with wide eyes, his mouth slightly agape. Gyro noticed and nudged him with a knowing grin.

“Nyoho! Looks like you got yourself a little something on your mind, Johnny,” Gyro teased.

Johnny flushed and shoved Gyro, praying the bastard wouldn't do something to make him look a fool.

"Shut it, Gyro. And don't you dare do somethin' stupid!" Johnny hissed, balling up his fist and trying to look small in his wheelchair to avoid your potential gaze, no matter how much his heart was begging for your eyes to land on his own baby blues.

"Johnny-boy, you wound me! I'd never do such a thing." Gyro snickered, slumping in his chair to show that he was harmless.

The blue-eyed blonde rolled his eyes, feeling wary of Gyro's habit to cause trouble. But the Italian had a point, his mind had been stuck on you ever since he saw you. That bright smile of yours lifted his mood like no other whenever he thought about it, and the small glimpses he caught of you whenever you crossed paths on the trek of the past stage made his body tingle and his face warm.

If his legs still worked, he was sure he'd still end up in a wheelchair with the way you made him feel weak.

Johnny suddenly felt the weight of his insecurities. His legs—lame and useless—seemed heavier than ever. He was convinced that someone like you could never be interested in him. But he couldn’t deny the pull he felt.

He glanced over to you, spotting you just a few feet away waiting on some refreshments you ordered at the bar. The bar wasn't too tall, either. You were at the perfect height to talk face-to-face if he was sitting next to you.

Next to you...

Johnny entertained the thought, imagining the two of you laughing together, talking about how you both got halfway across the country for the chance to win a grand prize of $50 million dollars.

He'd gaze at your lips, wondering how even in the western heat can they look so glossy and kissable.

"Guh!" Johnny covered his face with one hand, feeling his cheeks burn.

He hated feeling like this, like some inexperienced teenage boy at the thought of just staring at your lips.

And with the impulse of a teenage boy, he figured that to remedy these pesky feelings, he should just get it over with.

Gathering his courage, Johnny puffed up his chest and approached you. He suddenly felt a little awkward, his hands trembling slightly as he wheeled himself over to you.

“Uh, hey there. I, uh, noticed you around and thought you might like a drink. It’s on me,” he said softer than he had intended, his voice carrying the faintest hint of a Kentucky drawl.

You looked up at him with a curious smile, your eyes sparkling like stars in the night sky. Johnny felt like he might faint right then and there. His mind raced with self-doubt. Why would you want to talk to him? He felt so small and unworthy.

"How kind of you. Joestar, right?" You smiled.

And he melted.

"I- uh, yes! Joestar, my last name. You- you've kept an eye on me, or somethin'?" He fumbled, face warming at his bumbling demeanor.

This was not going the way he had planned.

"Mm, somethin' of the sorts," you mumbled with a shy look in your eyes.

You seemed so docile now that he was talking to you. But he could appreciate that. Made it easier to talk when he knew you were feeling just as nervous. Or at least, you seemed that way.

"Well, go ahead then. Whatever you want, it's on me," he gently urged, taking your responses as an invitation to sit next to you as he wheeled in closer to the bar.

"I'll let you know; real sweet, that's how I like my drinks." You ordered the sweetest damn thing on the menu, and he wasn't surprised. Your tastes matched your looks.

The two of you chatted in the bustling atmosphere of the tavern. Getting to know each other, hearing about how the last stage went for each of you. And he liked it, talking to you. It was easy, and it was as refreshing as the drink you were sipping on.

Johnny glanced over at Gyro, who was still engrossed in conversation with the locals, but occasionally shot Johnny a glance and a thumbs-up, clearly pleased with how things were going. Johnny shook his head slightly, amused by the gesture.

“So,” you said, your voice softening, “you’re really set on winning this race, huh?”

Johnny nodded, his expression growing a bit more serious. “Yeah. It’s not just about the money, though that sure would be nice. It’s... it’s about proving something. To myself, more than anything.”

You tilted your head slightly, your gaze searching his. “Proving what?”

He hesitated, then sighed. “That I’m still worth something. That even with everything that’s happened, I can still... I don’t know. Make something of myself.”

Your expression softened, and Johnny felt a pang of vulnerability as he looked into your eyes. He was afraid that you’d pity him, that you’d see him as just another broken man trying to piece together the remnants of a shattered life. But there was no pity in your gaze, only understanding.

“You’re worth more than you think, Johnny,” you said quietly, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re out here, giving it everything you’ve got. That’s more than a lot of people can say.”

Johnny swallowed, his throat tight. He wanted to believe you, wanted to hold on to those words and let them seep into the cracks of his self-doubt. But it was hard. He’d spent so long feeling like a shadow of his former self, like he was less than what he used to be. But here you were, seeing something in him that he couldn’t quite see in himself.

Before he could respond, you leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “And for the record, I think you’re cute. I’d love to see you again in the next stage.”

Johnny’s breath hitched, and his heart felt like it might burst out of his chest. He was stunned, his mind scrambling to process what you had just said. Cute. You thought he was cute. The words played over and over in his mind, each repetition making his heart swell a little more.

He turned to face you, his blue eyes wide with a mix of surprise and something that felt dangerously close to hope. “You... you really mean that?”

You pulled back slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I do. So, what do you say? Think we can catch up again after the next stage?”

Johnny nodded, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, I’d like that. A lot.”

As the two of you continued talking, the rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in that little corner of the tavern.

And when the time came to part ways, Johnny felt a warmth in his chest that hadn’t been there before. He watched you leave, his heart lighter than it had been in years. As he wheeled back over to Gyro, the older man gave him a knowing grin.

“Well, Johnny-boy, looks like you’ve got yourself a date for the next stage.”

Johnny couldn’t help but chuckle, his eyes still lingering on the door where you’d just exited. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

For once, the race didn’t seem so daunting. The road ahead might be long and grueling, but now, Johnny had something more to look forward to.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡ Thanks for Reading! ˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆

[copper-16]

You Didn't Let Me Finish

Ingrid had a rule that she had held onto ever since she started working as a stripper: she doesn't sleep with clients.

Usually.

Ingrid doesn't usually sleep with clients. Exceptions must be made for most rules anyways though, right?

(a/n: Yes it's a stripper fic. I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone, this is just a silly little idea I had in my head and decided to write on a whim. Feel free to skip if it's not your thing! Also I didn't proofread it, so ignore any mistake lmao)

Sometimes, Ingrid wasn’t exactly sure how she had ended up here. 

The Norwegian had done a semester abroad in Spain when she was in university, and found that she absolutely loved the city. So when the opportunity to move to Barcelona presented itself after graduation, she jumped at the chance to go. Her study abroad had been in Madrid, but it was still Spain, right? 

And the Norwegian actually preferred Barcelona to Madrid, the longer she lived here. She enjoyed the energy of the city, how posh and lively it was, how wonderfully kind the people were. The job she was offered was modest, and despite the fact that she got by, Ingrid wasn’t all that comfortable with living from paycheck to paycheck if she didn’t have to. 

Which was exactly how she had found herself at Dollhouse. It was the most exclusive strip club in Barcelona, catering only to those clients who could pay for the supreme services, and they only accepted the best when it came to their girls. 

The owner had taken one look at Ingrid, roving his eyes up and down the dark haired woman with interest before he was nodding, clearly pleased with what he was seeing. Her ability to speak both English and some Spanish came in handy, and she became a regular for many of the international clients. 

Ingrid was paid well, only worked three nights a week, and it helped her to nearly double her salary with the tips she was given. She gave lap dances, some pole work, did a few shows on the main stage, served customers when asked. It was an easy gig, and she couldn’t help but feel appreciated given the reaction that she could stir up in most men. It was addicting, really. She felt powerful and in control, her confidence only rising the longer she worked there. 

It wasn’t sex. People often got that mixed up, that being a stripper meant sex. It could mean sex, if that was what the girls wanted, but Ingrid had little interest in the older men who came into her rooms. She was as gay as they came, and it was very rare for them to receive a female client, and Ingrid had never had the pleasure of having one, not personally. 

But she wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea, if the right person came along. 

It’s just, nobody had. 

But perhaps that would change. 

—

It was a Sunday night, which meant that the Dollhouse was relatively calm. Ingrid was in the back room with a few of the other girls, getting ready for her show in around thirty minutes when Miguel came back. 

“Ingrid, Misa!” He called, and both women turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. They stood, setting their makeup down to walk over to their boss, who was in charge of the scheduling. 

Miguel was gruff but kind, and he always made sure the girls were comfortable and not exploited. He could be a bit rough around the edges but he never failed to make the girls feel cared for as people and not just objects, and in return they did their best to make his life as painless as possible. It was a good gig, they all knew that, compared to the nasty bastards at some of the other places around town. 

“We have two clients in separate private rooms. Footballers, booked after winning something big I think, I want the two of you to take them,” Miguel explained, and he looked between Misa and Ingrid with a critical eye, clearly trying to decide who to send where. 

Despite the fact that Ingrid was Norwegian and Misa was Spanish, the two actually looked quite similar. Ingrid was paler, taller, and less tattooed than Misa was, but in terms of build and physical appearance, they were rather alike. 

“Misa, I want you in Room One and Ingrid in Room Two, Misa your Spanish is better than Ingrid’s. The girls will cover your sets for the night so don’t worry about that. They’ve booked for the rest of the night so make sure to give them their money's worth but you’re free to leave when you are done, alright?” Miguel decided, and Ingrid and Misa both nodded. 

“Oh and–”

“If they do anything creepy we will come find you,” Ingrid and Misa rattled off in perfect unison, and Miguel scowled at his predictability before he shooed them away to go get changed, the two women smiling at the action. 

Ingrid and Misa walked back to the changing room, each of them looking through the different lingerie sets they could wear. 

“What are you thinking?” Misa asked as she pulled out a purple lace set before shaking her head, shoving it back in her closet. 

“Well if they paid for the whole night then clearly they have money, probably want something expensive and distinguished. Footballers can be assholes and handsy, and they think too much with their dicks and not enough with their heads,” Ingrid scoffs lightly, and Misa snorts as she looks over at the dark haired woman’s closet. 

“Hmm…you’re going to wear this,” Misa decides, pulling out a hunter green piece of lace, and Ingrid raises her brow before nodding her agreement, looking over at the Spaniard’s closet. 

“And you’re going to do this, I’ve seen you in it before and your chest looks amazing in it,” Ingrid says with an air of finality, and Misa smirks at the outfit before they both went into their changing rooms to slip their clothes off and put the lace on. They don’t bother with robes, the hallway to the private rooms is secluded from the rest of the club anyways, so the two women make their way back together, chatting lightly about their day jobs, what their weeks look like. 

By the time they make it to Room One and Room Two, the women are both relaxed and ready to do their job. Neither of them really has any idea what lies beyond the door besides a footballer, so with one final goodbye they both enter the passcodes to the room before stepping in. 

Ingrid closes the door behind her before turning around, and she can’t help the way that her eyebrows jump in surprise when she sees who it is sitting at the table. 

The room is set up with a bed, a couch and two loveseats, as well as a table with four dining room chairs. Lap dances are usually given in the chairs at the table or the loveseats, but the rest of the room can be utilized however the girls may choose to. 

The thing that surprises Ingrid though, is the fact that the person sitting at the table is a woman, and not a man. 

The woman stands, the chair rustling against the floor as she pushes it back before she steps forward to examine Ingrid. Her gaze is curious but not sharp, her entire body language relaxed. She’s clearly a footballer, her body muscled and well built.  

She can’t be more than a few years older than Ingrid, and she’s just an inch or two shorter than her with light, sandy blonde hair that is straightened just past her shoulder. Her hazel eyes take Ingrid in, the light lace that covers her body, and she nods appreciatively for a moment before cocking her head. 

“Hello,” she offers, and Ingrid is quick to respond, the woman’s gaze making her feel a little bit hot. 

“Hi,” Ingrid responds, not entirely sure what to say. The woman was speaking to her in English, so clearly she recognized that the Norwegian was a foreigner, though she wasn’t exactly sure how she noticed that before she had even spoken. 

“Why did they send you in here to me?” The woman asked curiously, her hazel eyes still boring into Ingrid. The question is surprising, considering the fact that they were at a strip club. They sent her in here to do her job, but the Norwegian gets the sense that isn’t what this woman means, so she answers with more candor.  

“My coworkers' Spanish is better than mine. Presumably your friend only speaks Spanish, but you clearly can speak English well, so here I am,” Ingrid supposes, and the woman nods slowly before her lips quirk up in a smirk. 

“My friend can speak enough English for tonight, I promise. I think you should switch rooms…I insist actually. I think she’ll be quite charmed by…” the woman looks down at Ingrid once more before her gaze returns to the dark haired woman’s eyes, “...you.”   

Ingrid’s eyebrows raise in surprise before she nods in agreement, never one to say no to a client request unless it really was something she couldn’t do. 

“If that’s what you wish…” Ingrid trails off, still unsure of the woman’s name. 

“Alexia. And my friend's name in the other room is María,” she supplies, and Ingrid regards her for another minute before slipping out of the room, Alexia turning back to sit down in the chair she had been in originally. 

The Norwegian walks over to Room One briskly, rapping on the door three times before she steps back, waiting for Misa to come out. It only takes a few seconds for the Spaniard to slide out of the room, her eyebrows furrowed in clear confusion. 

“We need to switch, the other woman requested it,” Ingrid explains, and Misa nods for a second before she looks back at the room. 

“Can you believe it’s women? And god, if the second one is as hot as this one…” Misa trails off, practically drooling, and Ingrid can’t help but laugh lightly, because really she quite agrees. Misa is the only other gay woman at Dollhouse, and Ingrid finds solace in the fact that she isn’t alone, calmed by the Spaniards presence. 

“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Her name is Alexia,” Ingrid adds before the younger woman can leave, and Misa nods before she gestures back at the room next to them. 

“Names Mapi,” Misa supplies, and Ingrid’s eyebrows furrow at the fact she’s now been told two separate names for this woman. But honestly, if she was even half as attractive as the first woman, Ingrid was seriously going to be in trouble. 

The first woman, Alexia, hadn’t exactly been her type per say, but objectively she was very attractive. 

As Misa disappears down the hallway Ingrid takes a deep breath, trying to center herself and remain calm at what is about to occur. She knew what the deal was with men, how to dance and act. 

But women were different, Ingrid knew that even if she had never had a female client. They were more watchful, more appreciative, more in tune. 

And well, if this woman was as attractive as Misa was making her out to be, she might be in a bit of trouble. 

The green eyed woman punched in the code before she stepped into the room, once again shutting the door behind her. 

Ingrid turned around, taking in the room and the woman who was settled on one of the room's two armchairs. 

And god was Misa wrong. 

This woman wasn’t attractive. 

She was mind numbingly, astronomically stunning, and it takes everything in Ingrid not to let her jaw physically drop. 

The woman had her hair down in beach waves, lighter highlights against the brunette of her hair accenting the dark strands, framing dark eyes and supple, light pink lips that are set in a smirk. 

She’s wearing a button down that has far too many buttons undone, but it only serves to show off her cleavage, biceps straining against the tight black fabric. She has on gray dress pants, and she shifts her shirt sleeve up to glance at her watch before she stands, making her way over to Ingrid. 

“Hola princesa,” the woman greets softly, her voice raspy and deliciously low, and if Ingrid wasn’t wet at just the sight of her, she was now. 

If there was anyone who was going to break her rule of not sleeping with someone, it would be this woman. That was assuming she wanted to as well, but if the glint in her eyes was anywhere near as serious as it looked, Ingrid thought her chances might be relatively high. 

She scrambled to gather as much Spanish as she possibly could. It was a little pathetic that she wasn’t more fluent, but between this being her third language and the fact that her work was in English and most of her friends spoke the language, her Spanish could definitely use some work. 

“Hola,” Ingrid rushed to reply, internally cringing at how bad her accent was while understanding washed over the woman’s face, and she switched to a heavily Spanish accented English. 

“Ah, English, no?” The woman suggested, no malice in her tone, and Ingrid let out a small sigh before she nodded. 

“Si,” she acquiesced in a bit of a defeated tone, but the woman simply tipped her head back in a delicious laugh, something light and breathy, her neck on full display. She had a tattoo on it, and Ingrid could see more ink peaking back at her on the woman’s available skin. 

It did absolutely nothing to help the green eyed woman’s aching core, but she ignored it in favor of returning to the problem at hand, to the fact that she needed to get on with the performance for this woman. 

“Sit?” Ingrid asked gently, gesturing to the table and chairs that surrounded it, walking over to pull one of them out. 

The woman made no move to walk over, seemingly not done with the conversation. 

“I’m Mapi,” she said instead, and Ingrid raised her brow at the woman, clearly a little curious. 

“I’ve been told by a confident source that your name is María,” Ingrid sidesteps the introduction to ask the question, watching the way that the woman’s eyes darkened with lust when she says her name. 

“Have you now?” Mapi drawls, the surprise clear in her face. The smirk is back, and she finally begins to walk toward the table, but before she sits she stands in front of Ingrid, still only looking her in the eyes. 

The Norwegian keeps waiting for her to drop her eyes down, to look over the lace that could hardly be described as modest, but the smaller woman seems hell bent on keeping her eyes trained on Ingrid’s. 

“And you are?” She asks lightly, the dark haired woman answering her question quickly and easily. 

“My name is Ingrid,” she murmurs, once again gesturing at the chair, and this time Mapi takes her up on her offer. The Spaniard sits down before she looks up at the Norwegian, who strolls over to turn the music on. 

“Any requests?” Ingrid questioned, looking back at Mapi to find the woman staring at her with hooded eyes and a hungry gaze. She shakes her head, finding no offers. 

“Whatever you prefer,” Mapi decides, and Ingrid observes the woman for a moment before nodding, turning back to the speaker system. She sets up her playlist, playing the song TiO by Zayn, which had been a recent favorite of hers. 

The song is a bit of a quicker pace, which she liked to start out with. It was easy to flash the quick movements before she let things get sensual, and her approach for this woman is absolutely no different. 

She turns back toward the table, walking over in long strides before she comes to rest in front of Mapi, her ass pressed back into the table behind her. 

“Can I touch you?” Ingrid asks in a low voice, tossing her thick, dark hair over one shoulder. Mapi looks up at her with an unreadable expression, holding eye contact before she nodded carefully. 

The Norwegian stood from the table, stepping forward. She turned, rounding the chair that Mapi was currently settled in, just watching. The brunette didn’t look back at her, but did meet her eyes when Ingrid finally circled all the way back to the front of the chair. 

It’s at this point that Ingrid brings her hand up, resting it over the Spaniard’s collarbone carefully. She slides her hand up, coming into contact with bare skin as she pushes her middle finger inside the cuff of the woman’s popped shirt. 

The dark haired woman plays with the collar for a moment before she begins moving once again. She drags her fingers around to Mapi’s back, stopping when she is standing in front of the Spaniard’s back, pressing both of her palms to the brunette’s back, fingers down. She slowly runs her hands down, into the small of the footballers back, before she shifts, moving them to caress her sides gently. 

She’s gone as soon as she arrived, however, continuing around the chair. Her hands travel over the Spaniard’s arm, down her side and around the underside of her chest before she splays it over the top of the brunette's abdomen. 

The muscle beneath her palm is rock hard, and she cannot help but let out a harsh breath at the feeling. She hopes that the footballer doesn’t notice, but when she looks up to see that Mapi is smirking back at her, she considers the effort fruitless. 

Ingrid’s hands retract from the Spaniard’s skin, and she shifts so that she can move her hips down and into the brunette’s lap, her back to Mapi’s front. It’s a bold first move, but she’s quick, in time with the song for just a tease before she’s gone, several steps away. 

Mapi is watching her with eagle eyes as Ingrid runs her hands up her own sides, squeezing at her own chest, letting her eyes flutter shut at the feeling for emphasis. It’s a little pornographic, and perhaps a little bit of a sell out, but she doesn’t care. 

The Norwegian makes sure to spend several moments just watching, teasing herself in whatever way possible, reveling in the way that the Spaniards eyes darken at the sight. Her nipples strain against the lace, hard and begging to be freed, but the dark haired woman ignores them in favor of returning to the footballer. 

The song changes to Lose Control by Teddy Swims, something more slow and sensual. Ingrid stalks back to the brunette, her intent clear when she places her hands on the woman’s knees, sliding them up her thighs before squeezing, lightly. 

The Norwegian moves her hands up the Spaniard’s side as she settles in her lap, her knees spread wide as she presses forward into the brunette’s personal space. She moves her hips slowly in an infinity pattern, sensual and enough to drive any man crazy. 

And yet still, Mapi has yet to touch her. Her arms remain listless at her sides, rather awkwardly. It’s a staunch change from the male clients she has often, who feel that they are allowed to touch, to take as much as they want. They consider the fact that Ingrid has been paid for, that they are allowed to do whatever they want to her, within reason. 

This doesn’t seem to be the case for this woman, however, and it only turns Ingrid on more. She leans forward even further, placing one hand on the woman’s shoulder while the other remains firmly planted on her side. Her lips are on the shell of the woman’s ear as she speaks, her voice low. 

“You can touch…you know,” the Norwegian drawls, her words breathy and filled with lust. She leaned back to look the footballer in the eyes, noting that her gaze was dark, the way her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. 

They held the others' gaze for a moment, neither moving until finally, finally Ingrid felt two hands carefully, respectfully placing themselves on her side, down toward her lower back. 

It was the Norwegian who moved them, removing her hands from the Spaniard to place hers over the brunette’s, sliding them lower, lower, lower, until they were resting firmly on her ass. Only then did Ingrid remove her own hands, planting them on the back of the chair as she rolled her hips down into the brunette. 

Mapi was staring at her intently, and she gently palmed at the Norwegian’s ass to test, rewarded greatly for her efforts when Ingrid arched into her, letting out a breathy noise. 

The dark haired woman’s body could only be described as fluid as she moved above the Spaniard, finally moving her leg to hook over the back of the chair, wrapping around the brunette’s back. 

Mapi slid her hands up, pulling Ingrid’s body more flush with hers. The Norwegian smiled, their faces just centimeters from one another. The Spaniard’s breath on hers was hot and insistent, her eyes roving over Ingrid’s face, finally eyeing the lace that covered the dark haired woman’s body. 

“You like it?” Ingrid purred, a smile evident in her voice as she gripped Mapi’s shoulders. The Spaniard scoffed lightly, looking back up at Ingrid. 

“You could say that,” the brunette hummed, her voice thick and low. It sent a shot of heat straight to the Norwegian’s core, and she arched even further into the smaller woman. 

Ingrid turned her head, brushing her nose against the Spanaird’s temple, her breathing shallow. 

“I don’t sleep with clients,” the Norwegian explained, and felt the shift immediately from the woman beneath her, the instant reaction to move away.

Ingrid had to give the footballer that, she was nothing if not respectful. It only made the Norwegian want her more, only made her flush further at the thought. 

It was her choice. 

Ingrid intercepts her hands, shoving them back down onto her ass before she brought her own to the brunette’s neck, pulling her in. 

“You didn’t let me finish,” the dark haired woman pouted, her lower lip jutting out slightly. Mapi reached forward, running her thumb over Ingrid’s lip slowly, softly. 

“Lo siento, princesa,” Mapi soothed, her expression willing Ingrid to continue. The Norwegian smiled gently, leaning down so that her lips hovered over the Spaniard’s throat. 

“I don’t sleep with clients, not unless I want to,” Ingrid continued, her hot breath leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Her fingertips trail up Mapi’s side, running over ridges of muscles and soft skin, dipping under her shirt before they retracted. Never direct, always teasing. 

“And trust me, I want to,” the Norwegian promised as she brought her face back to level with Mapi’s, her eyebrow quirked, almost daring the Spaniard to disagree. 

But the brunette would never do that, especially not when she has the most gorgeous woman she had ever laid eyes on sitting in her lap. 

They are left staring at one another for a few moments, their eyes flickering back and forth between the others eyes and lips, waiting to see who breaks first. A game of wills, a question of who is going to hold the power. 

It’s the Spaniard who snaps first, lunging forward to capture Ingrid’s lips in her own. She’s impatient, unable to resist having Ingrid in front of her looking so delectable, without doing anything about it. 

Mapi’s mouth is hot and insistent on her own, the brunette’s hands coming up to cradle Ingrid’s face as she kisses her senseless. 

It’s only a few moments later that the Spaniard presses her tongue into the Norwegian’s mouth, silently asking for entrance. The dark haired woman allows her access instantly, completely floored at the feeling of Mapi’s mouth on her own. 

The footballer swipes her tongue over the roof of Ingrid’s mouth, smiling into the kiss at the whine that slips past Ingrid’s lips at the feeling. 

The Norwegian’s head is dizzy, completely and utterly overwhelmed with the feeling of the Spaniard, of her hands being everywhere, of the press of her lips to Ingrid’s. It feels as though life is being breathed back into her, transformed into a fire that is sent straight to her core. 

She knows that she’s soaked the lace beneath her completely, but she can’t bring herself to care. Especially not when Mapi leans back, gesturing for her to stand. Ingrid is quick to comply, not bothering to try to make herself seem as cocky as she was pretending earlier. 

It’s been a long time since she’s been fucked properly, and something in this woman’s eyes tells her that the Spaniard is exactly what she needs. 

“Get on the bed,” Mapi instructs, and Ingrid is quick to comply, walking with purpose before laying back on the bed, sitting with her head up near the pillows, still clad only in her lace. 

The Spaniard stands from her spot on the chair, flipping the lock on her watch open as she sets it on the table in front of her. She pulled her shirt up from its spot having been tucked into her pants, looking over at the Norwegian as she undid the last few buttons. 

She laid the shirt down on the table, the picture of control and composure. The loss of the garment leaves her in only a black bra, which contrasts against the tan of her skin. She loses the belt she had on but elects to keep her pants on, instead moving toward the bed. 

Throughout this, the footballer had never let her eyes leave contact with Ingrid, not wanting to let the Norwegian out of her sight, even for a second. 

Ingrid lays back as Mapi joins her on the bed, crawling up the Norwegian’s body until she was positioned over the taller woman’s body, where she had wanted to be from the beginning. 

“You tell me to stop the minute you do not like something, si?” Mapi asked, her voice clear and leaving no room for argument. The Spaniard had no interest in making Ingrid do anything she did not want to. 

“Si,” the Norwegian parroted, squirming just slightly under the Spaniard, desperate for her to do something. 

Once she has confirmed Ingrid’s answer, the Spaniard is quick to begin her descent down the woman’s body. She captures the dark haired woman’s lips in a bruising kiss, applying just the right amount of pressure and tongue to have Ingrid gasping for more. 

She releases the Norwegian’s perfect, plump lips only in favor of working her mouth across Ingrid’s jaw, sucking and nipping lightly at the skin there. When she reaches the dark haired woman’s ear, she works her lips down and over the column of Ingrid’s throat. She pays close attention to the areas that make the taller woman let out a heavier breath, or the ghost of a whine, doubling down on her attention to those spots. 

She kisses over soft, pale skin, and down toward the soft flesh of her chest. Ingrid is arching into her before she even reaches her destination, desperate for more. 

“Can I–” Mapi removes her lips only to start a sentence that is never finished. 

“Yes, please, do anything to me,” Ingrid gasped, her entire body on fire at the thought of Mapi’s mouth over her chest, at the apex of her thighs. A flush is blooming on her chest as the Spaniard pulls the lace down, revealing Ingrid’s chest. 

Her nipples are peaked, aching to be touched and played with. The footballer doesn’t even bother with using her fingers first, simply leaning down to wrap her mouth around one of Ingrid’s nipples, her hand coming to cover the other. 

“Aye, María,” Ingrid hisses at the feeling, her whole back leaving the bed as she arches into Mapi’s mouth. Her hand has flown to the Spaniard’s head, her fingers tangling in the brunette’s hair and tugging lightly. 

Mapi doubles her attention at the feeling, swirling the tip of her nipple around her tongue, teasing her teeth over the sensitive area. Ingrid ate every lap of attention up, basking in it. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had made her feel so much, and it was turning her on in a way that was borderline painful. 

“Please, more,” the Norwegian begged once attention had been laved to both sides of her chest, and Mapi released her other nipple with a lewd pop sound. The footballer raised a brow at her, but Ingrid shook her head, her breaths shallow and desperate. 

The stripper is well aware of the irony, given her profession. She’s the one who is supposed to be pleasuring, not the other way around. But there was something about the way this woman composed herself, something about the reverence with which she touched the Norwegian that made her comfortable.

Mapi considers the request for a moment before she relents, pulling further at the lace, signaling that she wanted it off. The dark haired woman is quick to comply with her request, removing the hunter green fabric before she threw it to the ground, already forgotten. 

Ingrid lay back down on the bed, her hair splaying out against the pillow. The Spaniard watched her with hungry eyes, her lips turning up into a smirk. 

“So beautiful,” she murmured softly, her words filled with clear appreciation. “Espléndida, princesa,” Mapi whispered as she returned to Ingrid, softly holding the Norwegian’s face in her hands. Her lips were gentle against the taller woman this time, leaving the Norwegian with the feeling that she was delicate, and deserved to be treated as such. 

Oh, and what a different feeling it was to be touched by the Spaniard, as opposed to the heavy handed men she usually interacted with. 

To be touched and praised as though she was the most important thing in the world. No drug could compare, not to her anyways. 

Even as she trails down the Norwegian’s body, Mapi stops to press kisses into her skin, imbuing the fire of their interaction with a level of sweetness and ingenuity Ingrid had not been expecting. 

But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared the Norwegian for what the first run of the Spaniard’s tongue through her would feel like. 

She is unsure of where her voice ends and Mapi’s begins, but all she knows is that two moans are filling the room, both equally desperate. Ingrid clutched at the sheets desperately, her hands fisting the pristine white fabric beneath them as Mapi ran her tongue through her again. 

The Spaniard eats her out as though it will save her, with an intent and passion that Ingrid cannot remember ever having in the bedroom. She brings her tongue up to circle the Norwegian’s clit several times, and every time a new wave of pleasure washes over her. 

“You taste perfect,” Mapi mumbles against her heat, and Ingrid flushes completely at the praise, struggling to compose her own pleasure. She attempts to bring her hand up to cover her own mouth, something that Mapi notices instantly. 

“Aye, I want to hear you,” the Spaniard chides softly when she sees what Ingrid is doing, and the dark haired woman lets out a filthy moan as she removes her hand, at the feeling of Mapi’s finger teasing at her entrance. 

“Is this okay?” The footballer confirms, waiting for the fervent head nod that she receives from Ingrid before she finally dips her finger in at a painfully slow rate, before curling gently. 

Ingrid is writhing under her, letting a string of mewls and moans that tumble from her lips of their own accord. She doesn’t care that she had no idea if anyone can hear them, only focused on her own pleasure and the feeling of the brunette’s body near her own. 

“Si, si, si,” Ingrid begs, moaning unabashedly when Mapi adds a second finger, curling with more purpose this time. 

The footballer could admit, her plan had been to tease more than this. She was a playful woman, and enjoyed picking her partners apart before allowing them to come, usually. 

Something about this Norwegian, the flush in her chest and the noises slipping past her lips, has Mapi throwing her entire playbook out the window.

She’s more than happy to continue this, so long as Ingrid continues making those noises. 

“You like that, princesa?” Mapi asks, her voice hoarse with arousal. Ingrid nods tightly, her chest arching up as the Spaniard curls her fingers deep within her. 

The set of her jaw, the way it opened with pleasure left Mapi flooded with the need to please, so the Spaniard lowered her mouth down to Ingrid’s clit, sucking lightly. The dark haired woman cries out, her hips rutting down into Mapi as the footballer continued her brutal pace. 

“Fuck!” Ingrid wailed, her voice dripping with need as she hurtled toward orgasm. Her hips grew erratic, jumping into Mapi’s hand as her whole body squirmed. The brunette could tell that the dark haired woman was close, doubling down on her pace and intensity, intent on getting her there. 

It only took a few more curls of Mapi’s fingers from deep within the Norwegian for the taller woman to let out a sharp cry, her whole body tightening. The Spaniard couldn’t help but smirk against the dark haired woman’s core as her whole body began to shudder, her orgasm working through her like a forest fire. 

Her whole body was arched off the bed, the sheets gripped in her fists as Mapi worked her through her orgasm, her entire body shaking. She collapses against the sheets, her breath coming in quick gasps as waves of pleasure flooded her system, her eyes still screwed shut. 

It took her a few moments, but she forced her eyes open when Mapi removed her fingers from Ingrid. The green eyed woman looked up at the Spaniard, who had sat back on her heels, her own breath short and lustful. 

The brunette reached her finger up to her own face, brushing some of the arousal away from her lips with the pad of her thumb as Ingrid looked up at her. The Norwegian’s dark hair was a sharp contrast to the pillow, the flush of her chest and stomach the complete antithesis to her pale skin. 

Mapi would never see a sight prettier than this under her again, she knew that for certain. Ingrid turned her head, glancing over at the clock and realizing with a rush that they still had several hours before either of them had to go anywhere. 

When the Norwegian looks back up at the Spaniard, it’s with a smirk on her lips, one eyebrow raised, almost as though she was challenging the brunette. 

“Fuck, princesa,” Mapi swore before surging forward to claim Ingrid’s lips once more, pressing her back into the bed. 

Ingrid let herself moan out, half at the feeling of Mapi’s body above her own, and half of the self satisfied feeling of knowing that it was going to be hard to walk tomorrow. 

So yeah…maybe some rules are worth being broken every once in a while. 

[urlovebot]

𓆩♡𓆪 Dead Man Walking

──⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

c/w: light threats. mafia esque gambler bada. possessive bada (yall know thats my shit). smut. bada fingers reader!

a/n: hiii, just wanted to drop something small i did. i'm feeling a little better today. enjoy!!

──⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“god- fuck. you feel so good on top of me.”

bada’s hands are gripping your waist so hard you’re sure you’ll see bruises in a couple hours. she was so angry. she was fucking pissed.

──⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

she’d had you perched in her lap as she sat at the oval table, balancing a couple chips in her hand. she brings you gambling and calls you her lucky charm each time. you know the real reason she wins is that she’s got a killer poker face (and knows the dealer personally,) but you humor her anyway.

she’d gotten caught admiring you for a little too long as the man across from her coughs,

“your turn, miss.”

bada doesn’t take her eyes off of you. not to check her hand, not doing a double take as she smoothly drawls out,

“raise.”

bada’s hand moves three forest green poker chips, each worth $25,000, to the pool. the man who addressed her earlier lets out a determined “call”, matching her bet. bada’s eyes stray from yours to his. a smirk stretches across her lips,

“brave of you.”

the man mirrors her smile,

“the money isn’t all i’m after.” his eyes flick from bada’s to your own, scanning your body up and down.

bada’s smirk falters and you feel her fingertips tap against your skin in irritation.

“tread lightly, sir. i wouldn’t want you to regret coming tonight.”

the man lets out a light chuckle, “oh come on miss lee, she can’t be worth more than a couple grand. you can’t give her up for just a night? she’s so pretty.”

bada’s jaw clenches as she tries to keep up her cool facade,

“she is, isnt she…”

bada looks straight at the man as she lays down her hand- a royal flush. she grabs your hand and kisses the back of it,

“you’d be wise to leave now, especially if you want to keep hold of that reckless tongue you have.”

the man’s smirk drops and he pales as he begins to realize that bada is not joking. he takes note in how the entire room tenses and how each dealer seems to stiffen at her words, almost ready to flee the scene at the drop of a hat. he slowly steps out of his chair, dignity stolen and $75,000 poorer. his steps are slow and soft as he exits the room.

bada’s leg bounces as she looks around. everything seems to be pissing her off now. the noise of poker chips hitting the table. cards being shuffled and sorted. all of it- every noise setting her off. she’s pulled out of her stupor by your soft hand tucking her hair behind her ear,

“you okay?”

her eyes close as she takes a deep breath. she counts to three and opens her eyes again. her personal dealer looks to her for confirmation and bada offers a short nod. the dealer stands and announces the following,

“okay, we’re closing up shop. time to go.”

──⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

and now you’re here.

bada’s lips smashed against yours, tongue licking into your mouth. her hands gripping your waist like you’re going to disappear any moment now. she takes deep breaths as she parts from you, planting short kisses on your lips in between each pant.

“so pretty.”

you pull away, “only to you.”

bada scoffs, “i wish it was only to me,” she hikes your dress up to your waist, pushing your panties to the side as her fingers ghost over your cunt,

“fucking bastard-,” two fingers start to circle your clit and your legs spread more in her lap, “should’ve taken his fucking eyes out.”

bada’s fingers make their way from your clit to ghost over your opening,

“tell me baby,” her thumb applies pressure to your clit as her fingers dip into you, “who are you?”

you hiss as she starts a slow pace,

“your pretty baby.”

bada hums and plants a kiss at the base of your neck,

“again.”

your hands grip her shoulders,

“your pretty baby.”

bada sighs and decides she needed more. she grunts as she removes her hand from your cunt and lifts you off of her lap. she lays you onto the table, knocking down the mountain of chips in the center.

she fully removes your underwear and one hand circles around your neck, the other goes back to toying with your pussy. she inserts two fingers again and starts at a much rougher, faster pace than before.

“say it again. louder.”

you moan it out this time, hands coming up to grip her arm, “your pretty baby, bada. yours.”

she lets out a low chuckle as she towers over you, leaning down to press her lips against yours.

“so good for me, isnt that right angel?”

you nod against her. she keeps her lips against yours, swallowing your moans. she wanted to keep every part of you to herself. if she was just a little more fucked up, she’d lock you up in your shared home, not letting you leave under any circumstance. the way you’re mewling in her mouth, back arching and pussy clenching around her fingers, it makes her ponder on it for longer than normal.

“you gonna cum for me?” her fingers slow down, opting to curl up and press against your g-spot. you cry out, nearly thrashing against her. the hand around your neck tightens just enough to make you lightheaded. your eyes roll to the back of your head and your body lights up.

bada kisses the top of your forehead,

“cum for me, pretty girl.”

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Devil Worshipping Cultists Steve & Eddie x Virgin Sacrifice Fem!Reader

ADVISORY: This story contains dark content. Relevant tags are posted below the cut. Proceed only if you’re comfortable consuming content with intense themes and violent imagery. The canon is essentially flipped upside down (no pun intended) with Eddie and Steve behaving as villains in this story.

Eddie and Steve are the villains this story. They are depicted as the kind of devil-worshiping deviants the people of Hawkins accuse Eddie of being. In this story, ‘Hellfire,’ lives up to its name, with Eddie and Steve as a pair of friends who use their ‘devotion,’ to Satan as an excuse to carry out sinister actions.

Additional content warnings: words like bitch and cunt are used as insults against reader. Reader is touched against her will and a knife appears briefly. Reader’s virginity is mocked, as well as her desire to abstain from sex. She is threatened with assault. Misogyny, men being bastards, religious themes (Satan, a church, devil worship). And in the end, the bastards pay…

Eddie Munson’s eyes lick over you sinisterly. “She’s pretty and she’s a virgin?” he huffs, obviously pleased with your ‘credentials.’ “Looks like you hit the jackpot with this one, Steve.”

You hear Steve Harrington, your ‘boyfriend,’ chuckle softly behind you. You’re tempted to turn and face him, but you refuse. He has betrayed you, completely. After three months of dating who you thought was a normal, nice young man, Steve allowed his true personality to emerge. He and his twisted friend Eddie have brought you to a remote location against your will…an abandoned, decaying church. You can’t say for certain what their plans for you are, but it’s obvious they intend to harm you.

Eddie slides a fingertip under your chin, tilting your face upward. Dying sunlight streams through a window on the ceiling. Its rose-tinted glass casts a haunting glow over the room. “See that?” Eddie asks, pointing to the window. “Up there? That’s the only way out of this room-.” He glances mischievously at Steve. “-For her, anyway,” he laughs, then to you, “So unless you’ve got a set of wings I don’t know about...” Eddie moves behind you and abruptly tugs the collar of your shirt downward, splitting the fabric down your back. “…Nope, no wings,” he confirms. Eddie’s eyes feel like snakes slithering over your exposed skin. “…I guess that means you’re dying tonight,” he concludes.

As quickly as it appeared, Eddie’s dark expression turns crudely joyful, a maniacal laughter bursting from inside him. “M’just fucking with you, sweetheart!” he clarifies, but it does nothing to tame the tension in the room. “Something in you is going to die tonight,” Eddie adds, his voice a taunting lilt. “That much is true…”

Steve’s hands close over your shoulders, a familiar touch that had once felt protective. Now, you realize that every gesture of softness, every gentle word from him, has been a lie. Steve’s voice is chillingly calm as he explains: “Your innocence is dying, tonight.” You force yourself to willingly look at Steve. His hazel eyes are filled with a false sincerity. He never cared for you, at all.

Assuming you don’t understand what’s being implied, Eddie chimes in. “We’re taking your virginity tonight, (y/n).” You shake your head at Steve, whose flat expression betrays any sense of remorse. “Why?” you ask, your voice breaking. “Is this because I made you wait?? Because I’m saving that experience…having sex…for my wedding night??”

Eddie laughs out loud at your words; he finds your standards of morality equal parts hilarious and pathetic.

“Christ, Steve!” he chortles. “Where’d you find this one? Behind a pulpit??”

“Trust me (y/n),” Steve tells you. “Eddie and I aren’t doing this because you wouldn’t sleep with me the whole time we were dating. I could have taken what I wanted from you anytime during those three months.” Steve’s lips pout down at you; he’s mocking you now, just like Eddie. “Besides,” Steve continues. “It’s not like I wasn’t fucking around with other bitches the whole time, (y/n). Girls who didn’t have one damn problem spreading their legs for me…”

Eddie slaps Steve’s back in a toxic, macho sort of congratulation. “That’s my boy,” he sings. “Now, let’s get to the best part, Steve.”

Eddie reaches for the front of your shirt and yanks it down, revealing your breasts blooming over a push-up bra. “Well how about that??” he balks. “What kind of virgin wears sexy shit like that under her clothes?”

You glare at Eddie. “Believe it or not, women wear clothes for themselves,” you bite back. “Not everything’s for men and especially not you, asshole!”

Eddie shudders, pretending to be intimidated. “My apologies, y-your highness, your l-ladyship,” he stutters, holding his palms in front of him in surrender. “You got me. I’ll change my ways, I swear.”

Eddie’s open hands close suddenly over your breasts, clutching them firmly, pulling a shocked gasp from your lips. “…But not today,” he grins smugly, continuing to grope you. “Now tell me, did Stevie here at least make it to second base?”

Steve blows a drawn-out raspberry. “Not a chance,” he jeers. “This bitch is as uptight as they come. Barely let me put my tongue in her fuckin’ mouth.” Steve cups your cheek in his hand, making you flinch. “Isn’t that right, baby?” he murmurs, closing the space between you, the tip of his nose nuzzling yours. “You and those fucking standards of yours…But I guess in the end, all your stupid morals made you the best sacrifice of all…”

You lurch back from Steve, right into Eddie’s arms, unfortunately. He spins you around to face him, a sadistic glimmer in his eyes when he speaks. “That’s right (y/n), we’re sacrificing your purity tonight,” Eddie explains. “And the fact that you’re a goody-two shoes little cunt actually makes it all the better.”

“What are you talking about?” you snap. “Sacrificing my purity? Who the hell talks like that? Fucking weirdos-”

“DON’T-,” Eddie shouts, shoving a finger at you. “-DISRESPECT…the RITUAL.” His eyes are like fire; Eddie is seething. “DON’T-disrespect-HIM…”

The sunlight has faded completely by this point. The only illumination in the room is coming from Eddie’s lighter, a thin flame twitching in his unsteady grip.

You stare stone-faced at Steve, your Judas Iscariot, your betrayer, the man whose lies outshine even his beauty. The window blinks above you, lightning flashing nearby.

“Satan,” Steve utters in a low, reverent tone. As if on cue in a cheesy horror movie, thunder rumbles outside the church.

You roll your eyes at Steve, earning you an even harsher glare from Eddie. “Satan?” you parrot back at Steve. “As in, the Devil? Are you serious?”

“-Is this fucking serious enough for you?” Eddie shouts. He pulls a pocket knife from his pants and juts its tip against your throat. “This is how it has to happen. We prayed to Satan, and He told us.”

“Told you what?” you sneer. “That if you fucked a virgin in the sanctuary of an old church, the Devil will give you magic powers or something? You really believe in that kind of shit?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, tugging your arm towards him. “Because it’s real. And you’re about to find out how real it is.”

He yanks you by the wrist, ordering you onto the ground . A bolt of lightning crackles outside, close enough that it makes Steve and Eddie jump. The brief pulse of light illuminates the three of you, and maybe Eddie’s imagining it, but he could swear your eyes look…different. Darker, somehow.

He assumes it’s just a shadow, a trick of the light, and tries to ignore it. Steve pulls at your arm again, trying to force you onto the floor. But you won’t budge. He can’t understand how you’re fighting him; he’s clearly stronger than you are. Thunder shakes the ground beneath your feet, a low hum bellowing from below as if the earth itself is groaning.

“You hear that?” Eddie asks excitedly, his pulse racing. “It’s Him, Steve. It’s fucking Him!”

Wind whips around the old church, its wooden beams creaking like tired bones. Eddie’s lighter begins to flicker in and out; he curses and smacks it against his palm, trying again.

When the flame ignites, its amber glow illuminates only Steve and Eddie’s faces. You appear to have vanished.

“Where the fuck did she go?? She was right-”

“-Well you were the one holding her fucking arm, Steve-how should I-.”

“HEY!” you call from behind the pulpit. Both men whip their bodies to face you, another burst of lightning revealing their wide eyes gazing up at yours.

“H-how did you do that?” Steve asks, his voice wavering. Eddie shakes the bewilderment from his mind, now even more determined to see his plan through. “You little bitch,” he growls. “I don’t know how you did that, how you got up there that fast, but you’re still ours, and we’re still in control!”

Eddie starts for the podium, but finds himself frozen, unable to move an inch. His eyes go wide as saucers, fear washing over his face.

“You both look so small from up here,” you tell them, leaning over the pulpit, your breasts pressed against it. “Small and weak. Pathetic, actually.”

Eddie smacks Steve’s shoulder, telling him to grab you; but try as he might, Steve is frozen in place as well.

The glow from Eddie’s lighter flicks in and out as his hand shakes uncontrollably. “What the hell is this?” Steve asks in a small, timid voice. But Eddie has no answer to give him.

“All those hours the two of you spent praying,” you speculate, getting high on their fear. “I wonder who you were actually praying to? Because it certainly wasn’t me…”

Steve’s jaw goes slack, sweat dripping from his hairline. Eddie wants to know…has to know, if what you’re implying is true. “L…Lord,” he begins tentatively, his voice trembling. “I had no idea-we-had no idea, it was You-.”

“SILENCE,” you order, and Eddie’s lips seal shut. “Bow to your Master, if it’s Satan you praise. Or can you not bring yourself to kneel at the feet of a woman?” A dry laughter rumbles from your chest, filling the room with heat, rattling the church’s bony frame.

Steve and Eddie tremble beneath you. Lightning strikes above the church; you watch its glare in the ceiling window, how it floods the terrified faces of the men at your feet. A tall tree beside the church is struck; it catches fire immediately.

“You bastards would need a taste of Hell, to understand how sick you are,” you tell Steve and Eddie. “Therefore, it’s what I’ll give you.”

The tree collapses against the roof of the church, setting it ablaze. Eddie and Steve whirl their heads to see it, but their feet are still stuck in place.

You remain calm, as if the decrepit old building isn’t going up like a box of matchsticks around you. “Legend says,” you preach to the men. “That the Devil wears a suit and tie…” You lean forward against the pulpit, your black eyes glaring down at them. “…But sometimes, She wears a push-up bra…”

A beam of rotting wood detaches from the ceiling, falling directly in front of Steve and Eddie, blowing dust and smoke into their eyes. As they cough and sputter and try to make out the shape of you behind the pulpit, they realize you’ve vanished. Panic seizes them both as flames draw closer and closer to the place their feet are locked, immovable. Sweat pours down their faces, eyes wide with tears that evaporate as soon as they form. The heat is suffocating, clogging their throats, smoke filling their lungs to bursting…

…And just as the first touch of fire licks at their skin, it STOPS.

Eddie and Steve are laying in the field outside the church, their backs burning, bits of clothing singed off around them. They gulp the fresh air into their mouths, weeping tears that can finally fall, drinking in the rain as it begins to cascade above them.

They watch the church, as the last of its pillars and beams are consumed by fire, brought down to its foundation. Rain puts out the flames remaining, as darkness swallows the area once more. Smoke rises like a prayer to Heaven, along with the tearful utterances of two men forever changed in one night, asking God to forgive them, two sinners grateful to still be breathing…

[alchemistc]

chisme 1/1

read on ao3

“I still don’t know the guy under the engine, Hank.” “But...you could find out.” “Didn’t you date one of the paramedics on the B shift over there? You were always yapping about how your schedules never lined up.” Thomas’ face goes a little pale. “Yeah, uh... that didn’t work out.” “Yeah, don’t shit where you eat, Henry.” ___ The LAFD likes to gossip. They all take advantage of the fact that Tommy knows their favorite subject to gossip about.

“You see that kid on the news?”

Jones shoots him a raised brow, and Tommy shrugs. “Captain Nash will sort him out.”

“Or he’ll wash out in a month,” Jones singsongs, and Tommy bites back on the defensiveness he feels bubbling up.

They’d been growing towards something, when he left. Even he knows that whatever Bobby Nash was doing was rare. He... misses it, some days.

He’s still getting used to this new crew. They’re... there’s nothing wrong with them, it’s just that Tommy’d been at the 118 for years, and even though he doesn’t look back fondly on most of it, or the person he’d been, that had been home for a long fucking time. He’d made a decision, the moment Bobby slid the LAFD pilot certification paperwork across the desk to him, his last review, that he wasn’t gonna hide himself anymore.

It’s fucking work, being genuine. Honest. Open.

“You got any plans for the night?”

Tommy takes a deep breath through his nose, stretches his shoulders back. Tilts his head a little, tips his chin down so he doesn’t look so fucking tense. “Does trawling the horrific depths of LA Grindr until I fall asleep count?”

Jones goes still. There’s a terrible, horrible moment where every shitty thing Gerrard, his father, his CO’s, his high school buddies ever said washes over him. And then Jones’ face does something strange. Pursed lips, raised brows, scrunched nose, like the surprise is washing over him uncontrollably, and then — “Well shit, Kinard, that’s just depressing. Let me and my man take you out tonight.”

Tommy blows the breath back out, feels the corner of his mouth tilting uncontrollably up, has to roll his tongue over his teeth to keep it from going too wide. That — he hadn’t known that. Everyone here uses ‘partner’ to describe their significant others, he figured it was just some initiative they’d all taken to be inclusive. “As long as you’re not looking for a third. No offense, Jones, you’re not my type.”

Jones smirks. “Who says you’re mine?”

Tommy slaps a hand over his heart, really plays up the hurt expression. “I’m everyone’s type.”

Jones’ eyeroll is a thing of beauty. “You’re too pretty for me, Kinard. And I’m too mean for you. You need a nice boy with a heart of gold to keep you humble.”

Tommy thinks, fleetingly, of the lost little look in that kids blue, blue eyes, camera shoved in his face and the flashing lights of a tilt-a-whirl behind him.

“I’d eat him alive,” Tommy says, and Jones’ laugh follows them both out of the lockers.

---

“What a fucking day,” Gatlin says, laid out across the length of the bench, one arm over his face,

It’s been a series of days, actually, but Tommy doesn’t feel like being pedantic about it.

Tommy just hums, and does his best not to be annoyed about having to juggle his duffle in one hand while he shifts the sad, unused basketball out of his locker to stuff it in the open neck of his bag. They’ve all been through the ringer, Tommy’s gonna give the new guy a moment to regroup.

“Hey, did the 136 ever find their captain? In all the chaos I don’t remember anyone radioing it in.”

Tommy nods an affirmative. He’s so fucking tired from calling out locations of trapped survivors that he’s sure his voice sounds like sandpaper. “Swept up in it like all the rest. Someone on patrol found him pinned under debris. An officer had to saw off his arm, poor bastard.”

Gatlin sits up like he’s rising from the dead. “You’re making shit up. This is a hazing ritual.”

Tommy slides him the most serious face he can manage around the yawn threatening to escape. His phone is blowing up — texts from dozens of people who’d been working the same shit as him, and it’s the first time in a while he’s regretted deleting Facebook. The marked safe function would have saved him about sixty texts so far.

“Heard from Waters that one of the 118’s kids was on the pier when the wave hit,” Gatlin tells him, finally groaning and rising to gather his own shit.

Tommy’s gut drops even as he’s opening up Hen’s contact in his phone, gratefully dumping the duffle onto the bench, now that Gatlin’s legs aren’t taking up the entire thing.

“Kid has CB or something, some lady found him and carried him around for like half a fuckin’ day until she found the old VA popup.”

“Mr. Rogers would have been proud,” Tommy says, and stares at the unsent text he’d typed out with shaky hands. Is Denny okay?

“Huh?”

Jesus, he’s young. “Look for the helpers?” Gatlin blinks at him. “Never mind. Change your clothes. Drink some water. Go the fuck home and get some shut eye, Gatlin.”

“You too, Kinard.”

He deletes the text the moment he’s in his truck, but scrolls back to her contact about twenty times, lying in bed that night, trying to get some sleep.

When he wakes up there’s a text from Hen.

Tommy scrolls up to find a keyboard smash he’d somehow managed to send at 2 in the morning.

Hen 3:27 AM: ???

Hen 3:28 AM: You good?

Hen 3:31 AM: We’re fine. If you were wondering. I assume you fell asleep talking yourself in circles about whether or not to reach out.

Hen 3:42 AM: One of our guys was at the pier with the probies kid. They’re both fine. Tell your crew to stop gossiping so much.

Hen 5:53 AM: Call me if you need anything

Tommy ignores the ache behind his ribcage.

Tommy 7:33 AM: Glad you’re okay. Tell Karen I said hi.

Hen 8:24 AM: Karen and Denny send their love.

---

Tommy’s elbow deep in wiring when Thomas sidles up to the cockpit. He’s got a look on his face that Tommy would normally like to entertain, but there’d been something fiddly with the altimeter his last flight out and he wants to check this before they get called out again — better to ground her until someone can take a real look, if he finds anything, than wave it off ‘til the end of the day.

Thomas shifts closer, tips his head in so he can duck under the open door.

“So, you still know a couple of the guys over at the 118, right?”

Tommy grimaces.

The fact of the matter is, Tommy knows a few guys from all over the city. He’s been around a while, has made many an appearance at the bars first responders like to flock to, has seen enough people come and go from stations to know a guy here and there everywhere. He’s thinking of setting up a pick-up game for whichever LAFD members want to show, maybe seeing if he can wrangle enough people for at least a bi-weekly trivia night.

The breakup with Jason sucked and he’s definitely trying to avoid going home to his empty apartment. Maybe he should get a dog.

“I still don’t know the guy under the engine, Hank.”

“But...you could find out.”

“Didn’t you date one of the paramedics on the B shift over there? You were always yapping about how your schedules never lined up.”

Thomas’ face goes a little pale. “Yeah, uh... that didn’t work out.”

“Yeah, don’t shit where you eat, Henry.”

And now he’s thinking about Jason, again. Christ. Don’t date anyone you meet on calls, Sal had told him, five years in, when everyone still thought his flirting with every hot chick they ran into meant anything other than him desperately trying to cover for the way his eyes were always drawing to the wide stretch of shirts across broad shoulders and the tight fit of a pair of classic 501s.

How he’d managed to convince himself Jason would be the exception is beyond him.

And the guy pinned under the engine had only made things worse, so he’s not particularly in the mood to gossip about him when Jason had used the whole ordeal as an excuse to start a massive fucking fight about the risks of the job for the fifth time in as many months.

“Yeah, I get it, oh wise one. Are you wise enough to figure out why the fuck the guy is suing the department?’

Tommy’s interest is piqued.

God damnit.

It hasn’t even been that long since Chim called him last, Tommy rationalizes as he tips the flashlight in his mouth with his bottom teeth.

“Give me ten minutes to figure out if there’s a short and I’ll make a call.”

---

Tommy’s got one eye on the television and another on the pool table. Brody’s got a pool cue tipped under her chin, and he can already see the chalk shifting onto her skin.

“So, we all agree they’re fucking cursed, right?”

Tommy takes a sip of his beer while a few of the guys make noises of agreement.

“Like, I’m thinking of starting a pool to decide what disaster they’re gonna have a starring role in next. But I don’t want repeats, and at this point I’m not sure how to list them all.”

“Rebar through the brainpan,” Trent says, shaking his head. Tommy feels a flash of guilt for never calling Chim after the initial text he’d sent.

“Plane crash,” lists Jones, eyes still on the reporter being drenched in the downpour as she recites the same tired story about the boy down the well.

“Bath salt werewolves.”

“Earthquake high rise rescue,” Tommy tosses out. He’s still a little annoyed he’d missed that one.

“Unwitting bank heist,” Brody says, phone out and typing furiously. “Oh, do we count ‘targets of teenage Unabomber’ and ‘pinned under a fire engine’ as two separate events?”

“This is getting a little morbid,” Trent says. Still no updates about the guy who’s been buried alive with the kid down the well.

“Armed chicken,” Tommy contributes, hoping to lighten the mood, and grins when they all turn to him with incredulous looks. “Maurice. Knives for feet. He introduced Nash and Grant, technically.”

Brody rolls her eyes. He never should have let her in on his secret love of love stories, she’s such a cynic, she hates when they all gossip about each others love lives.

“This is life or death situations, not dangerous fowl turned rom-com moments. C’mon, what else have we got? I’m including tsunami. Wasn’t your buddy’s girlfriend at dispatch when it got taken hostage? I’m counting it.”

Christ, he really needs to do a better job of keeping in touch.

Tommy’s eyes flit back to the screen. He can see the NASH dashed across the back of one set of turnouts, the end of a name, just ‘LEY” on the set next to his. He’s suddenly not feeling great.

“I’m gonna grab a drink,” he tells them, and Jones raises a brow at his half-full beer.

Tommy chugs it and tries to ignore Brody continuing to list things off.

---

Tommy’s getting a little tired of the argument about his job. There’s always a fucking argument, and he’s always somehow the bad guy for being the one saving lives day in and day out.

At least Peter hadn’t lasted long enough for Tommy to really get all that invested.

The house is too quiet, though.

And the dating scene is hell. He’d never —

The whole landscape of dating had been a shit show from the moment he’d decided he was done fucking around with hookups and lies, and it’s only gotten worse. He feels old, and he hates that he’d never let himself try when everything wasn’t app based and fraught with weird expectations.

He shoots off a message to Chim before he heads in to work. He needs a break, maybe. He’s got half an empty drawer and one less toothbrush in his bathroom and there’s an ache, in his bones, for the easy way he’d always been able to let loose with Chim and Hen.

(He’s not sure they even know he came out, and the superficial relationships in his life just keep smacking him right in the face.)

The pileup on the freeway provides a nice distraction, for most of the day, and he tries not to feel too disappointed when the message he sent to Chim goes unanswered.

It’s three days later before he gets a slightly blurry picture back. It’s — it’s a baby, and Tommy is unprepared for the wave of longing that threatens to crush him.

Howie 4:35 AM: I’m a dad!

Howie 4:35 AM: I made that!

Howie 4:36 AM: Sorry, man, I’ll be tied to this pooping, crying creature for the foreseeable future. But we should grab a beer sometime

Tommy 4:45 AM: Congratulations. She’s beautiful. You get out in, what, 18-20?

Brody pokes her head over his shoulder when he pulls up the picture again. “Cute baby.”

“Chim’s,” he tells her, and her expression shifts.

“Wasn’t his brother in the pileup last week?”

Tommy keeps his eye on the picture, wets his tongue against the top of his mouth before he speaks. “He didn’t say.”

---

They’ve all been on edge for days, now. Technically most of them aren’t in much danger, eyes in the skies that they are, but there’s not a single one of them who doesn’t have a friend or two outside of Harbor that wears the uniform.

They’re already two men down. And they’re all going a bit crazy.

So of course, when Tommy lands the bird and steps into the hangar, it’s to find everyone huddled around the TV set up in their little rec area, murmuring to themselves. Tommy runs a hand through his hair and makes his way across to them.

“Is he —?”

The guy’s insane. He’s got a vest and a helmet and no cover at all beyond the metal bars encasing the ladders of the crane tower. He’s surrounded on three sides by high rises, with wide windows and balconies just ripe for someone to set up an easy fucking shot.

The news crew pans to the witnesses on the ground, and there’s 118’s engine.

“Didn’t his partner just get shot? What is the 118 even doing out there?”

Someone hums. There’s a line of tension in every single set of shoulders huddled around the TV, watching, waiting. If Tommy was a praying man, he’d send something up to the big guy. Too bad they don’t believe in each other.

He’s still climbing. Three points of contact always, Tommy thinks, watching, holding his fucking breath the higher he climbs.

The camera cuts away once he’s out on the arm.

“Did anyone see who it was?” Remy asks, and they all shake their heads, but Tommy’s got a mental list from his sparse contact with Chim. Diaz is in the hospital. Bobby’s on the ground. This is Buckley, the kid he’d missed meeting by the skin of his teeth, when Bobby fast tracked his transfer.

In another life, under a different set of circumstances, the idiot making himself a target for a psycho would have been Tommy.

Tommy watches with bated breath until they switch back to the desk, both anchors looking a little wide-eyed as they report that the guy on the crane has been successfully freed from the cable that had had his arm pinned, and both him and the firefighter are fine. On the ground. Out of danger.

For now.

---

“Pay up, dickheads. Prison riot officially made it on the list.”

Tommy shakes his head, amused more than anything else. He pulls a five from his wallet, and Brody stares at it.

“It was twenty. A piece.”

“This is a gesture of goodwill, Youngs. You never paid me for the mudslide.”

“We worked the mudslide, it doesn’t count.”

“Oh now you’re creating arbitrary rules after the fact? Give me my five back.”

---

Brent smiles with his whole body, and kisses Tommy like he’s proving a point, and he doesn’t care that Tommy’s job is dangerous. The problem is that Tommy would like him a little more if he wasn’t so obsessed with the job.

“He worked out of your old house, didn’t he?” Brent asks, legs up on Tommy’s coffee table and a gleam in his eyes as Taylor Kelly reports on some Angel of Death wannabe who’s been shuffled from station to station, city to city, state to state for years with no real oversight, and Tommy — Tommy is tired of talking about work.

He hums, and takes a drink. Brent’s a Heineken man, and for some reason takes real offense to Tommy’s inability to drink them without making faces. Tommy stopped drinking them a month ago.

He’s not sure what he’s doing, anymore.

“Isn’t Taylor Kelly dating one of the guys from the 118?”

Tommy hums again.

“Feels like a quick turnaround on that news story. You think she’s getting an inside scoop?”

“I think we should break up,” Tommy says, and Brent blinks once, twice.

“Yeah. Probably for the best.”

Brent sees himself out. Tommy throws out the lone bottle of Heineken left in his fridge.

---

Donato is a breath of fresh air. She’s brash, and kind of an asshole, and dead set on proving herself a better pool player than he is.

She’s also a newer source of information for the gossip mongers of Harbor station.

“No, that’s the same guy,” she’s saying, biting her lip as she tries to beat Jones’ high score in Asteroids. She’s got a choking grip on the joystick and Tommy can already tell she’s gonna miss it by a mile.

“I — sorry, the guy who got pinned is the same guy who climbed the tower before the sniper was in custody?”

“Same guy. Also the same guy who hopped into that Speed style runaway truck with me. He’s kind of a badass. I mean, they sort of treat him like the station dalmation, over there, but that’s because if you rub behind his ears he wags his tail.”

“He’s not the same one Bosko accidentally got into Fight Club, is he?”

Lucy laughs. “Uh, no, Buck is absolutely a lover, not a fighter.”

“So which one —?”

“Probably the one I was filling in for.”

“The one who got shot, you mean.”

Lucy hums.

None of them have brought up Greenway, which Lucy seems to be marginally grateful for, but Tommy knows she’d worked with him. He hasn’t worked out why she’d worked with him — he’s pretty sure she’d been on the same rotation as Chim and Hen.

Tommy doesn’t feel like touching that with a ten foot pole, if he’s being honest. “So how are Chim and Hen?”

Lucy looks a little cagey. She curses up a storm when she collides with a pixelated flying saucer. “They’re — chugging along.”

“Oh, there’s a story there,” says Lemming, and Lucy shoots Tommy a look between her lashes, something fierce and vulnerable that tells him she’d throw down to protect the open wounds of the 118, same as him. He tips his chin, raises his bottle.

“Boring story,” Lucy says, eyes gleaming. “I bet you’ve got plenty of more interesting stories, Lemming. Weren’t you the one who had to rescue the UFO guy?”

Lemming is easily distracted, and happy to toot his own horn.

Tommy thinks of text sitting unsent on the blank conversation history with Chim.

---

“That wasn’t on the list,” Tommy says, trying for levity and failing miserably. His throat feels tight, and there’s an ache somewhere in his torso that feels like it’s spreading.

“Man, any time you think things are gonna stop happening to that house, they gotta go do something to prove you wrong.”

Tommy’s phone buzzes against his hip. It’s Lucy.

Donato 6:30 AM: Hen says he was down for three minutes.

Tommy 6:31 AM: He good?

Donato 6:33 AM: Inconclusive. He’s got a pulse, but he’s not breathing on his own.

Tommy 6:37 AM: You good?

Donato 6:55 AM: I worked with them for five minutes, Kinard

Donato 6:57 AM: Buck’s a good guy, though. I know you’re not a praying man, but maybe we could all send some good vibes the 118’s way

Tommy 7:01 AM: Jones’ is doing his mindfulness shit in a few. We’ll all be thinking of them.

Tommy hasn’t prayed since he was seventeen, but when Young ducks his head a few minutes later, eyes closed like he does every time they get news of one of their own going down, Tommy lets his own mind drift to his old house, and the people there who’d made him brave enough to live an actual life. Jones’ little meditation practice turns the hanger quiet, and Tommy listens to them all breathe, and breathe, and breathe.

He tries not to think too hard on it when they get the news, days later, that Buckley’s expected to make a full recovery.

---

Tommy’s been eyeing the guy at the bar through his lashes for the past fifteen minutes, and he knows Donato has clocked it. But there’s something — there’s something that keeps drawing his attention.

He’s — objectively attractive. Tall, broad shouldered, jeans that fit nice. Full pink lips and a flirty smile aimed at the woman he’s with.

Tommy’s always refused to bring dates to a ladder bar, even when his crew gives him shit for it. Mostly it’s because the conversation always eventually turns to all the crazy shit they’ve all pulled, all the risky maneuvers, all the scars. It’s always a pissing contest, and Tommy’s been burned a few too many times by guys who like the look of him, and not the reality of his career.

Tommy loses sight of Lucy for half a second only to find her approaching the couple as they move from the foosball table to the bartop.

He shakes his head. She’s spent weeks trying to squirrel information out of him about his love life, which is distinctly lacking at the moment. He doesn’t expect that to change any time soon.

Maybe he’ll hit up Brian once he’s had a few more beers. See if he’s seeing anyone. See if he’s still as flexible as Tommy remembers.

She doesn’t linger when Thomas calls her back for her turn, but by the smirk on her face she’s managed to put her foot in it exactly how she meant to. The couple are closing out, the guys head tilted to stare at his tab, color high on his cheeks. Tommy takes a deep pull off his drink and rolls his jaw when Lucy sinks three in a row, and then the eight ball too.

He gets a full thirty second reprieve before she’s sidling in to the seat beside him, a knowing look on her face.

“Look, I get it,” she starts, and Tommy takes another drink as Young starts a to rerack. “When the bar light hits just right on those broad ass shoulders, you really can’t help but wanna see if his lips taste as sweet as they look.”

Tommy knows his expression is long suffering.

“They are, just in case you were wondering.”

“Donato,” he warns, and she grins, playing with the pool cue with her free hand.

“Got it, Kinard. Backing off. But you know, I’ve got a cousin...”

“Not interested,” he tells her, already swinging out of his seat to break for his round.

He barely even notices he couple leaving. He breaks clean, a few stripes finding their way into pockets, and doesn’t pay a lick of attention to the way the guys flustered laugh sounds as he guides his date out the door.

---

Donato still looks a little shell-shocked.

“They — uh — they’re all good?”

“They’re all pretty banged up. But yeah, from what I heard, they all made it out.”

“Cap — Captain Nash. They found him?”

“Pinned at the bottom of the rubble, but he got lucky. No serious injuries.”

Lucy slumps. She looks exhausted, minutes out from crashing. Tommy’s flown away from enough disasters moments before they get worse to know exactly how she’s feeling.

“Go change, Donato. I’ll drive you home.”

“I’m fine,” she argues, and Tommy’s gaze catches hers. Holds.

“Yeah, okay, fine. I’m gonna cry all over your nice leather seats, though.”

He doesn’t point out that they’ve seen his tears plenty, but from the look in her eyes he figures she kind of knows, anyway.

She’s quiet, for most of the drive. It’s a longer one than he’s used to, and the detour caused by the bridge collapse makes it longer.

“I don’t know what it is about them that makes me feel like I’m losing a limb every time one of those stupid assholes gets hurt. They’re a magnet for disaster, you think I’d be used to it. I didn’t even work with them that long.”

They’re still ten minutes out. Tommy had thought she’d passed out with her face plastered to the passenger window.

“You miss it?”

“Do you?” she asks, defensiveness creeping in to her voice.

Tommy flips his indicator as the light goes red in the turn lane. “I missed the bulk of the Bobby Nash Experience. Mostly I’m just bitterly resentful that I never got to experience the turnaround of my old house.”

He can feel her eyes sliding to him, the curious stare. “Is this what it takes for Tommy Kinard Honesty Hour? I witness something traumatic and you finally open up a little?”

Tommy shrugs, thumb tapping along to the sound of his blinker. “I’m old school, Donato. Usually you gotta save my life for a glimpse up here.” He taps to fingers to his temple.

She takes that in in silence. There’s always been a kinship there, between them, some part of Tommy that sees a lot of himself in the way Lucy conducts herself, the brash way she pushes past the rough days, the spark in her eyes when she’s seconds away from doing something ill-advised.

“Chim’s getting married,” she says into the silence, and Tommy hums. “I’m pretending not to be upset I didn’t get an invite.”

She’s the only one who gets being jealous of that tight-knit little group of psychos.

“So yours got lost in the mail too, huh?”

“Been a long time since I’ve been close to anyone there. I didn’t expect one.”

Lucy tips her head back against the headrest. Sighs. “Yeah. I guess eventually I’ll get there too.”

---

Jones levels him with an incredulous look.

“They should fire your ass.”

Tommy raises both hands in supplication, but he can’t quite keep the grin off his face as Diaz and Buckley both round the side of the chopper, both of them looking like they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. It’d been an uphill battle, trying to figure out the logistics of who was going where, after the fact. Chim and Hen had gotten stuck in the back of buses to the hospital.

Diaz and Buckley had ro-sham-bo’ed for shotgun to get back to Diaz’ truck, and Tommy had spent the short flight back from the rescue ship trying not to notice the pouty tilt of Evan’s lip from the back, or pay attention to the back and forth over the headset as Diaz reminded him he’d already had his chance.

There’s a thrum, under Tommy’s skin — the thrill of being reckless is fading, a little, but beneath that there’s a possibility opening wide — Eddie Diaz in the seat beside him pumping him for information on his army days, Evan Buckley shifting restlessly at his side as he comes to stand beside him, arms crossed and staring at Jones like he’s about to go guard dog mode.

All this time he’s been getting second-hand gossip about these people, listening to the wild and sometimes exaggerated rumors that follow them around the LAFD. This time he got to play a part, and neither one of these virtual strangers seems keen to let the moment pass.

Evan’s shoulder glances off of Tommy’s, and he fights the urge to dart his gaze to the side, to check out his profile, to see how ridiculous he looks when those puppy-dog eyes get defensive.

Eddie claps a hand to his shoulder on the other side. “They should give you medal,” he says, pointedly aiming the comment in Jones’ direction, and Jones huffs, eyes rolling.

“Get the hell out of my hangar before I find a reason to be anything other than jealous.”

Tommy laughs, cheeks aching as he waves his passengers out through the open bay door to guide them back to the spot he’d had them hide their truck.

---

Tommy rolls up to the court and watches as some ten-odd firefighters clam up completely.

Well, shit.

This is the first time he’s ever been on the other side of this.

Price is the first one to break. “You’re not bringing anyone from the 118 this time, are you? Seriously, Kinard, one was already pushing it, you’re tempting fate. I don’t want to catch the curse.”

Tommy rolls his eyes good naturedly, doesn’t mention that if the curse were contagious he’d be neck deep in it by now.

“Tommy’s the one we need to be worried about, Price. He’s lucky he wasn’t collateral damage in that lovers quarrel, last time.”

It’s been two weeks.

Tommy has to remind himself. It’s been two weeks. Since he’d gone to make it clear he had no intention of stepping into whatever shit was between Eddie and Evan, to make it clear that he planned to keep spending time with Eddie but he’d never meant to get between them. Two weeks since he’d taken a leap, hedged his bets, kissed a beautiful boy in the orange light of his kitchen.

Less than a week since he’d taken a sip of a terrible coffee concoction and leapt right back into the chaos.

“Are we playing, or do you all want to crack open a bottle of red back at my place and play at being Dan Humphrey?”

Tommy dribbles the ball, raises an eyebrow, watches them all shift guilty looks between themselves as they grumble and move to stand.

---

Lucy spins the metal chair across from him, settles with a leg over each side, arms crossed over the back of it, shit eating grin on her face.

“So. I heard a rumor.”

Tommy’s not sure what his face does. He’s hoping for disinterested, but more likely than not his lips are twitching bashfully.

“The nurses at PIH are incredibly easy to pump for intel,” she continues, and Tommy can feel his ears burning. Donato’s grin goes wide. “I can’t believe you didn’t get me a last minuet invite, too.”

Tommy recovers in time to avoid the full-body blush. “Well, the next time you No Homo me in front of a mutual friend and make up for it with a grand gesture, I’ll think about it.”

Lucy tilts her head. Her grin goes soft, eyes taking him in. “Shit, Kinard, you like him. Damn it. I can’t tease you about that.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

The expression goes mischievous again. “He really didn’t even wipe the soot off his face before he hard launched you?”

Tommy ducks his head, failing miserably at hiding the grin on his face.

[baddiewiththebook]

Over the Years | e.m x reader [18+] | p. 10

-> The origin story of Eddie Munson, and how he fell in love with the worst person he possibly could - his best friend.

-> eddie munson x you (she/her)

-> friends to lovers, slow burn, angst

-> warnings - strong language, suggestive themes, smut [18+]

-> <-

August 1983

Night falls onto Hawkins. The street lamps flicker on. A hopeful Eddie sits amongst the clutter of his living room. One of those street lamps illuminate the Forest Hills Trailer park just enough to cast shadow across each of the tiny trailers littered across the property. Your trailer is the only one of interest to Eddie.

The trailer has been quiet almost all day. In the morning, Eddie recalls Robin’s mother picking you up. There’s no clue what the two of you get up too when you’re together. Shopping. Chatting. Drinking coffee. Coffee is just about as bitter as Eddie feels right about now.

You must have come home for a moment when Eddie wasn’t watching your house, just to take your mom's car out for a joyride. That couldn’t have come off any creepier. Eddie doesn’t normally watch your house. He just waits for the opportunity to come by, since Gareth has already rejected the suggestions that he’s called him about earlier. He won’t say, but Gareth is busy this evening.

Jeff’s line goes straight to his answering machine, so he sighed loudly into the phone and hung up. Hopefully, Jeff hears the message before his mom does. She’ll cry that someone is out to get her. If only she would put away the fiction that these newspapers are printing these days. The Devil hasn’t touched Hawkins, and nor does he exist.

It becomes clear to Eddie that you are also busy this evening. What are you up too? Your mom’s car is gone, so either she has come home quietly for once or you’ve taken the car. Taking lessons from Eddie has boldened your actions. If the cops were to catch you, you would be thrown a heavy fine. The cops don’t pay much attention unless you’re a Munson, it seems.

Eddie kicks a couple empty soda cans trying to plant his feet on the coffee table. It doesn’t bother him any. The remote for the television is just out of his reach, despite having longer limbs. Something he got from his father, Wayne would say. There are a lot of similarities between the two men that Eddie avoids breaking down.

Al Munson is a waste of oxygen. The bastard can’t even be bothered to give him a phone call. He can’t blame Eddie either. Eddie doesn’t have his number. Hell, he doesn’t even know where Al is. Maybe he’ll visit his mom’s grave. Yeah, he found out she’s taking a dirt nap a few months back. It surprised him that this news doesn’t affect him as much. Maybe she should have tried showing up for a birthday.

Eddie dwells until he becomes apart of the living room furniture. The dimness of the room helps rock him into a meditative state. Although, his eyes draw to the parted curtain that he can peak through to see if you’ve come home yet.

The trailer is still dark.

Lights begin to flood the trailer park, and the familiar crunch of gravel has Eddie’s ears perked up. You could be home.

It is not you.

Uncle Wayne is home from a day at the plant. This would be a short visit. He has plans with his coworker, who stays in his car to keep the engine warm.

Ugh.

Eddie sinks back into position on the living room couch. A metal spring prods him in the rear.

Wayne stomps up the front steps of the home, before jangling his key in the lock. His nephew surprises him on the couch. The home is dark enough to be empty. Yet, Eddie sits unsettled amongst the dirt of the living room. Damn. He could have at least cleaned up.

“What are you doing, son?” Wayne begins to shred his work boots to trade them for something less filthy.

“My friends have abandoned me,” Eddie says through a haze of smoke from the joint he had earlier.

Wayne has never reprimanded Eddie for smoking weed in the home because every once in a while Wayne too needs to relax. It’s an unspoken rule between the men to never speak about weed. As long as Wayne doesn’t catch Eddie with a joint, he can ignore the smell, then Eddie is free to do as he pleases. It doesn’t cause him too many problems, and that’s all that matters.

However, if Wayne has the cops at his door for something Eddie has done at two in the morning, Wayne will rain hellfire on the tiny trailer home. Eddie will not become his father.

The theatrics have become normal to Wayne, so when the boy throws his gangly limbs across all parts of the couch, he snorts. You must have plans.

Eddie doesn’t have much of a brain when it comes to you. The thoughts are crumbled into a pile of mush. If he’s not careful, Eddie’s tongue might drop from between his lips. When he starts panting, Wayne will have cause for concern.

“You’re never home on a Saturday,” Wayne points out.

“I have nothing to do,” he sighs.

His uncle mutters, “so you’re sitting in the dark?”

“Are you going senile on me, old man?” Eddie lifts his head.

“Watch it, boy,” uncle Wayne points a thick finger at him. “I’m heading out. Long day at the plant. Er- clean something. Would you?”

Eddie groans.

“Love you too,” Wayne stacks a ball cap over his head, before leaving his nephew. There’s no way that he’ll actually clean. But, Wayne tries.

It’s his boredom that Eddie does get up, and he does begin to wipe the coffee table of beer cans, soda cans and old cups that never made their way to the sink. He doesn’t enjoy living in a pigsty, but the maid is away on a vacation. Chuckling to himself, Eddie finds the letter from his school that he’s been hiding from Wayne. Granted, underneath a stack of other mail isn’t the best hiding spot. Eddie was in a rush when he saw the blasted letter. It had come flat and obscene. Bold red lettering spells out ‘IMPORTANT’ then follows ‘To the Guardian of Eddie Munson,’ as if they don’t know Wayne Munson by now. Everyone knows the soiled Munson name.

Honestly the town humors him. Even pretending to have an ounce of care for Eddie is laughable. They just want to bend his mind into something socially acceptable. The long hours behind a school desk, bouncing from classroom to classroom has left Eddie enough time to think. If he ends up behind a corporate desk, twiddling his thumbs as the hours creep by and worrying that his typing speed will get him the boot from tight wad boss, Eddie might just loose his mind.

This year he might not graduate. It’s too soon to tell, but his teachers all give him the gray stare. Eddie’s dad brought an estranged relationship to the halls of Hawkins High School when he attended. All of the Munson’s to follow would be the least impressive to them. Lucky for Eddie, he’s the only burden that Hawkins will ever have to deal with. Well, unless his dad was able to charm himself into another woman’s pants and she produces another Munson. That’s one step closer to world domination.

There is a knock coming from the front door leading Eddie to believe that Wayne has forgotten his keys. He arms himself with a crass joke about Wayne’s age. When he swings the door open, however, Eddie finds his friend Jeff bouncing at his heels about something.

“What’s up?”

Jeff allows himself into the trailer knowing that Eddie doesn’t mind hosting. After all, he’s come all this way just to be told to go home? Please!

“You got food?” Jeff beelines for the kitchen. He doesn’t have to open the fridge to know it’s empty. Neither Eddie nor his uncle are famous for their cooking. No, he opens the freezer where there are stacks upon stacks of frozen meals. It begins to get a bit sad to Jeff that Eddie hardly gets the chance to sit down to a warm family meal.

That’s the privilege his own family holds. Mom works a nine to five at a beauty salon, and dad delivers papers. They hardly get a moment to see each other, but when they do the family is exactly what you see on television. Well, maybe not exactly. Hey! That’s what he gets for being Black in America.

“Turkey dinner,” Jeff finds the meal he wants, and before turning on the microwave he calls to Eddie, “roll up a joint! Turn on the tv!”

Eddie only lets Jeff boss him around because he’s inside the home. There’s no need to rip his head off. Or, maybe Eddie likes that Jeff is so comfortable in his little shack. They’ve only known each other for a few years. Shorter than Gareth. He still has to tell Gareth that it’s alright to poke around for food, or that there are extra blankets in the cubby down the hall.

“I’m gonna use your bathroom,” Jeff turns the corner. “That one in the microwave is for you. I know you ain’t eat. I’ll warm up another one for me.”

This makes Eddie roll his eyes. But, his stomach disagrees. The fact is Eddie hasn’t eaten much today. If not for watching your house, Eddie might have paid more attention to his own surroundings.

Eddie pops in a movie that he’s seen a dozen and a half times. It’s a comedy. That pairs well with how high they are about to be within the hour.

The faucet switches on in the bathroom, and Eddie has perfected a joint for them to share. He races to the kitchen to pull out the dinner in the microwave. Hissing as the tips of his fingers sear across the tin dish. You’d think he’d know better by how many of these things he’s eaten in his past seventeen years of living, but Eddie would be one to burn his fingers off.

Eddie does slide in another frozen meal after he takes the one that Jeff has warmed for himself.

By the time he makes rounds back to the couch, Jeff has taken a lighter to the joint. A cloud of thick gray smoke passes through the air. The joint is handed to Eddie.

“Any word from Gareth? He’s missing a great night,” Eddie half jokes.

Jeff shakes his head, “I called the house, but his mom says that he’s on a date.”

“A date?” Eddie scrunches his nose in thinking. “He told me he was busy.”

“Yeah, on a date.”

“He lied to me?” He didn’t know whether he should feel hurt, angry or maybe a bit of pride. To lie to Eddie is the greatest sin.

“Who cares? Pass that to me,” Jeff says with an open palm.

For the sass, Eddie takes a second hit. The weed will make him forget this conversation even happened. But, while he can plant his two feet on earth.

“‘s busy too,” he throws your name in the ring, “you don’t think they. . .?”

Jeff tilts his head at Eddie. Indeed, your home is quiet for a Saturday. Even Jeff knows you favor Saturday’s for their potential. You like reading as many books as you can get your hands on. Saturday’s are prime real estate for book reading according to you.

The idea has crossed his mind. How Gareth has been acting towards you? You haven’t exactly shot him down. Since coming home from the camping trip this summer, you’ve been much quieter, whether during band rehearsals or whenever the guys get together. You have a misty glow about you too. It’s possible, but- would you really go as far as to date Gareth?

Something blasts on television. The characters are swarming each other in clouds of dust, and ridiculous plots. Jeff and Eddie throw themselves back in a fit of laughs. The plant they’ve been sucking on begins to coat their skin, and bathe in their blood. They’ve forgotten their conversation, and everything becomes quite silly just then.

-> <-

A bowling ally to you, always meant spending a fair time with your mother. She taught you how to hold the ball in your little fingers, and she helped guide you down the right lane. You could feel how cherry your cheeks would get when you knocked even one pin down. Success! Now, years later, the same nostalgia washes over you. Even though you don’t have your mother to play with anymore, you find a new companion in Gareth. He’s much handsomer than your mother too.

When you came back from the camping trip, you couldn’t stop your mind from racing about him. It’s silly to have such a school girl crush on the one person you thought despised you. He admitted to his jealously over the phone one night, and asked if you wanted to go bowling with him the following weekend.

You’ve now forgotten about the tornado that zipped through your room tonight. The perfect outfit couldn’t be described, nor could it be found. Although, Gareth disagrees. You’ve never looked more beautiful to him.

Gareth holds his breath as you throw your last ball down the lane. If you hit both pins down now, you win the round. Clack! The pins scrape the lane.

The dance you do at the end of the lane warms Gareth’s heart like hot chocolate in the winter. You spin around gleefully.

“Great game,” he says.

Your stomach growls, “pizza break?”

The pizza parlor is just a step off the bowling lanes. Crowds are thick at this time, and Gareth slots his hand into yours to keep from losing you. Hopefully, he misses how pink you’ve gone. He doesn’t.

Gareth orders your favorite slice of pizza, but not without a rebuttal of how plain a cheese slice of pizza can be. You disagree. There’s something soothing about eating just the cheese and the bread. Especially, if they’ve seasoned the crust right.

To be honest, the pizza isn’t even warm. Gareth can read that on your face the moment you take your first bite. Then, he suggests you head somewhere different for dinner that isn’t this cheap pizza crap. You convince him that it’s perfectly fine - not wanting to spend money neither of you have. Just getting into the bowling alley alone is expensive. The dollars ran you each six bucks that Gareth happily forked over. You’re priceless.

This might be the first date, but Gareth already wants the dates to continue. If you’ll have him. You spend the evening getting to know each other a bit better, while avoiding the family question. Gareth is the only child between his mother and his absent father. Unlike you and your father, Gareth regularly visits his in Indianapolis. Gareth’s mother and father split on the difference of opinions about where to live. She wanted to be in a small town, and he didn’t want to leave his corporate position.

“Two Christmases,” Gareth lightens the mood.

You snicker, even though you hardly get one Christmas. Would your mom even be home this year? It may be another Christmas spent with the Munson’s. Last year, Wayne brought you over since your mom was passed out on the couch and had completely forgotten the holiday. You shared laughs over a roast that Wayne worked extra hours for. It was one of the best holidays in years.

“I’m really into journaling,” you tell Gareth when he asks about what you want to do with your life. Honestly, the thought has crossed your mind. Nothing creases your brows more than when you have a pen and a piece of paper between your fingers.

Gareth finishes off a bite of his last slice, wipes his hands on a napkin and then asks, “is that why you’re always nose deep in those diary looking things?”

You flush. It’s true. Wherever you are - school or home - you always carry around a notebook to jot down - well, anything. Although, you didn’t know you had been so obvious about it. Humans are so interesting in their average life. Do we ever really stop to think about what we are doing? The emotions that we have? You’re quick to jot this moment in your head to put on paper later.

“No one has ever asked about my writing before,” you smile at this, “but, it’s all silly. I don’t know if any of it’s important.”

“I’d love to read them someday,” he offers.

“It’s not done yet,” you shy.

Gareth nods understandingly, “when it’s finished.”

Gareth knows that Eddie is fond of getting those journals for you to write in. The exchange is polite and friendly. Some of them are more colorful and more loud than others. They come in all colors. Gareth can see when you’re getting close to being done with them when the pages gain weight with the ink from your pen. He’s always been curious to read between the lines if the written word wasn’t so private.

The end to your writing has yet to fall into your lap. Pieces of the puzzle you’ve begun can’t seem to fall directly into place. It will take years for you to sort through just the corner pieces. The center is what really matters. It’s the glue that holds the story together. The pages open to your inner most deep thoughts. You’ve hardly begun to untangle the web that lives inside your brain.

Life might be much easier for you if you could reach between your ears to prod at the sticky flesh that your brain has to offer. Along the muscle, you might find the words that you’re desperately trying to say. That goes the same for paper, and for real life.

Anxieties creep against your spine about the future. You won’t let them rattle you for long. The boy in front of you distracts these thoughts from surfacing when he dashes his fingers across the back ridges along your hand. Your face softens, though you’re not sure when it got so stiff.

Gareth can read you well. Something he’s picked up on over the years. Your face gets so tight in the middle. Even your nose gets scrunched when you’re overthinking. To distract you, Gareth doesn’t want to scare you by word of mouth. He’s much gentler to you. He cares for you. Already, you’ve made a mark on him that no other blonde, brunette or - well - anyone could. You’ve known each other for so long, yet this past summer Gareth has really opened his eyes.

The way you smell captivates him. He’s entranced by the way that vanilla could become so intricate and intimate along your skin. You’ve certainly sprayed yourself with just enough perfume before you met him here tonight. Not only this, but you’ve freshly washed. The skin on your hands is still soft and plush. Your bracelet jangles against the surface of the table. When it does, you adjust the heart charm facing the ceiling, so to not interfere on your date.

Date. Gareth could have done summersaults when you agreed to tonight. It won’t be something he admits to you, but he did a few laps in his living room. His mom caught him. Surely something that will be brought up in the future.

The date continues. Eventually, the slices of pizza disappear leaving only sad crumpled plates. Gareth folds his in half, before throwing his and yours away. Another round of bowling follows.

“I want a rematch!” Gareth declares in a teasing and a joking sort of tone.

You play along, and challenge, “I can’t wait to kick your ass twice!”

“Bring it on!”

This round is different. Gareth has his eye locked on first prize. The technique he uses to swing the ball back is focused and precise. You want to ask if he’s ever bowled on a team. But, soon you’re up. Maybe you’re out of your element. Perhaps you quicken your shot, just so you can watch the way Gareth moves during his turn. The muscles in his arm strain and flex in his swing. When did he get those?

You have to pull away, and start thinking with your head.

The score is set. Either knock these pins down and win, or- Clang! Crash! Bang! You droop your head in defeat. Gareth has taken the win!

“Woohoo!” Gareth victory laps in front of the lane. The dance is a bit corny and embarrassing, but he likes to see the look on your face. Twisting your false frown into a congratulatory smile, you can’t help but join him.

Gareth slows down when you get close to gun. The faint Italian seasoning still bites your taste buds from the pizza you had earlier. Hot breath hits his lips. He initiates a kiss.

Your hands find the zipper of his open sweater on either side. Pulling him closer, he stumbles before finding perchase at your hips. You couldn’t stay there for long too engrossed in each other. A round of hollers break the moment. They’re some of the jerky popular kids from school.

Their hollers are sarcastic and mean.

Gareth doesn’t want to let them spoil the night, so he holds onto your hand before squeezing his way through the crowd. There is also an arcade buried in the bowling alley. Somewhere just the left of the mediocre cafeteria.

The arcade is much less popular - surprising. As soon as you step to the first machine, you understand why.

“It needs quarters,” you tap the buttons.

Gareth ransacks his wallet, “I’ll be right back.”

Gareth zips off to the half-alert teen behind the register where they got the pizza from. You wait patiently observing. The way Gareth tips his head to him, and accepts the change. He even passes a genuine ‘thank you’ that sits just right inside your head as a lasting memory of why you like him.

The arcade games are quite fun. You’re not good at any of them. Gareth says with practice you could be a real pro.

“Is that your way of telling me there is a second date,” you guide yourself deeper and deeper through the maze. This is your second attempt at Dragon’s Lair. One of Gareth’s favorites - go figure.

Gareth points to the screen, “watch out!”

The knight you play as becomes quickly squashed and buried by a thick layer of stone. He’s not going to make it out of that one with a few stitches.

Gareth shares a hearty laugh with you that warms you up. He surprises you by pressing a kiss to your cheek, and then following this by whispering your ear.

“A second date would be nice.”

You blush, “we haven’t finished the first one.”

Gareth hums. “I know. And, I miss you already.”

When he reaches back into his pocket, he comes to find that you’re all out of quarters. The night has been more than fun than any night before. Your cheeks burn from the smile that couldn’t be swiped off your face.

As you leave the building, hand in hand, Gareth tilts the watch band on his wrist. The time reads exactly nine in the evening. You’re supposed to be home soon.

“I had fun tonight,” he kicks the ground of it’s loose gravel.

You nod in agreement, “I did too. Thank you for this. And, I’ll call you.”

Tonight, you had brought your mom’s station wagon. You want to offer Gareth a ride, but he insists his mom will pick him up shortly. Saying this has Gareth going pink in the face. As soon as he can, he will learn to drive. He likes the image of him behind the wheel, while you sit comfortably in the passenger seat.

Before his mom can pull up to the bowling alley to embarrass him through and through, Gareth presses one more kiss to your lips. Your hands reach for the back of his head, just slightly. The pair break off in time for a familiar face to show up this evening.

Out of anyone this evening, neither of you wanted to be drilled and questioned by your shared friend Eddie Munson. The man who could squash Gareth under his thumb like a bug. You didn’t want to hide your blossoming relationship with Gareth from him. You just wanted time to yourself. There isn’t anything to talk about yet. Although, you could give Robin a call tonight and chat her ear off about how much of a gentleman Gareth has been. She is of the belief that this might become a bad idea because to her neither of you have anything in common. Nonetheless, she’s supportive of your experiments.

Anyway, the man you find yourself running into is probably the second worse case scenario because he could easily let it slip that he’s seen you at the bowling alley. Eddie’s uncle Wayne stops his conversation with his coworker John. The men were sharing work stories when he spots you making eyes at the boy next to you.

Ah, he remembers date nights well. Wayne could prattle on about the times he took out fare Rosie Davis in his younger days. They went to hot spots like the bowling alley too, or the diner. He couldn’t call her the one that got away though. That spot remains for dear Cloudy. Ah, Cloudy. Of course, he will spare the details. The woman was like a dream to him - she still reaches parts of his memory that he loves to pry out every once in a while.

Wayne pulls back a bit when he recognizes Eddie’s friend Gareth standing beside you. The two are usually together on Saturdays, which makes more sense as to why his young nephew is taking over his living room in the dark. Had he known you were out . . . together? Bah! None of his buisness. You kids are hard to keep track of these days.

“Well,” Wayne acknowledges, “good evening, you two.”

You fumble nervously, “hi, Wayne.”

Gareth flicks his wrist to wave hello. “Hey, Wayne.”

“Oh, John,” Wayne politely introduces the man. “These are a couple of Eddie’s friends.”

“Nice to meet you!” The man beside him is Wayne’s age. He has a hat perched askew atop of his head to hide the balding patch missing of course curly hair that’s throwing off his age. It’s not doing its job, but that’s not for you to point out.

Wayne flicks his gaze to the bowling alley, “it’s crowded in there tonight?”

“It is,” the parking lot is nearly full, and people are starting to park on the street.

This causes the man to lift his eyebrow, and dips his head to your height. A flimsy smile rests on his face.

“It’s probably so crowded that I’ve forgotten the faces I’ve seen tonight, hm?”

Wayne already has the clue by the stiffness of your back that Eddie probably has no idea that you’re here tonight. Especially, that you’re together. He’s getting old, but he’s not any stupider now than he was yesterday. Besides, there may be a day that you will return the favor to him. Not that he expects you too.

Your faces twist into something of gratitude.

“Have a good evening, you two,” Wayne turns to John, and with a pat on his back they walk into the bowling alley.

Gareth sighs, “that was close.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “Well, bye Gareth.”

“Bye,” he waves.

Just as you step off the curb to make your way through the parking lot, a blue sedan pulls in beside you carefully. The window rolls down, and Gareth’s mom shouts to you.

“You look so pretty tonight!”

You turn on your heel, “thank you, Miss Jones.”

Gareth’s worst nightmare has come true. His mom’s best trait has become his worst enemy. She does well at her job where her spunk and toothy grin do her well amongst her coworkers. Even people she sees on the street, she’ll make new friends in mere moments. While he adores her theatrics, he does wish she could know when to pipe down.

“Did you kids have fun tonight?” She whips her head back and forth between her son slotting into the front seat of her car, and you dancing on your heels and toes in the parking lot. “Oh! You should come by tomorrow. We’re making ziti! Ever heard of it? I was watching the television. I love my cooking television shows. I learn so much. Anyway, this lady says something about her Italian dog - or maybe it was her grandma - no, it had to be her grandma. Dogs can’t cook,” she only pauses to belt out a loud and nasally sort of laugh. “Can you imagine? The hysteria!”

If anything, Gareth was trying to spare you the ongoing rambles that his mother could go through. The woman didn’t have an off button. When he told her that he could use a ride to the bowling alley, she was extremely ecstatic to be having a mother and son night out. He disclosed that he would be meeting a friend there, and she responded with a suggestive ‘oh!’ The questions began. She asks if you’re a girl, then asks if you’re pretty. Hell, by the end of the conversation you and he were already married and making her grandchildren.

The woman is colorful to say the least.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie!” Gareth didn’t listen in very closely, but by the sounds of it, you’re coming over tomorrow.

Gareth couldn’t be more thrilled that his mom hasn’t scared you off.

You wave one more time, before taking off towards your car that’s parked just a few spots away from the front of the bowling alley.

“I’ll have to find those photo albums,” she mutters to herself.

“Mom,” Gareth whines, “no!”

“What? I can’t show your girlfriend how cute you were as a baby? This is going to be so much fun!” She taps the steering wheel in front of her, then coos. “My baby has a girlfriend!”

“We’ve been on one date!”

“She’s going to look gorgeous in white one day, don’t you think? Is she more of an ivory or a cream? I’m just so excited!”

-> <-

[Sep 1983]

tags -> @leelei1980 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @jesuisbuginette @starrywhitenight @meetmeatyourworst @munsonburn3r @5tud10-54r4h @pvdulmol @loveryanax @am0iur @naatggeo

[trippinsorrows]

I feel like this is another multiverse type question. But say Solana wasn’t in the situation she was in and Roman was very much so attracted to her as he is now. How do you think Roman would have approached her ?

this is such an interesting question!

hmmm.

under the read more cause this got longer than i intended lol

roman was bored, ready to go. functions were never his thing. he always attended out of obligation and necessity. never want. and considering he's been present for an hour, he more than feels he's done what he needed to do.

he pulls out his phone to text paul to have the car pulled for him, ready for his wise man to foolishly try to convince him to stay when a body collides into him.

soft is one of the first things to hit him followed by a sweet, vanilla almond scent that's more than pleasing to all of his senses. his arm naturally reaches to brace the person who collided with him, a person he right away knows is a woman, both by the soft curves of her body but also the fragrance.

"oh my god." the voice. so soft and sweet, almost too sugary, too angelic for such a function, full of the world's most dangerous people. such a stark contrast. "i'm so sor---"

she's silenced, and roman is momentarily taken back as the two of them lock gazes. beautiful, big brown eyes widened in alarm that's most likely due to her recognizing who he is. "mr. reigns...."

roman is partially paying attention to her words but mostly taking his sweet time taking all of her in. her face is absolutely stunning, and roman can tell it's not just because of the beautifully done makeup. he can see natural beauty beneath that. her hair is pulled up into a fancy updo, but her full lips snatch his focus before he rakes his eyes over her body, even curvier than he realized. cleavage on full display in her red dress that hugs her perfectly. she's a tiny little thing. a good foot shorter to him, but there's no denying it.

she's fucking stunning.

and she's still fucking apologizing. "i'm so sor---"

"it's fine." anyone else, and it wouldn't be. but there's something about this woman with the soft voice, light eyes, and alluring body that has him not as irritated as he normally would be. "it was an accident."

she nods, clearly nervous, when she looks over her shoulder, as if looking for something. or someone.

suddenly curious, he asks, "who are you--"

"oh no," she interrupts him, an unintentional thing, as she offers what looks like an apologetic look. she holds up the bottom of her red gown to move past him. however, roman finds himself moving his arm to bar her, holding her. he has to stop himself from thinking too much about the almost natural feeling he experiences in and with touching her.

"i---"

"there you are."

roman breaks his stare with the woman to see none other than ethan fucking page. he scoffs. no wonder she's running.

this bastard is insufferable.

page clears his throat and gives roman a nod. "mr. reigns, i apologize for the interruption." his gaze falls on the woman who almost moves closer to roman, practically holding onto him. it's obvious she's uncomfortable as hell. has to be for good reason too. "just need to speak to---"

"she's with me."

it comes out without much thought, both page and the unnamed woman looking at him with equal surprise.

page removes his glasses, looking at her, "solana?"

solana

unique. pretty. fitting.

she swallows. "i---" and just like that, she seems prepared to ruin this save roman has provided her, though he hasn't the slightest idea why he's giving her a save. yet, here he is.

"get lost, page." roman's tone shifts into something darker, something that's very reminiscent of the reason that he's easily the most feared man in the room. "i won't repeat myself."

i.e. get lost, or i'll snap your neck. an unspoken threat that's clearly understood, because page murmurs something that's probably an apology. and then he's gone, leaving roman alone yet again with this solana.

looking back at her, she gives him a small smile. roman is quickly realizing she's even prettier when she smiles. "thank you."

roman nods, asking, even though he doesn't know why, "what's the story?"

her smile drops into a frown that roman finds himself wanting to wipe off her face. "ethan....he doesn't know how to take 'no' for an answer." she shakes her head, scoffing quietly. "he shows up to my store at least once a week just to ask me out, even though the answer is always no."

"where do you work?" it's not that roman necessarily wants or even needs to know this piece of information, but there's a thought of breaking both page's knees and providing specifics when he does as such, such as the name of the place he's never to step foot in again, which could be....helpful.

roman is thankful when the smile returns, not as bright but still present. he'll take it. "i own a bookstore in town. nina's." his curiosity must be visible. "my mother's name. we share a love of books."

he makes a sound. everything he's learned in the less than twenty minutes he's known about this girl makes all the sense in the world. of course, her name is different, unlike any name for a woman he's heard of. of course, she has trouble fending off an asshole like page. and of course she likes books.

she clears her throat, finally breaking away. roman didn't even realize he was still holding her. "thank you again, mr. reigns."

"roman," he corrects. "call me roman."

she swallows, voice softening, "roman...."

he's not sure he's ever enjoyed hearing his name as much as he likes hearing it on her mouth. he'd love to hear it even more if she was screaming it, moaning it as he fucked her, kneading those beautiful, soft breast of hers.

fuck

"why are you looking at me like that?" she asks in that same sweet, almost innocent voice.

his eyes twinkle with mischief. "do you really need to ask?"

solana shifts bit, playing with her hands, hinting at some nervousness. "i'm not like that."

roman is almost certain he knows what she's saying, but he makes sure, regardless. "and what is that?"

her mouth shifts into a small smirk. "do you really need to ask?"

and for the first time tonight, roman smiles.

this girl is unlike any he's met before.

continuously intrigued, he asks, "what's your last name?"

she answers, "miller."

recognition dawns after a couple seconds for him. "xavier and nina...you're the daughter?"

he's always heard they had another child other than wesley, but he'd never seen her at one of these functions. didn't even realize it was a daughter.

a beautiful daughter at that.

she nods. "i don't typically attend these sorts of things."

"you should," he finds himself suggesting. roman isn't the biggest flirter, doesn't need to. women flock to him like moths to flame, but there's something about this woman... he steps closer to her, hand reaching out to run his finger along her cheek. "how else am i going to see you?"

she seems taken back, cheeks turning pink, but she takes him by surprise with her reply, "you could come see me."

his chuckle is dark and his tone suggestive. "oh, i don't think coming will be an issue."

and her cheeks deepen in color, as she announces, "i should go find my brother."

eyes falling to her chest, he asks, "should you?"

solana smiles and diverts her gaze, slightly disappointing him when she steps back. "goodbye, roman."

he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his custom suit pants. "not goodbye," he correct. "just goodnight."

because there's no doubt in roman reigns mind that this was the last time he'll ever see solana miller.

far from it.