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blueywrites · 2 years

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I Will Wait

a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)

cowritten by @abibliophobiaa, @blue-mossbird, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, and @fracturedarkness

18+ only for mature themes and eventual sexual content. fem!reader

one (9.9k) | next | masterlist | AO3 | 🎵 shmackin' tunes

in this universe, there is no upside down, the year is 1995, and corroded coffin = nine inch nails. if you didn't check out the prequel publications (hot off the press on our series masterlist), make sure you do, since they provide important backstory for the IWW universe! read them carefully; there are secrets. 😉

Your mind is a buzzing whirl, just like that of the streets of New York City below, visible through the thick glass of your apartment window. Below, where you can hear the blare of honking horns, can see people loitering on the side of the road, hands waving high in an attempt to hail one of the taxis rushing past. You watch as people dart across busy intersections, dodging oncoming cars, scattering like ants across criss-crossed streets that teem with activity even in the dead of night.

It’s a constant, a comfort, something you can cling to as anticipation bubbles and wells in your gut.

Outside, the sun is beginning its slow descent; glowing bright skies begin to deepen into a powdery orange, hinting at a day starting to close. Your fingers press against the window, a mental note already forming to clean it once you step away, eyes peering out into the bustling city streets. You work your way down the mental list once more: dishes washed, already set aside in the drying rack; laundry ironed and folded, pressed neatly into your drawers in categorical order; counters wiped down, shades dusted, furniture polished; dishwasher emptied, cups, plates, bowls and utensils placed in proper cabinets; AOL inbox checked, your confirmation for the time you would be meeting your new boss responded to, while the rest of the emails were placed into proper folders or deleted completely.

You’ve already changed your outfit three times. Laid multiple options out on your bed and ironed them all. You had held them to your body in the reflection of your bedroom mirror and tossed them into a heap at the foot of your bed. This wasn’t just any day, after all. The importance isn’t lost on you. This isn’t like any of your temp jobs that came before it. This is the first you’ll be working alongside someone with undeniable notoriety in the music space.

A celebrity, really.

“I can see your mind working, you know?” Angela, your roommate, glances up from where she sits at your kitchen island. There’s a magazine in front of her with some likely-falsified article about the newest Hollywood “IT” couple on display, dressed to the nines with glowing, airbrushed features. Her nails tap along the countertop, stark red against pale cream, as she arches a brow in your direction.

You’re already walking into the kitchen to join her, skirt sliding against your tight-clad thighs as you reach down beneath the sink to grab a bottle of windex, sights set on the fingerprints on your floor-to-ceiling windows. She twists in the chair while you rustle about, ignoring her as you grasp paper towels from the rack.

“This is a good thing,” she says, sighing with an exasperated shake of the head. Your reflection obscures for a brief moment, replaced by blue spray, before you wipe your lingering prints away. “You’ve wanted to travel for so long. You know, see the world and all of that. This is your opportunity to do it. And shit, it beats working for that asshat you used to deal with. What was his name again?”

You slip back into the kitchen to throw the towel away, heels clacking against tile. “Carver,” you reply, just as the lid to the garbage falls closed. You lean back against the countertop, smoothing your sweaty palms along the sides of your skirt. “Pretty sure anyone would be better than him. I still can’t believe that Mr. Harrington came to the office looking to mitigate all that tension between Mr. Munson and Jason by trying to partner up Carver Distilleries and Corroded Coffin for a commercial, and Jason went and ruined it by running his mouth. I wish you could have seen it, Ange. Mr. Harrington was so disgusted with how he behaved, he extinguished the deal completely right there in his office.”

“Exactly, because even he knows that man is vile,” she sighs with a pout, her form slipping down from off of one of your shoddy barstools, curly blonde hair swaying around her shoulders as she walks. You snort when her hands curl around your forearms, shaking you lightly. “What did your new boss say? Something about you being more than equipped to handle this position? Didn’t he, oh I don’t know, request you specifically for his client? You’re going to be fine; in fact, you’re going to be wonderful. If there’s anyone in this world who can handle the notorious Eddie Munson, I think it’s you.”

With a newly restored confidence, you set to the bustling streets of Manhattan, sights poised on the recording studio address you were given. You thought your first day might start with something akin to an office introduction. Something, at the very least, a little less imposing than this. But you double checked your email from Mr. Harrington before you left and printed the directions that now sat clutched tight within your hands.

The building that stands before you at the end of your trek looms arresting and proud in the midst of the bodies swarming around you. Your eyes lift hesitantly to the glass door, your mirrored reflection leaping back at you. Angela’s words ring true in your ears; you are more than adequately equipped. You wouldn’t be invited here if it were not fate itself beckoning at your door. With a resigned exhale, your fingers twine around the cool, metal handle and step inside.

Schmackin’ Records is a world unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. From the moment your feet hit the mat at the front door, company logo etched into it, you know you’re no longer sitting at the front desk of Carver Distilleries. Your head tilts upward to the records dangling from the ceiling, then lower to the endless sprawling walls littered with posters boasting of accolades achieved by the success of the artists that have roamed these halls. You’re struck with the realization that you’re standing in the shadows of legends that have also trailed this path before you.

This— this place and this moment, are your current reality.

“You wouldn’t happen to be the new assistant, would you?” The woman at the front desk catches your attention. Your head whirls, fingers slipping from where they rest along a glass case affixed to the wall, proclaiming a recently obtained platinum record. Her face softens at your visible nervousness. “Sorry to scare you, dear.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine! I’m… ah, I’m actually here to meet with Mr. Steve Harrington. He gave me this address….” You hold aloft the directions in your hand, heart dancing in your chest as your heeled shoes propel you over to where she sits behind a glass panel. The woman before you glimpses down at your directions printed from MapQuest with a pitying grin, her head bobbing before her fingers clack away on her keyboard.

“That’s right! Hold on one moment, sweetie.” You open your mouth to speak as she lifts a phone from its receiver and dials a number quickly. You can faintly hear a voice on the other end. “Mr. Harrington? Yes, this is Joyce speaking. Mr. Munson’s new assistant is here looking for you… okay— yes, that’s fine. Thank you, yes— I’ll let her know. Goodbye.”

Your legs plant beneath you firmly, shoulders ramrod straight, head tilted up in anticipation of your new role. Joyce only resumes in her typing, head tilted down toward her computer screen, leaving you to simmer alone in the tense silence.

“Mr. Harrington will meet you on floor five. Just take that elevator down this hall on your left,” she says, head lifting abruptly from her work.

“Thank you!”

Somehow, the directions only bring you more nervousness. The knowledge that all that stands before you and your new role is five floors. A short elevator ride. Merely a few moments in time remain stretched between you and the catapult into a lifestyle you’ve only seen on television prior to this opportunity.

Your shoes clack against the laminate flooring, a foreboding tap tap tap as you shuffle your way down the short hallway and press the call button for your elevator. The doors open with a soft ping, heart ricocheting against your ribcage as you step inside and the silver metal closes behind you. Hesitant fingers raise to press the number five, the circle bursting to life and illuminating your selection. You step into the center of the room, hands clasped at your side, eyes ahead of you on your distorted reflection upon the surface.

You settled on a simple outfit for the day. Something pristine and professional. A thin black long-sleeved shirt, pale gray tweed skirt, black tights, and dark heels. Simple and understated, though still maintaining your own preferences for stylistic choices. Those same clothes cling to you now. Your tights suddenly seem too tight, heels increasingly pinchy around the back of your heel, skirt prickly and coarse against your thighs, the neck of your sweater digging into your throat. You’re parched, though you doubt any amount of water would assist you now.

The door opens to reveal sprawling wooden walls, as well as the figure of Steve Harrington standing before you in a pair of slacks and a simple button up. He looks exceedingly kind just as he did the first time you met him. Dark, depthless eyes with a wide grin spread across finely hewn features. His fingers card through his hair as you step out to greet him, hand coming to extend before you at the ready.

“You’re here! Oh, thank god.” He shakes your hand briefly and nudges you toward the opening of a hallway, those endless panels of wooden walls surrounding you on either side. The voice that spills from him in a rush is a frantic murmur of, “I’m sorry to have contacted you on such notice. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble—”

“Oh, not at all, Mr. Harrington,” you interrupt, swallowing thickly as he pauses in stride. “Sorry.”

“No, no. Please, call me Steve. Mr. Harrington is what people call my father,” he says, smiling softly. There’s a comfort in his gaze, a warmth that oozes from him. The tightness in your chest loosens, a deep breath pouring out. “We’ve… well, his last assistant quit abruptly, you see, and therefore we were obviously left with no notice. So when you said you could start as soon as possible, it was almost a godsend.”

Your hands grip tighter to the band of your pocketbook draped over your shoulder, leather still cool from the afternoon air. “I’m here for whatever you need, Mr. Ha— Steve.”

The hallway leads to a door, dark and imposing, with a wide silver handle. His fingers curl around it and hesitate, head turning over his shoulder to gauge your expression. The worrying of your lip pauses, teeth releasing from their tense position against your skin. Your mouth quirks upward into a hopeful smile, willing those nerves bubbling to subside.

“What exactly have you heard about Eddie Munson?” he asks you.

You know he’s not expecting a true answer. Not really. You’ve done minimal research. A quick Yahoo search brings up more articles than you know what to do with in reference to the infamous Eddie Munson. Most of which had brought you to pages detailing his altercation at the Grammy Awards in 1994 and the numerous escapades he’s gotten himself into in the course of his still newly established stardom, as well as his whirlwind romance with his wife.

“Not much,” you admit, and while it is the truth, Steve seems to deflate a bit.

His shoulders drop, hand coming to run through that full head of dark hair on him once more. That easy demeanor shifts, mouth turning southward. “Eddie is… he means well. He’s just— well, he’s gone through a few assistants in the past few months, as you know. In the few years I’ve known him, I can tell you with certainty he is dedicated to his craft, but he tends to veer into the wilder aspects of life. What he needs right now is someone who can handle him, and I truly believe that person is you.”

You feel your stomach drop. Initially, when Steve had offered you the position, he boasted of a fast-paced role that required adaptability. Your previous job had been nothing but back to back phone calls, fielding all the incoming clients and their questions, managing the schedules of your manager, and ensuring all issues were handled accordingly.

Babysitting a rockstar hadn’t exactly been on your agenda; yet even despite all of that, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity and had accepted the job offer.

“And the others?” you question, hand coming to rub along your bicep.

“I wouldn’t worry about it so much,” Steve says with a shake of his head. “You handled Carver. Eddie should be a breeze.”

Carver Distilleries was not your ideal job, but it was the job you acquired shortly after a brief stint as an administrative assistant for a local community college. The company touted a prolific background of over thirty years in business and you jumped at the prospect. It had been straightforward enough most days. The phones rang around the clock and you handled the calls as expected, passed them off to their proper channels, and made sure the son of the CEO was happy at all times.

Jason Carver was, to put it lightly, the devil’s incarnate. Most days you wondered if he’d been placed in this life for the sole purpose of bringing suffering to all those around him, with a pitchfork in one hand and tail swishing behind him as he stomped through the halls of the building.

You couldn’t recall off the top of your head a day wherein he had ever been happy. Shockingly so for someone born from wealth and thrusted into the limelight, silver spoon in mouth at birth. Jason was proof that money hardly ever solved all problems.

He reigned as the crowned Prince of the company, his father’s shining star, who never raised his finger to do anything. For years, he rode on the back of his father’s coattails and treated those around them like they were beneath him, nose always upturned, sneer firmly planted on his face.

That evening you were already overwhelmed. There was an issue down in the marketing department regarding a mixup in schedules, leaving the Carver’s seated next to a family they didn’t particularly have positive dealings with at an upcoming gala. To add to the rising tension, Jason sent you on an errand to retrieve his requested cappuccino. Light foam, two sugars, extra hot. When you’d returned, he was still in a meeting with some of his fathers business executives, hidden behind a glass door. You left the cup for him there, as requested of you, and rushed back to the front desk just as Mr. Steve Harrington walked into the building.

He’d come in looking like any other businessman you’d seen grace the building in the past. Perfectly tailored suit and tie, briefcase in hand, hair coiffed neatly atop his head. Steve Harrington, though young, harnessed a professionalism about him that Jason Carver lacked. There were no sneers aimed your way as he approached the desk and greeted you pleasantly, nor did he scoff at the hand you’d extended in greeting, welcoming him with a soft thanks.

“Mr. Carver is just finishing up another meeting and will be out to retrieve you,” you advise him, walking out from behind your desk. “Would you like coffee, water… tea?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” he says, holding his briefcase tighter within his palm as he made his way over to the small couch positioned across from you, nestled beside a potted plant. You retreated back to your desk as he pulled a phone from his pocket, voice rising just enough to ask, “Do you happen to have—”

“What is this?!” Jason’s voice boomed from down the hall.

A loud thump echoed from his office, likely from something he’d tossed off his desk in frustration, and you knew well enough to duck behind the covering of your work space. You frantically thumbed the spacebar on your computer to bring it back to life, assuring everyone in your vicinity that you appeared occupied as a shock of blonde hair filled your peripheral. He’d bursted into the room with the dejected coffee in hand, hair strewn about messily atop, eyes narrowed in heedless anger.

Your eyes flickered to the cup, then settled back on the opened email on your desktop computer. The subject line held a request for a flower arrangement you were set to purchase for Jason’s wife, Chrissy, because he couldn’t be bothered to do it himself.

You let out a soft sigh and explained, “It’s the coffee you asked for.”

His nostrils flared like a bull, the embers burning behind his eyes glowing brighter. “I know it’s the coffee I asked for. I don't pay you to answer me with that sarcastic bullshit—”

“Mr. Carver—” The rise of your voice caught you both off guard, only further angering him.

His eyes narrowed, brows knitted tight across the middle of his forehead, vein pulsing against taut skin growing redder by the second. “I asked for a cappuccino with light foam, two sugars, and asked that you make sure it’s extra hot. This isn’t extra hot. This isn’t even warm. It’s cold.”

“Yes, Mr. Carver. It was hot when I left it on your desk two hours ago. Would you like me to go and get you another one?” You try your best to retain a neutral tone. You’re aware of Steve’s eyes trailing along both your forms, interrupted from his own work by your increasingly heated argument.

He barked out an incredulous laugh, head shaking. “No, I don't want you to get me another coffee. You should have known my meeting would run long and planned accordingly. I don’t know where you get the nerve to talk to me like you are when you seem to have forgotten you are no more than a rece—”

“Mr. Carver.” You both paused at the finality of your tone, throat filled with the bitter taste of the degradation he attempted to throw your way. “Your two thirty meeting for the Tennessee Maple Whiskey commercial is here.”

He clicked his tongue, shooting a glower your way. You already anticipated a meeting in his office later wherein he reminded you of all the reasons why your behavior was unacceptable and why you were lucky to still have a position at Carver Distilleries.

“Fine. Mr. Harrington, give me one moment and I will call you back into my office. I just need to finish running something by my father. As for you—” His eyes darted back to your form. “—I will deal with you later.”

You exhaled a heavy sigh of relief as the blonde haired man sauntered back down the hall, leaving you to the comfort of your generally quiet front desk. Steve still lingered there, one hand curled around his phone, the other lifting the briefcase he held off his lap to set it in the seat beside him. You watched as he rose to his feet and dropped his phone within his pocket, gliding over to your desk with a small white card in hand.

You didn’t need to read the words there to know what he’d slid across your desk. It was an instantaneous understanding, the knowledge of a new opportunity, of a way out from beneath the weight of the man who wanted nothing more than to rule with an iron fist and remind others that they were all beneath him.

He glanced briefly down the hall to ensure no one was listening and leveled his gaze with yours, voice a quieted whisper as he said, “You work well under pressure. Carver is… well, Carver’s an ass. I can offer you more money, if you happen to be looking for another job. You could travel the world working for me instead of sitting behind this desk. Let me know.”

Standing before Steve, you feel the questions swirling of the validity of the hope he’d placed inside of you. Had it been premature? He’d only seen one encounter between your prior manager and yourself. That was hardly enough to base a whole career off of, and yet his fingers tighten around the door handle all the same, ready to pull it forward and open you up to a world of newness beckoning you.

Your sweaty palms slide down the sides of your tweed skirt, fabric rustling about your thighs as you step nearer to the door, hardening your resolve.

It’s now or never, you suppose.

“Remember,” Steve warns, just as you move to step inside the recording studio. “He means well. I should also warn that he can tend to be a little… flirtatious. But I would try and pay it no mind. You’re going to be great.”

The room inside is grandiose. Roof to floor wooden paneling shrouds everything in a honey warmth. There are a couple of couches near the far wall, one of which seemingly occupied, and a coffee table that sits in front of it. You catch the slow glug of a water dispenser in the distance, nearest to a coffee station in preparation of the long night that lies ahead of you all. To your right is an open closet, then further still a bathroom. The room itself is dim, lights adjusted for a cozier feel. Intimate and fitting for the tracks that are to be laid today.

The same room, previously full of echoing laughter and vibrant conversation, fizzles into deafening silence as Steve leads you into the room, calling out, “Guys, there’s someone I'd like you to meet!” The announcement has every eye in the room darting your way, faces drawn tight to get a sight of the newest visitor. Only you’re not a visitor, because one of these men is about to be your new client. Steve turns to you then, hand lightly brushing your shoulder to nudge you forward as he says, “This right here is the new assistant, Y/N.”

A round of introductory greetings reach your ears, your voice full of certainty as you return them. “It’s great to finally meet you all.” However, you’ve yet to capture the elusive image of your client, as two of the band members stand closely together, obscuring him from your direct field of view.

Steve continues, “This is Gareth Parsons, drummer of Corroded Coffin.”

The first of the group steps forward. His shaggy head of brown hair flops as he moves, reaching forward with an extended hand in greeting. The warmth of his palm fills the space within your own, squeezing lightly. You feel a little bit of that boiling tension dissipate, the weight on your chest at the notion of a room full of new people unintentionally judging you lightening.

His voice is kind, edged with humor as he says teasingly, “Nice to finally meet Eddie’s new babysitter.”

The next band member makes himself known. He has dark skin, dark hair and lovely brown eyes, full of a kindness that has your mind easing further. Those same comforting eyes flash quickly to his bandmate, a stern flicker of his warm gaze resting on Gareth’s, the latter of the two huffing from his nose.

“Behave,” Jeff warns, voice a low murmur that has Gareth resigning to his defeat. That warm hand releases from your own and he steps back enough into the fold of the remaining members to allow Jeff to step forward. “The name’s Jeff. I’m on rhythm guitar and synth. It’s so nice to meet you.” He flashes you a white smile, and you can’t help the grin that blooms across your features at his easy acceptance of your presence.

“Thank you,” you say, truly grateful that the first two introductions have thus far proceeded smoothly. “Both of you.”

Seemingly pleased with how things are processing, Steve clears his throat. “So that’s Jeff, who you’ve now met. And then you’ve got Harry, who would be the bassist of Corroded Coffin.”

Harry steps forward, his hulking frame shadowing your own, to shake your hand. You lock your hand within his and he opens his mouth to work over the words he’s going to say when a voice cuts through the silence.

“The name is Harry Cox. And if you’re nice to him, maybe he’ll show it to you.”

“Eddie, fuckin’ really?” Jeff asks brusquely, whirling around in the Eddie Munson’s direction.

You’re not sure what to expect as the men shift and separate, bodies moving one by one to reveal the figure that’s so far remained hidden from your view. In theory, you’ve seen pictures of him. One would have to be living under a rock to not have come across a photograph of Eddie Munson somewhere. The infamous photo of the men standing around you, dated back to when they were teenagers, boyish frames huddled together in the halls of their high school before they had skyrocketed to fame at a trajectory no one ever anticipated; the clippings from not so flattering headlines showing his swift rise and downfall, leaving him on thin ice; the photos documenting his hasty nuptials to his actress wife. However, none of those compare to the intimidating figure that commands the presence of everyone around him as your hesitant eyes clash with his beneath the dark shroud of his sunglasses.

Your eyes settle on the dark swath of ripped jeans over coltish limbs. Black material stretches tight over sinewy muscle, thighs splayed out in front of him, scuffed Doc Martens thrown carelessly against the cherry wood of the coffee table. Your eyes start the slow crawl upward, tracking along black shirt stretched over his broad chest, with an equally dark leather jacket hugging his biceps. His arms rest over the top of the couch, a confident sprawl of elongated limbs against plush cushions. His face is almost feline, predatory and intimidating, most of the upper portion of his face obscured by those aviator sunglasses. The parts you can see are striking: lengthy, wavy hair that falls to his shoulders, soft and feathery against the leather jacket; those long fingers adorned with silver rings pushed flush against knuckles, broad hands covered in intricate tattoos; the pale skin over high cheekbones, an indent on his cheek that hints at a dimple if he weren't looking your way in disdain; full lips, soft nose, and the slightest hint of shadow along his jaw.

The Eddie Munson portrayed in the tabloids Angela had showed you over the years pales in comparison to the man that sits before you. This man oozes presence— owns this sort of magnetism that pulls the attention onto him in the center of the room with the mere sound of his voice.

“And that would be Eddie Munson, lead singer and guitarist for Corroded Coffin,” Steve explains, the arresting presence of the man sitting on the couch in front of you rooting you in place.

Gareth coughs out a quiet, “Resident douche.”

Jeff shoots him another scathing look. It’s enough of a distraction to draw your attention away from your new client, uneasy laughter welling up from you. Your stare drifts momentarily to Steve, his warm smile easing your tension, hand unfurling in front of him. The gesture has you faltering, understanding his intent is for you to make a proper introduction.

You shuffle your way toward the man, disregarding the way he barely even acknowledges your presence within the room. He’s not once moved, back pressing further into the curve of couch cushions, eyes peering up over at you through the top of his sunglasses. Dark and depthless, an endless swirl of ink, devoid of any emotion that might give you insight into how he thinks this initial meeting is going. You hear it then in the vestiges of your mind. A soft howl, nearly imperceptible—the whisper of wind in the distance, echoing in your ears. A warning, an insinuation of something to come. Still, your hand stretches into the spaces between you, left to linger in the open air.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Munson.” Your voice remains firm— unwavering, despite the fact that he dismisses your hand.

Jeff scoffs from beside you, head shaking slightly as his foot comes to shove Eddie’s off of where they rest against the wooden surface. They hit the ground with a dull thud, though Eddie’s posture remains lax, facade unwavering. “She’s talking to you.”

Eddie remains silent for a time, those dark eyes sliding up over the top of his sunglasses, voice hollow as he mutters, “You can call me ‘Sir.’” It’s innocent enough until the corners of his lips tug into a salacious smirk, fingers moving to push his sunglasses further up onto the bridge of his nose, head tipping upward a bit so he’s now level with your unrelenting stare. You worked with Jason long enough to understand this game, the ploy to see if you’ll break at the first sight of tension, and you’re not falling into that trap now.

You take a step closer, hand hovering in air untouched, voice unyielding. “I’ll call you Mr. Munson, or Eddie. Take your pick.”

Gareth chuckles at your left, but your eyes remain focused on Eddie in your battle of stares. Him, veiled through darkened lenses, and you in your refusal to grant him the satisfaction of looking away for even one moment and admitting defeat. You hear that soft howling again, a quiet whir in your ears, just as Steve claps his hands and a new man enters from the recording room, voice slicing the strained silence. “This right here is Argyle. He’s the producer and sound engineer working on this project. Today, the guys will be laying down the tracks for their latest album, so you’ll be here to take care of anything Eddie might need in the interim.”

Your head turns, breath catching at the unexpected arms that loop around your shoulder, fingers reaching up to press against the hawaiian print on his shirt, those long strands of his dark hair smooth beneath your fingertips. He steps back to take you in, head bobbing animatedly as he says, “Nice to meet you, my dude—dudette. I’m the king of this music castle here. Can’t say I’ll be of much assistance, but if you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.” His greeting concluded, Argyle meanders back over to his seat again, contentedly rocking the swivel chair back and forth with his feet.

There’s a sudden creak of leather that draws your attention; Steve runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the waves as his gaze darts from you to Eddie, who’s now rising from the couch. Eddie cracks his neck to the side, finally pulling off the aviators and dropping them haphazardly to the coffee table, where they skitter before meeting the magazine stack beside you. You push the top one back into place with the tip of your finger.

“Call me if you need me,” your boss says, one broad hand landing on Argyle’s shoulder, crinkling the Hawaiian print. “Good luck,” he mutters, patting him twice before moving toward the studio door.

You aren’t sure who Steve had been wishing luck to, but since his parting words don’t seem to phase the producer, you figure they must have been meant for you.

The heavy door thumps closed after him, echoing through the silent room. You can feel almost everyone's eyes on you— the outlier, the new variable in this equation, the only one here who doesn't have a pre-existing role in the narrative. As your gaze darts from one man to another in the span of that brief silence, you see a variety of expressions: curiosity, pleasantness, neutrality. But only one expression truly matters, and of course, unfortunately, it’s the expression of the only man whose gaze is averted as if reluctant to acknowledge you.

You take a moment to study your client now that you can clearly see his face, and what you see does not fill you with confidence. Eddie Munson's eyes are large and brown and framed by long, soft lashes, but there is only hardness in his dark stare. The crinkled lines at their corners would be charming, but they're wrinkled in a critical squint, not with a smile. Instead, though his lips are plush and pink, they're twisted in a faint sneer as he gazes at the plexiglass of the recording room, decidedly away from you.

He means well, Steve had said. But you can't help but think that this man doesn't look like he means anything but ill will towards you, his new assistant. Despite the welcome from others around you, it's making those new-job jitters deepen.

In the middle of your examination, those dark eyes—very suddenly and unexpectedly— flick to yours.

It's an impact you couldn't have braced for. Instantly, a rush of prickling heat crawls up your spine as if Eddie is looking through you, past skin and bone and muscle, straight to your very center. It’s a look that pins you down, flays you open, leaving you entirely exposed in its disapproval.

Blessedly, because of the time you'd worked with Jason Carver, you have perfected your customer service poker face. There is no outward appearance of your inward reaction, aside from the dampening of your palms; smoothly, you run them down textured tweed in the guise of fixing wrinkles before clearing your throat lightly.

It does the trick. The room, which had been suspended in silence following Steve's departure, suddenly stirs as Argyle spins in the chair to face you all fully, folding his hands over his belly. “Well, all right, brochachos,” he says, nodding slowly, his long curtain of black hair swaying as he does. “You ready to record some shit?”

"Fuck yeah, dude," Gareth answers immediately, pushing up from his knees, an enthusiastic smirk splitting his face as he leads the way to the recording room. Harry follows next, his hulking form shuffling from behind the coffee table. He pauses before reaching you as if he's afraid to enter your space; you shift quickly, moving closer to the coffee table to make more room as he fits himself around you.

"'Scuse me," he mumbles, and the gentle baritone of his voice coupled with the tiny tinge of pink on his cheeks makes you smile.

"No, I'm sorry," you're quick to assure him, "I was in the way."

He smiles shyly back as he passes by you, pausing by the recording room door to let Jeff enter first.

Distracted as you were by the exchange, you’re hit with a tiny spike of panic when you realize Eddie has begun to follow them, seemingly with no intention to address you again. It would leave you adrift with no direction— no inkling at all of what you can do to assist him, especially as Argyle already said he won't be much help— and that makes you act hastily. Impulsively.

Your body tilts forward, jerking after him, and your hand flutters out of its own accord, stopping just shy from making contact with his jacketed elbow. Eddie stops abruptly as his eyes dart to you; he squints as his gaze flicks down to your outstretched fingers. Your cheeks heat as you feel almost chastised, but you don’t let your embarrassment show. Instead, you let your hand drop, looking evenly into his dark brown eyes as you ask, “How can I best assist you right now, Mr. Munson? Is there anything in particular you'd like me to do?”

His stare sharpens, plush lips curving in the whisper of a smirk. “You a fan, sweetheart?” He asks, voice gritty with smoke and a quiet smugness as if he already knows the answer.

You keep Steve’s words in your mind, his warning about Eddie’s potential flirtatiousness. The shift— from thinly-veiled disdain to this— is jarring, but you figure it's probably meant to throw you off. “Of you or of Corroded Coffin?” you ask, expression carefully schooled to neutrality. Eddie's smirk tightens at the corners, grows a little more defined, but you continue before he can respond. “If I’m honest,” you tell him, “I’m not really well-acquainted with your music.”

His brows jerk, and when his eyes scan down your body before returning to yours, they’re narrowed again. “Let me guess. You’re a TLC girl? A little Backstreet Boys groupie?”

There’s a heavy shade of judgment in his voice that tells you he isn’t really interested in learning the answer, only in confirming for himself that your musical taste leaves much to be desired. You can't deny that the implication rankles you. You bristle at the thought that he presumes to know you when you've only just met, that he considers you lacking before you've given any reason for him to. The injustice of it makes you rush hot again, but not with nerves— with irritation.

Still, you maintain that mask of professionalism. You don’t let it show. “No,” you reply evenly, meeting his gaze dead-on, unhesitant and unashamed to share your preferences. “More like Smashing Pumpkins. Hole, too.” You ignore how his expression suddenly glints with salaciousness. “Though I do also appreciate harder stuff. Like Alice in Chains, for example,” you add, following it up with a small, polite smile. And it's true— you do appreciate some metal, despite it not being your go-to. It's not as though you don't like Corroded Coffin's music on principle.

But this answer doesn’t seem to excite him. Instead, Eddie’s sharp gaze dulls slightly as you refuse to play into his game. “Right,” he says, expression easing for the first time. “Well then, I do have something you can do for me, sweetheart.”

Pet name aside, it's the most pleasant he's sounded so far, and you brighten, having expected him to put up more resistance. Maybe all you needed to do was show that you were truly here to help him.

"Okay," you say, face expectant as you await his instruction.

Eddie’s lips twitch up into a tiny, crooked smile. “You see that door over there?” He flicks his finger lazily toward one of two narrow doors on the far wall, set into the wood paneling. You nod obediently, and he leans in, eyes wide and brows tugged up, pitching his voice low and soft like he’s coaching you through something secretive. “Well, inside, there’s a box. A box of all our recordings. Yeah?”

He waits until you nod again, a little more hesitantly this time. “What you can do for me is go in that box and listen to everything inside. Every album, every EP, every demo. Even the shitty garage recordings. Even the b-sides.” He pauses, tipping his chin down. And though he doesn't raise his voice, its softness sharpens to granite. “Because I’ll be goddamned if my personal assistant doesn’t even know my music.”

Your face was too eager for him not to notice the way it falls, and Eddie straightens, putting distance between you as he stuffs his hands in his back pockets, elbows jutting in satisfaction. That ghost of a smirk returns as he pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, raising his chin and leveling you with one last look through his long, feathered lashes before he turns away.

His clear dismissal sinks into your chest, and you huff lightly through your nose, rushing with disappointment. Almost as if he can sense the crack in you, he whips back around abruptly; it startles you, and your spine straightens as you jerk to attention. “When we’re done recording, there’ll be a quiz,” he says, and the sharp smile on his face becomes a threat.

You can't help it— a bit of nervousness leaks through your expression then. That seems to finally please him, and Eddie releases you from his dark gaze as he, at last, joins his bandmates in the recording room. The sound of instruments tuning surges before the glass door thumps closed behind him, muffling to silence again.

Now left alone with your task assigned, you turn toward Argyle a little helplessly. He’s gazing at you with an absent smile on his face, still in the same position with his hands folded on his belly, seeming entirely unphased by the contentiousness of your new client. You exhale a quick breath, using it as a reset before asking him, “Can I get a pair of headphones and a Walkman or something?"

"Certainly, my little dudette." He points toward the same door Eddie had indicated. “There’s bound to be some somewhere in that closet.”

Lovely. You nod slowly, flashing a quick smile through pursed lips. “Thank you,” you say before turning and making your way over to help yourself.

The interior of the closet is lit by a single dangling lightbulb, and despite the polished fixings and thorough decor of the recording studio itself, this room is bare-bones in its furnishings. Metal shelving crowds the narrow walls, and the floor is plain poured concrete, barren compared to the plush rug in the lounge area. Your heels clack hollowly as you edge tentatively into the space, avoiding loose cords until you’re standing in the center of the tiny room, directly under the lightbulb. Your hands plant on your hips as you survey your surroundings: shelves and shelves of identical cardboard boxes, all unlabeled aside from an occasional errant number or acronym that means nothing to you, some stacked three high.

Of course.

It takes a good half an hour to finally uncover the correct box. Thankfully, though the labels on the outside are useless, the contents within are masking-taped with far more descriptive labels, written in a messy but still legible scrawl. When you open the box, seeing ‘CC’ on the top CD case feels promising, and a little shuffling reveals some hand-drawn album artwork complete with a coffin and bats that can't be for anyone other than Corroded Coffin. With the correct box secured, you pick your way back to the closet door, setting it down to begin your search for a Walkman, some headphones, and a tape player, since you’d seen a couple of loose cassettes in there, too.

You’re nothing if not thorough. No one can ever accuse you of not doing your job.

When you re-emerge from the closet, the recording room behind the plexiglass is not peaceful like you’d left it. It looks like a television set put on mute as you see Gareth’s hair whipping, Jeff’s shoulders swaying, Harry’s nose scrunched in a concentrated grimace, and Eddie’s lips hugging the mic, pink crawling up the base of his neck, its cords stretched tight with effort. You avert your eyes to Argyle, whose long straight curtain of ink-black hair sways with each bob of his head, his ears enveloped by an oversized pair of fancy headphones. Everyone seems to be moving in time with one another, rocking to a rhythm you can’t hear, and the utter silence in the room combined with those frenetic movements strikes you as comical as you carry your box and its contents over to the smaller couch, placing it on the cushion beside you.

As instructed, you dig out each CD and cassette, organizing them methodically in chronological order and choosing to begin with the oldest one. The faded marker on the front tells you it’s from 1986, and the marker’s haphazard scrawl matches the scrawl of sound that blares from the tape deck when you slip the headphones over your ears and depress the play button. The sound is tinny, echo-y as if it’d been recorded in someone’s garage. And you suppose it probably was. Judging by the year, you figure they were probably still in high school or not far from it when they recorded this.

The Corroded Coffin of 1986 is not particularly remarkable. The kick drum holding the beat isn’t quite precise enough, and the bass is somewhat sloppy. Not every transition is tight; sometimes a beat that should be synchronized is just a split second too soon or late, whether guitar-strum or cymbal-strike. But there’s an unmistakable energy to the sound— a fervor, an insistence that demands you pay attention. You can feel that pouring-out of teenage aggression through the growls and licks and chugging of the guitars, through the lyrics sung in that voice that, though it sounds higher and less smoky than the voice you’d heard from your client today, is still unmistakable Eddie. Corroded Coffin has something to say, and you can’t help but listen.

Your gaze drifts up to the plexiglass of the recording room. Your eyes see them as men, but your ears hear them as boys. And you can almost picture them in that garage, surrounded by brightly-striped lawn chairs and deflated pool floaties, youthful bodies jerking and swaying with no less enthusiasm than what you see before you now. When you think about it, it’s kind of touching to imagine them as young boys with nothing but a dream. Clearly, it took years of effort to become what they are now. You watch Eddie’s long-lashed eyes scrunch closed and his dark curls cling to the sides of his jaw with sweat, and a sense of wistfulness wells up inside you as you think of your client as that boy in the garage, a boy who didn’t know what he’d eventually make of himself.

You’ve only heard three songs before the play button pops up, signaling the end of the tape. Quickly, you move to the next two— more garage recordings, all short and sounding similar— before you’ve exhausted the cassettes and are ready to begin on the CDs. The first is marked as a demo from 1988, so you know it’ll likely be longer than what you’ve listened to thus far. You slip it into the player, settling back against the cushions as you begin, eyes wandering over the wood-paneled walls as you imagine Corroded Coffin recording it right here seven years ago.

It begins with the ticking of cymbals, the clatter of the snare, and the whine of a guitar. Much more polished than the garage recordings but so unmistakably eighties in its sound that you can’t help but feel your lips curl up in a little deprecating grin. Still, your foot bobs along, and you end up listening to half of it before your curiosity for more overwhelms you. You switch to their debut studio album, which is what that demo eventually became, and that same song— now track begins the same way— the ticking of cymbals mixed with a snare’s clatter, but you recognize the difference immediately.

This— this— is Corroded Coffin.

Eddie’s voice is grittier and deeper, and the band is tighter, and the addition of those grinding metallic sounds and the electronic synth parts, which have clearly evolved past that stereotypical pop-eighties style, create something truly special. You’d been truthful before when you told Eddie that you hadn’t listened to much of his music, but now that you are, you find it genuinely enjoyable.

Time passes. Argyle’s head bobs, the guys grow sweatier, and your foot steadily bobs until Pretty Hate Machine concludes. And you should move on to the next EP, but you instead find yourself skipping back, back, back until the disc whirls in a blur of muted blue and pink and the first track starts again. You close your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in it until a muffled commotion of voices and thumps rouses you. It’s the guys exiting the recording room, chests heaving, shirts tacky against their chests, looking tired but pleased as they converge on Argyle in a tight circle. You watch their faces light up with smiles and eager chatter, smiling yourself as they seem all of a sudden more boyish for it. Even Eddie, whose visage was once marred with disdain for you, is grinning toothily; as the joy turns his dark eyes amber, you feel a tiny pang low in your stomach at the sight.

Nuh-uh. None of that.

It fades quickly under your quick dismissal, smothered by a reminder of the pride you take in your professionalism. He’s objectively attractive, sure. But he’s still your client, and nothing would change that.

Before long, the group around Argyle disperses. Gareth and Jeff wander towards the couches while Harry stops at the water cooler, gulping down two fills of the plastic cup dwarfed by his meaty hands. You quickly move the cardboard box beside you to the floor and pull the headphones from your ears as you watch Eddie divert from the path, heading back into the recording room without his bandmates.

“What’s he doing?” you ask Gareth as he flops down, sagging against the arm of the large couch across from you. He shakes his damp bangs out of his eyes, flicking sweat that narrowly misses you before he replies.

“He’s laying down the rest of the synth parts for the most recent track. We have to record it separately.” His lips tilt in a grin as he adds playfully, “Ed might be talented, but even he can’t sing and strum and play keys at the same time.”

You find your interest piqued as Eddie folds himself onto the bench behind the keyboard. “He doesn’t need a break?” You watch as he stretches his back with a grimace before shaking out his hands, ruddy fingers turning to a blur.

Jeff just huffs out of his nose, drawing your gaze. His dark skin is shiny with the evidence of his exertion. “Oh, he needs a break,” he says, exasperated though his eyes are fond. “He just won’t take one.”

“Yep,” Gareth adds, “He’s a stubborn bastard. Won’t stop ‘til it’s done.” Gareth and Jeff each accept a tiny plastic cup from Harry gratefully, and you shuffle closer to the couche’s arm to make room for him next to you. You tilt toward him as he sinks down carefully beside you, but it doesn’t draw your eyes. They’re stuck on Eddie, on the look on his face as he nods at Argyle: focused, as if his fatigue is nothing to him but an insect to be flicked away. Argyle nods back, tapping a button on the complex board of switches and sliders in front of him. As Eddie’s head begins to bob, you realize what they just recorded must be playing in that plexiglass box, silenced from your ears.

Before you can overthink it, you rise from the couch, the muffled thumps of your heels shifting from thick, plush rug to clack against wood. As you come up next to Argyle, he remains gazing evenly ahead, eyes never wavering as his head bobs in time with Eddie’s. You’re considering whether or not to interrupt him when, without looking at you, he asks mildly, “What can I do for you, brochacha?”

“Are you able to play it out loud?”

Argyle glances at you then. “Alright,” he drawls, stretching out the word as if impressed. “You wanna hear the bitchin’ beats? Certainly.”

And with the push of a button, the once-silent studio fills with sound.

It’s a perfect marriage of grit and polish, evoking both the garage recordings and their first album in the best way. The distortion on the vocals makes Eddie’s voice sound even more imposing than it was in person when you first met him, and you watch his shoulders rock, brow scrunched tight. “This world rejects me. This world threw me away. This world never gave me a chance; this world’s gonna have to pay.” Eddie’s voice projects over the speakers, though his plush lips are motionless now. With such ease you almost don’t notice them, his fingers begin to dance over the keys, adding a subtle electronic melody beneath the drums and grating synth.

You can feel the tension of the song— the building of something carnal, something furious brewing beneath the surface, threatening to whip your hair back from your cheeks. Its energy builds and builds as Eddie’s voice goes almost breathy underneath the effects, singing, “Something inside of me. It screams the loudest sound. Sometimes I think I could…”

You sense it’s coming, and yet you’re not prepared for it when Eddie’s voice becomes practically a howl: “I’m gonna burn this whole world down!”

The guitars, the drums, the bass and synth— they all explode out in a whirlwind of thrashing sound and driving noise as Eddie’s body rocks, fingertips turning white as he forces sound from the keys. His teeth are grit, his face is pouring sweat, and the sight of it speaks to one thing: determination.

You can’t help but admire that.

You don’t even notice that your head’s been bobbing along to the beat until it ceases, and as you grow still, it whips to the guys at the couch. This song is better than almost all their others. If the rest of the album is like this… Your eyes sparkle with the force of your excitement as you beam at them, and in their pleased smiles and behind their eyes, you can see it: pride and confidence, knowledge that this album they’re creating is going to become something big.

That feeling is effusive, bubbling in your blood as the door to the recording room opens and Eddie emerges. His curly bangs are plastered to his forehead, his eyes are ringed by dark circles and his lips sag in fatigue. Yet despite it, from within, he’s positively glowing.

Caught up in the moment, all you can do is blurt, “Holy shit.” You blink dazedly at Eddie for a moment as his face goes slack, and then he tosses his head back and laughs.

Eddie’s laugh is husky and wild, unrestrained in his amusement. Utterly unfiltered. He laughs as if you’ve told the funniest joke he’s ever heard, and it’s then you realize this is your first day on the job, and you’ve just cursed in front of your client.

Your face fills with heat, cheeks burning as you stutter, “Mr. Munson, I’m so sorry, that was entirely inappropriate—”

Eddie snorts, waving you off, looking not only unbothered but positively tickled that you’d cursed in front of him. To give yourself a moment to recover, you spin, clacking toward the water cooler to fill up one of those little plastic cups like you’d seen Harry doing earlier. You stammer past your indiscretion, and as you focus on expressing yourself, you feel the burn in your cheeks begin to recede. “I shouldn’t have forgotten myself like that. But that song was just… I mean, seriously. It was like… like a return to your roots or something, but not just that.” You pass him the cup carefully, falling back onto your hip as you cross your arms and your eyes dart to the ceiling. You’re trying to put it into words, and you feel frustrated that you’re struggling to. “Okay. It sounded like those early garage recordings where everything was just raw. It’s gritty and angry and cathartic. But it also feels so… new. Like compared to your last album, but also compared to what other bands are doing right now. You know?”

It doesn’t seem entirely adequate, but that’s all you’ve got— all you can do to express that almost intangible quality that you felt but can’t describe. You finally let your chin drop to meet Eddie’s eyes and are surprised to see them no longer dark and shuttered or squinty with mirth. Eddie’s eyes are wide and bright, amber like sun shining through whiskey as they stare unwaveringly into yours.

"Yeah, you picked up on that?” For once, there isn’t a sharp edge to his voice; in fact, he sounds almost pleased. “With this album we're experimenting with something a little different, really trying to focus on the textures and moods. Trying to find ways to create sound that’s not music. Not in a traditional sense, at least.”

You nod eagerly, caught up by the enthusiasm in his voice. “Yeah! That’s it. I don’t listen to metal much, but it just doesn’t sound like what you typically hear nowadays.”

Eddie crosses his arms, holding his elbows as his tongue plays against the inside of his cheek. “You’re right,” he concedes, so easily that it comes as a surprise. “In a way, we are going back to our roots; all the way back to being the freaks who don’t want to be packaged up in some neat box. Especially seeing where this industry is going. Like, I’m watching bands that got me through the hellscape of high school crumbling and folding to the pressure. I mean, fuck.” A whip of sweat-damp curls as he shakes his head, his gaze heating with molten passion, pinning you so intently that you couldn’t look away if you tried. “Do you realize the irony of a genre that prides itself on being anti-establishment becoming part of the establishment?”

“Fuckin’ bullshit, man,” Gareth pipes up from the couch, and Eddie’s arm flies out, an eager finger shaking in his direction as his eyes go wide and almost wild.

“Fuck-ing bullshit,” Eddie enunciates, and as his voice roughens, he almost seems to puff up with the strength of his ranting. “Look, I do get it. They’re not the first to end up caught in the wheel; happens before you even realize it. But you know what you’re left with at the end of the day? Jack fucking squat. And we’re just as angry and powerless as we were as kids.” He jams two ruddy fingertips against his open palm, brows raised in emphasis as if willing you to understand. “This— this music was our escape back then. And it’s going to be our escape now. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone says about it.”

He’s nearly craning over you now, breath hot as it puffs against your face, face drawn tight with his fervor. But you aren’t afraid. Because though he’s nearly yelling, Eddie’s ire isn’t directed at you. Your expression doesn’t harden up or crumble under the weight of his passion; instead, you accept it, letting it whip against you without faltering.

Your steadfastness seems to temper him as the tension in his face eases slightly, though he doesn’t back away. More quietly, he says, “All they want is the next sound-bite, the next commercial success. Sorry, Arg,” he throws a glance toward his producer, “but I honestly don’t give a shit whether there’s even one song on this album that would be a successful single. It’s not meant to be consumed that way— picked apart like fuckin’ buzzards on a corpse.”

Eddie’s amber eyes hold you as he breathes, “This album is raw. It’s ugly, and it’s personal—”

His words choke in his throat, and for a moment, there’s something tentative connecting you, drawn thin between your gazes. Something fragile but nearly tangible, like the foam of the sea that bubbles against sand but melts to nothing if you reach for it.

But then Eddie blinks, and the connection is severed as he seems to realize he’s talking to you: his personal assistant.

His glorified babysitter.

All at once, the passion is gone. He flattens, taking a step back. And there is no preamble to the sudden switch in his demeanor as he demands, “Where’s our dinner?”

the next chapter will be released on @abibliophobiaa's blog!

🌿bluey's masterlist | 🌙luna's masterlist | 💌myo's masterlist

#blueywrites #i will wait #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #rockstar eddie munson #eddie munson rockstar au #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x fem!reader #corroded coffin #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson smut #eddie munson soulmate au #eddie munson fake marriage #myos ideas

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therhythmafterthesummer · 1 year

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Herbie (M) ~Bang Chan | 02

Pairing: Mechanic!Chan x F.Reader Themes: Smut | Fluff | Friends to Lovers (kind of) Word Count: ~5k | AO3 Synopsis: As it turned out, your hot mechanic friend also had a crush on you. After rocking your world in his repair shop’s office, you wake up the next day on his bed in his clothes, ready to spend a lazy morning together. [This is a second and final part to Herbie]. Warnings: curvy/chubby reader · pet names · this is like super domestic · graphic depictions of intercourse (smut warnings under the cut).

Due to all the abovementioned warnings, this story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors please do not interact.

Author’s Note: does it count as friends to lovers if they already fucked and were planning to go on a date???? i honestly don’t know lol. but anyway, i felt like writing the morning after the events of Herbie, so here we are ! i think i’ve gotten all the wiggles out with this one, so for now i hope this remains as a two shot~

Smut Warnings: oral [F.Rec] · nipple play · protected penetration (piv) · honestly there’s hardly anything to warn about this is all so soft

Disclaimer: the story represented in this work does not represent Stray Kids in any way; anything described in this story and all actions performed by the characters are purely fictional, this was created just for good fun.

You could feel movement all around, you could hear movement all around. The gentle rustle of fabric, soft tapping sounds on the tiles, the flow of water… You weren’t really sure if you were fully awake and actually noticing these things, or if you were still dreaming. All you knew for sure was that the pillow under your head, the one between your thighs, and the duvet over your frame were incredibly soft and comfortable.

After a long while, you felt movement again, and then you felt warmth.

The gentle feeling of plush lips on your forehead brought your senses back to the land of the living, and, in a second, you remembered. Herbie had died on you, Chris had saved you once again, he’d made you feel loved and wanted and cared for in just a few hours, he’d brought you to his place and talked with you until you both were too tired to keep your eyes open, he’d given you one of his t-shirts to wear to bed, and right now, he’d just kissed your forehead and he was pulling away.

“Where you going…?” You mumbled, blindly reaching for him.

Chris chuckled, leaning in and pressing a kiss on your cheek. “I have to walk Wolfgang. I’ll be back in no time, you continue sleeping. Hm?”

A pout made its way onto your lips, but you hummed in agreement anyway, because there was no way you’d stop him from taking Wolfgang on a walk. Wolfgang deserved all the walks.

With one more kiss to your forehead and a ‘be right back, beautiful’, Chris left the room, and after a few minutes you heard the front door open and close behind him. You changed positions, laying on your other side–taking special care to move the pillow between your legs with you, because there was nothing more comfortable when you had big thighs than having a pillow between your legs when you laid on your side.

As you laid there, only half awake, your brain started recounting the events of the night. You’d been at Chris’ place a couple of times throughout the past handful of months, but never this late, and never this long. You’d always been comfortable with him, but yesterday, sitting face to face on his sofa, with Wolfgang napping on the floor right by your feet was just something else.

It was nice to be able to talk so freely with him, even more than you were already doing before. The topics ranged from what you were going to do with Herbie, to commenting on whichever show you both had been watching these days, and even to heartfelt confessions.

‘Always knew I was attracted to you, but I’m gonna be fully honest, the moment you kept talking to me after our two hour video call where all I did was ramble about Pokémon, I knew there was no going back for me’, Chris had told you, and you had simply laughed, telling him how oddly specific that was, to which he also laughed and offered a ‘you’re laughing, but I’ve seriously had people ghost me after something like that. Some just don’t get it!’

You clearly fell asleep again, because the next thing you registered was Chris slinging an arm over your waist and pulling you back to his chest. You vaguely registered the ‘welcome back, baby’ that came out of your mouth, just like you vaguely registered Chris’ lips on your neck, pressing soft kisses on your skin while he mumbled a ‘thank you, pretty’.

You laid there in Chris’ arms for a while, until he started to snore and you started to feel like you really needed to go to the bathroom. Chris was holding on tight to you, so you had a bit of difficulty pulling yourself away from his embrace. He seemed to barely even register it, his snoring remained steady as you walked past a sleeping Wolfgang, out of the room, and into the bathroom.

After relieving yourself and splashing a bit of water on your face, you cringed a bit at the fact that you couldn’t apply your moisturiser, but as you looked at the brand new toothbrush Chris had given you last night, sitting right next to his in a cup on the sink, you figured it was a small price to pay for being here. You looked at yourself in the mirror, admittedly smiling a bit like a fool as you remembered the events of the night again. Sigh, I’m down bad, bad, huh? was all you could think while a small giggle passed your lips.

With a fresh face, an empty bladder, and a minty mouth, you finally made your way back to Chris’ room, yawning and stretching a bit before you finally tucked yourself back under the covers to find a pouty Chris looking at you with only one eye open. You just smiled at him and gave him a quick peck before you snuggled closer, tucking your head under his chin.

Chris hummed, bringing an arm under your neck to curl around your shoulders, just as he took a hold of your thigh to hoist it over his hip and push a leg between yours, essentially tangling your limbs together so you could be as close as possible. Even if it was just a simple gesture, your heart was racing, feeling just so incredibly full.

“Would it scare you off if I told you I like waking up with you on my bed?” Chris mumbled against your hair, leisurely dragging his hand up and down your bare thigh as he spoke.

“It takes a lot to scare me off”, you chuckled, giving in to the urge of attaching your lips to his collarbone. How could you not kiss him there when he was shirtless and his skin looked just so incredibly kissable? And even more so when the gentle morning light filtering through the drapes was enough for you to see his skin flush with each peck of your lips.

After a few moments of you just kissing Chris’ collarbones, his chest, his neck, you felt the warmth of his hand leave your thigh, only to appear again on your chin. He tilted your head up a bit to get you to look at him. There was such a sincere smile on his lips, you just weren’t sure where to focus, on that smile, on his brown eyes, or on the barely perceptible freckles under them. You just couldn’t help the heat that spread over your face at the sight.

“You’re so incredibly beautiful, you know?” Chris leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And cute”, another one on your cheek bone. “Pretty”, and another on the tip of your nose.

Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach, just with his words and his gentle kisses you could feel minute shivers running up and down your spine and the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. Before you could even say anything, Chris was kissing you, slowly, tenderly savouring you. He returned his hand to your thigh, squeezing all the way up, holding you tight against him as he finally reached your bum to sneak his fingers under your underwear so he could grab a proper handful, eliciting the tiniest moan to fly past your lips and get lost in his mouth.

You brought your hands to his head to card your fingers through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp as you went, and, with a groan, Chris moved, gently pushing you onto your back as he laid on top of you, not stopping the movements of his lips against yours for a second.

With a hand still tangled in his hair, barely pulling the strands, and the other roaming his back, you just let yourself enjoy the feel of him pressed against you. His warm skin under your hands, his weight on you, his lips on you, there was honestly nothing else on your mind other than Chris and his warmth.

Finally detaching himself from your mouth, Chris trailed kisses all the way to your neck, where he settled to suck and nibble on your skin, making you squirm and whine softly. One of his fingers twisted on the side of your underwear as he continued his motions on your neck, seemingly in no hurry to take the garment off at all, almost like he was doing it just to keep his fingers busy, or even to tease you a bit–if that were the case, it was certainly working.

Trailing all the way back up your throat, his mouth found yours again, and he kissed you deeply, pushing his tongue inside your mouth as soon as you parted your lips for him. He was wearing only his boxers, so you could feel him already hard against you. That, coupled with his kisses, with his hold on you, had wetness pooling at your core, all combined had lewd noises escaping your mouth.

When Chris finally untwisted his fingers from your underwear, he propped himself on one elbow for leverage, moving his hand up from where it’d been pressed against your hip, slowly dragging it all the way up to your ribs, bringing the hem of the tee you were wearing with it, encouraging goosebumps to raise on your skin with the soft movement.

“Mind if I take this off?” Chris mumbled against your lips, pressing a brief kiss on your lips for good measure.

You just shook your head, giving him the go-ahead. If he didn’t get you naked now you were sure you’d combust, you never thought you’d ever needed anyone in your life quite like you were needing Chris at this very moment.

Chris shuffled a bit, moving to kneel between your legs just as he took a hold of the hem of your t-shirt, carefully pulling it over your head, leaving you in nothing but your knickers.

“Fuck…” You could see his eyes jump all over you, taking in the sight of your bare chest, and it occurred to you then that he hadn’t seen your full naked body last night. He might’ve ravished your cunt like a starved man, but that didn’t seem to stop him from blushing at the sight of your bare breasts. “Look at these…”

Cupping your tits, Chris squeezed them gently, kneaded them, just overall felt them in his hands, warming you up, and you couldn’t help but flush.

“Thought you were an ass guy”.

Chris’ eyes snapped back up to yours, and he laughed, but the movement of his hands didn’t stop. “Baby, I’m an everything guy. Fuck, wish I had more hands. Wanna touch you everywhere”.

His comment made you laugh, too, but the sound quickly caught in your throat as soon as his thumbs dragged over your nipples.

He did it again, with a bit more pressure this time. The action had heat creeping on your face, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip to contain the obscene sounds that were threatening to come out of your mouth. Chris, on the other hand, looked absolutely delighted.

“You’re sensitive here, too, huh?” He had a smirk plastered on his face, and whichever thought that was crossing your mind completely flew out the window the second he started to roll your nipples between his fingers, applying the tiniest bit of pressure, just enough to make you close your eyes and your thighs twitch. “Don’t hold back, gorgeous. Let me hear those pretty noises I know you can make. Hm?”

You didn’t think you could flush any further, but here you were, feeling heat everywhere. On your face, your neck, between your legs… And the feeling seemed to intensify the further he worked your chest, the further you let quiet noises slip out of your lips as you barely held his gaze.

“Chris?”

“Hm?”

“Want… Want your mouth”.

As soon as you said the words, Chris dived, gently sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. You simply moaned, threading your fingers through his hair once again to further push him against your chest. With his mouth on one nipple and his fingers on the other, his motions had sparks of pleasure coursing through your body, shooting straight to your now aching core.

Chris focused on your chest for a while, shifting his mouth from one nipple to the other occasionally to provide equal attention, mumbling mindless words of praise in between, ‘gorgeous tits… So soft here, huh…? Wanna kiss you all over…’ effectively driving you up the wall. You yourself could hear the desperation in your voice whenever you moaned or whined or whimpered under his tongue, and it was right when you were close to begging for more that he finally detached his mouth from your chest entirely, swearing under his breath.

In one swift movement he’d yanked your underwear off, pushed your legs apart, and found his way between your thighs, attaching his mouth to your clit and sucking on it. The movement was so sudden you just couldn’t contain your sounds of delight, what started as a moan ended as an incredulous laugh that Chris matched immediately, the rumble of his laugh enhancing the tingles of pleasure that extended to all your limbs. He removed his mouth from your heat only long enough to shift his weight so he could lay comfortably on his stomach, take a hold of the back of your thighs, and push them towards your chest to get better access to your centre.

As soon as his mouth resumed its motions between your legs you sighed, melting completely under the gentle nudges of his tongue.

After bringing one of your thighs over his shoulder, Chris blindly reached for your hand. As soon as he found his target, he took a hold of your hand and brought it to his head, and you couldn’t help but chuckle softly as you dragged your fingertips over his scalp.

“So you… Like it when I play with your hair?”

Chris just hummed in response, with a hint of a smile in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, sucking a tad bit harder on your clit to make his point. You just laughed, not because it was particularly funny, but because it was the only way your body knew how to express the feelings coursing through you right now. And when you tugged on his hair, he just buried himself deeper, closing his eyes and humming once again, a sound of unadulterated satisfaction that had fire burning deep inside of you.

He was moving just so leisurely, like he had all the time in the world to be just here, right between your legs, a complete contrast to how borderline desperate he’d been last night. Every time he opened his eyes and looked at you, you could barely even hold his gaze, the slow but precise licks and sucks and kisses had your head swimming, had you quietly moaning and whimpering as you got lost in the stars twinkling in his eyes.

Much like yesterday, he looked at you with want, need, hunger, but in a different way. A softer, gentler way that somehow also had your toes curling, had you throwing your head back in glee, and had your heart growing ten sizes in your chest.

Detaching his lips from you briefly, Chris got a finger in his mouth, thoroughly coating it in his saliva to then bring it to your entrance, pushing it in to lightly massage your sweet spot as the hand he had on the thigh over his shoulder kept squeezing your flesh.

You could feel your legs start to tremble as he added more fingers, as he increased his speed, stuffing you full of three of his digits while his hand moved up your thigh to rest on your lower belly, kneading and gripping the soft skin in tandem with his mouth on your clit and his fingers in your cunt, and you honestly were starting to think you’d died and gone to heaven.

You genuinely weren’t sure how long Chris spent working you up, touching you, kissing you, fucking you open with his fingers, kneading your soft flesh with his hand. It could’ve been seconds, minutes, or even hours, but neither of you seemed to mind or care at all; all you cared about was the feel of him between your legs, the smell of his shampoo on the pillow below your head, his hair between your fingers, and how incredibly close he was getting you to your impending release.

Nothing had ever tasted sweeter than Chris’ name on your tongue once he finally pushed you over the edge, nothing had ever felt as satisfying as the way he softly sucked and licked at your clit to drag the very last wave of pleasure he could out of you. Your body slumped when you started to come down from your high, and your legs twitched a bit when he placed one final kiss on your clit and removed his fingers from your still sensitive walls.

Chris kissed his way up your body, lightly sucking on your skin as he went until his mouth found yours, leaving you breathless with the passion of his kiss and the slow grind of his hips against your core, surely getting his underwear drenched in your juices as he continuously dragged the outline of his erection over your folds. He didn’t seem to mind or care at all, in fact, he seemed to be just completely lost in the feel of you under him, in the feel of your tongue against his own, and the feel of your fingers gently running down his back.

“Baby…” You mumbled, resting one of your hands on his shoulder and the other on his round bottom. “Baby, need to breathe”.

Chris chuckled, pulling his mouth from yours to repeatedly kiss your cheeks, finally stopping the movement of his hips between your legs, but keeping himself flush to your body. “Sorry”.

“No, you’re not”, you laughed, still slightly breathless, but you hugged him tight anyway.

“No, I’m not”, Chris gave you a cheeky smile, looking absolutely pleased with himself, and, honestly, while you still felt pleasure coursing through your body from your orgasm, you just couldn’t find it in you to pretend to be mad at him.

Pulling himself off of you fully to give you a breather, Chris got rid of his underwear, and you propped yourself on your elbows to just look at him in all his glory, broad, strong, naked…

“You’re unfairly handsome, you now?”

Chris giggled, a pink tint coloured his cheeks, and he shook his head side to side while he found his way between your legs once again, kneeling on the bed, sitting back on his heels and looking down at you with an incredibly fascinating mix of endearment and lust swimming in his eyes. Scooting as close to you as he could, he placed a hand on your thigh just as he brought the other close to his mouth to spit on it. After spreading his saliva all over his shaft, he finally closed his fist around his length to leisurely stroke himself.

“I wholeheartedly believe you’re the pretty one in this relationship”.

A teasing smile spread on your face, and you quirked a brow at him, ignoring any possible self-deprecating comment your brain immediately came up with at that moment, choosing instead to focus on holding back the laugh that was threatening to come out of your mouth. “Oh? So we’re in a relationship?”

“If you want to be”, Chris tightened his hold on your thigh, but kept the movement of the hand working his cock the same slow, steady pace.

“Do you?”

“I do”, Chris answered in a heartbeat, giving you a genuine smile, an adorable smile that made his eyes disappear and his dimples show on his cheeks, and you were sure your heart was about to burst out of your chest.

You replied confidently anyway, because if there was one thing that Chris made you feel was confident, and fearless. “I do, too”.

Chris was about to say something, but whatever it was died on his tongue, replaced with a groan when Wolfgang suddenly jumped on the bed and found his way towards you, sniffing you and attempting to lick your cheeks, making you laugh while you tried to pull away.

Chris let go of his cock immediately, taking a hold of Wolfgang’s collar to keep him from jumping on you and crushing you. “Dude, this is quite possibly the worst moment for you to show affection. Go away”.

Wolfgang, however, took this as a sign to start playing, shifting his attention from you to Chris in a heartbeat and trying to jump on his shoulders, hitting your leg with his wagging tail in the process. “Dude!”

You honestly couldn’t stop laughing.

“Come here, you giant twit”, Chris scooped Wolfgang into his arms. With admittedly a bit of difficulty since his dog kept trying to play while Chris held him, he got out of bed and left the bedroom entirely. You could hear Wolfgang’s tail hitting the walls as they went, just like you could hear Chris lecturing him. ‘You can’t do this to me. You gotta understand the act of making puppies is very, very sacred. Think of the bro code, dude. You can’t just interrupt and jump on my girl like that!’

Your laughs turned to soft chuckles, and you reached for your eyes to wipe the tears that had collected at the corners. Shuffling could be heard in the living room, and then you heard running water.

After a moment, Chris came back into the room, huffing in annoyance, and ruffling his hair. The sight of his length half hard and bobbing between his legs with every step was oddly amusing to you.

“What’d you do?” You asked as soon as Chris was back into your arms and nestled between your legs so he could kiss you.

“Gave him a scolding and a Kong filled with treats to entertain himself”, he mumbled between kisses, propping himself on an elbow.

The cold feeling of his still slightly moist hand dragging down your side made you shiver.

“Don’t scold Wolfgang. He’s a good boy, he just wants to play”, you chuckled, speaking between kisses.

“What about me?” Chris pulled himself away from your hold, reaching for his nightstand. “I wanna play, too, but I can’t if he’s here”.

“Got performance anxiety?” You watched Chris rummage the first drawer of his nightstand, where he clearly didn’t find what he was looking for.

Chris chuckled, opening the second drawer and rummaging the contents there, too. “Why? Wanna get fucked with an audience? Can’t give you that, babe. I want you all to myself”.

He finally found what he was looking for, a condom, which he immediately opened and rolled over his once again fully hard length. “Besides, doesn’t it unsettle you a bit to have Wolfgang specifically watch us have sex?”

“Only if he tries to get involved”, you chuckled.

“Freaky, huh?”

You licked your lips when Chris got comfortable between your legs again and started to drag the head of his cock up and down your slit. “Not even close to being the weirdest thing about me”.

“True”, he chuckled. “The way you wash the dishes both fascinates me and puzzles me to this day”.

He just kept dragging the tip of his length all over your cunt, spreading your juices around, stopping at your entrance sometimes but not going in. He was very obviously teasing you, and you couldn’t help but whine. “Babe…”

“What?” He grinned at you, brushing your clit with his tip briefly, only to dip back down to tease your entrance.

“Christopher”, a pout made its way onto your lips, just as you rolled your hips to try and get him to go in. Sadly, it didn’t work. If anything, it only made Chris giggle.

“God, you’re just so cute”, he was giggling still, and you would’ve probably said something about it, had he not eased himself into your heat with one swift movement, filling you up fully, making you gasp.

Chris leaned into you, propping himself on his elbows to plant a kiss on your lips. You simply hugged him close, caressing his lower back, softly tracing the dimples there with one of your fingers just as your free hand made its way to his bum again, squeezing once he started to move, ever so slowly.

“So, so cute”, Chris mumbled against your lips, and you just hummed in response.

Parting from your lips, he started a trail of kisses from your cheek to your neck, mumbling between each press of his lips against your skin. “So soft, too…”

He dragged his hand up and down your thigh, squeezing sporadically, keeping that slow pace of his hips. “Tight…”

You couldn’t help but whine, your brain once again turning to putty with every drag of his cock against your walls, with every tight squeeze to your soft flesh, with every love bite he left on your skin… Bringing your other hand to his buttock, you grabbed a handful in each hand, revelling in the way Chris groaned against your neck and how his pace picked up the tiniest bit.

A part of you–a very needy, greedy part of you–wanted to beg him to go faster, to go harder, but another part of you simply wanted to enjoy his slow and precise movements, especially when Chris seemed to be enjoying it all just like this.

As you dragged the tip of one of your fingers up his spine, he swore under his breath and kissed you, so deeply you weren’t sure what had you involuntarily clenching around him, if it was the feeling of his tongue against yours, or his cock stretching you open and hitting the utmost sensitive areas within your walls.

Detaching himself from your mouth, Chris pressed his forehead against yours, the lack of barrier letting your soft moans freely spill from your lips.

One of his hands found yours, linking your fingers together, holding it tight and pressing it to the mattress as you mindlessly whispered sweet nothings to him. How good he felt inside of you, how well he was fucking you open, how handsome he was… Anything and everything that came to your hazy mind, all while Chris just groaned lowly, sounding just so incredibly lost in the feeling of you and your body it almost made you lightheaded.

Burying his cock as deep as he could, he stilled, catching your mouth in a heated kiss when you buried your hand in his hair and tugged.

“Sit on me”, Chris mumbled against your mouth, pressing a brief kiss on your lips right after for good measure.

You simply nodded in response. The sudden lack of his body heat, of his length inside of you, of his weight on you, almost gave you whiplash, but you moved regardless, and as soon as Chris was on his back, you straddled him, keeping yourself lifted enough to align his cock with your entrance.

You couldn’t help but moan once he was back within your warmth, just like Chris didn’t seem to be able to hold back his groan of satisfaction when he was snugly buried to the hilt. Bringing his hands to your hips, he squeezed hard on your soft flesh, swearing under his breath as he took in the sight of you fully sitting on his lap.

“Fuck, look at you–” He all but choked on his words as soon as you started to move, bracing yourself on his chest for leverage so you could bounce on his cock.

“Was this what you’d imagined?” You asked, admittedly a bit breathless. “During your–Fuck… Your hip thrust sets?”

“Baby…” Planting his feet firmly on the bed, and with his tight grip on your hips, Chris started to thrust up, so suddenly you fell on your elbows at either side of his head, moaning loudly. “It’s… So… Much… Better”, he emphasised each word with sharp thrusts, hitting your walls just right, making you whine.

You tried your best to match his pace, bringing your hips down when he brought his up. You could feel your soft flesh rippling every time your bodies collided, and you honestly couldn’t contain the sounds that were flying past your lips as Chris kept relentlessly ramming into you.

“You’re a fucking dream”, Chris groaned, pulling one of your arms behind your back and holding it in place with one of his strong hands to keep you flush against his body, chest against chest, while his other hand moved from your hip to grab a handful of your ass. “You take it so fucking well, fuck…”

All you could do was whine as you buried your head in the crook of his neck, attaching your lips to his throat in an attempt to muffle the pathetic sounds that were coming out of your mouth. As soon as your free hand made its way into Chris’ hair and tugged, he groaned, and his hands tightened their hold on you in response.

The longer you stayed there taking a pounding, the longer your clit rubbed against his lower abdomen, the more you felt your sanity slip between your fingers, leaving nothing in your mind but Chris and his cock ramming into you and his hands holding onto you.

You wanted to tell him how close you were, but you honestly weren’t sure if the words came out of your mouth at all. All you knew for sure was that after one particularly hard thrust you finally found your gratifying relief, mindlessly biting on Chris’ shoulder to somehow keep your mind a bit grounded through it all.

You vaguely registered Chris swearing, loudly, repeatedly, until the hand on your rear pushed you flush against him and the most delicious sounds flew past his lips as he came. You clenched around him, somewhat on purpose, somewhat because he just sounded so incredibly hot when he groaned and moaned so close to your ear you just couldn’t help your body’s reaction to him.

“Fucking hell…” Chris mumbled, turning his head enough to absentmindedly press kisses on your cheek, finally letting go of your arm and your buttock so he could wrap his arms tightly around your waist, holding you close.

You turned your head fully, catching his mouth in yours for a slow, gentle kiss, moving the hand that had been held on your back to softly caress his cheek while the other simply played with the more than mussed curls on his head.

You both laid there for a moment, until Chris muttered a ‘gimme a sec, baby. Gotta get rid of this fucking condom before I go soft and cum gets everywhere’.

So you got off of him, dropping to the side to catch your breath as you watched him leave the room to dispose of the soiled latex and come back in less than a minute. As soon as he was back on the bed he asked you to lay on top of him again, and you did, chuckling a bit once you straddled him and rested your weight on him.

“So this is why you wanted me, huh? So you could use me as your own personal weighted blanket?”

Chris just laughed, wrapping an arm around your waist and burying a hand in your hair to softly massage your scalp. “How do you even come up with this stuff?”

“I’m a part-time comedian”, tucking your head under his chin, you couldn’t help but sigh, feeling content, and immensely satisfied.

Chris hummed, placing a kiss on the top of your head. “And a full time cutie”.

You pulled yourself away from his neck briefly, regarding him with a smile before you kissed him.

“Have you ever had Venezuelan food?” Chris asked as soon as you pulled back from the kiss, softly caressing your back.

“No, why?”

“There’s this really good place in the city centre I think you’d like… Was thinking maybe we could go there tonight”.

You quirked a brow at him with a teasing smile on your lips. “For our date?”

“God, yeah”, Chris giggled, blushing a bit as if he hadn’t just fucked you dumb, and somehow the sight of him blushing made your face heat up as well. “For someone so dense, you’re incredibly confident sometimes, you know? No wonder you got me all smitten like a fool”.

“Ohhh, you’re smitten?” You couldn’t help but tease him further.

“And like a fool. That’s a very important part”, Chris grinned at you.

You kissed him, because why wouldn’t you when he was so cute and hot and his lips were so kissable? Especially when he was almost glowing with the after-effects of his high, and when he was looking at you with borderline sparkly eyes.

“I like you so much, Chris. It’s embarrassing”, you mumbled against his mouth, pressing another kiss on his lips to emphasise your statement.

“At least we can be embarrassing fools together”, Chris giggled, but the sound quickly turned into an annoyed groan as he felt the bed dip again when Wolfgang jumped on it, carrying a penguin plushie in his mouth, doing little hops, and wagging his tail so fervently all you could do was coo and laugh.

Herbie had indeed been a bad financial investment, but, at this very moment, all that monetary loss seemed to pale in comparison to how happy and full you felt. As you rolled off of Chris and he lunged at Wolfgang, essentially wrestling with his dog while he laughed, you were more than certain that it had all been worth it, and that you were more than ready to build your romantic relationship with Chris.

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sunlightmurdock · 2 years

Text

My Future in You | 2.0 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

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Synopsis: Bradley’s twenty-two years old and not where he’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be out of the academy by now. Instead, he’s retaking his senior year of college and praying to god that he gets into flight school. Mav’s gone, his mom’s gone. He’s mad at the world. Then, a hook up at a Halloween party changes his future even more than he could have imagined.

Warnings: accidental pregnancy, references to abortion in a few chapters, angst, will be fluff eventually, will be smut so 18+, enemies to lovers kinda thing, time jump of a month and a half / two months

…

“Your sister is fucking insane.” Bradley grunts.

“Shut up and just lift your end,” Jake demands, straying under the weight of lifting his end of the couch. A soft sigh and the two of them lift again, hoisting more than their combined body weight’s worth of sectional sofa. “And she wasn’t crazy until you got her pregnant.”

“I can hear you!” You call back from the small kitchen. Sitting cross-legged on the black and white diamond shaped tile, surrounded by boxes and new plates and bubble wrap. Your system for unpacking is fool-proof and they’ll just get in the way if they try to help. That’s why you’ve had them rearrange the layout of the living room three times already.

There isn’t too much left in your life that you have control over these days. Graduating two years early, at the top of your class, and the only people there to be proud of you were your big brother and the guy who got you pregnant. Delaying your grad job, which you worked your ass off to get, until after you’ve given birth. Finding out you had been approved to switch to their Florida office in an email from your father’s secretary.

Moving to a place you’ve never been before, with a guy you didn’t even like up until recently. Carrying a child that’ll probably never have a name because you and Bradley barely agree on anything. Knowing that Jake, your only constant through this entire ordeal, is shipping off to basic training in a day and a half.

Everything’s hurtling forwards, you can practically hear the time rushing by like wind in your ears. Dragged along with it, no choice but to keep up, there’s a voice in your head that keeps telling you it’s okay to be scared. You just aren’t sure if it’s okay to be this scared.

He’s moving around more and more these days, growing stronger and bigger. His kicks are no longer butterflies in your tummy, but now pinpointed and real, which is terrifying in itself. More recently, you’ve been wondering if he can feel how afraid you are. You don’t want him to worry.

By hell or high water, you’re going to give this little boy all the love that you’ve got. Afraid or not, he needs you and you’ll keep going for him. Being good for him is just about all you can manage. That, and unpacking the way that you need to.

Setting the plates in a cabinet, stacking bowls, glasses in an overhead cupboard. Ignoring Jake and Bradley’s bickering to the best of your ability.

Florida’s even hotter than you were expecting. It’s the last day of May and the air conditioning isn’t getting fixed until tomorrow. Home is no longer an upstairs apartment or a cramped room on the first floor of a fraternity. It’s now an almost two bedroom downstairs unit on a quiet, residential street in west Pensacola.

Living room with fireplace, fully equipped kitchen with new stove and refrigerator. Dark brown, LVP floors and new paint throughout. You have your own Lanai and storage outside unit. Also includes washer and dryer. This northeast location is tucked away in a private dead end street but has easy access to the new University shopping area. It’s nice for a first place. The bedroom is a decent size, and the spare room will work as a nursery, even if its intended purpose was an office.

Your relationship with Bradley has turned into a type of Schrödinger problem. Neither together nor apart. Sharing a room, preparing to share a life, with little more in common than the future you roped him into. He seems excited now. He’s jealous that you can feel the baby and that he can’t. He’s looking forward to meeting his son.

But, as you turn your head and look through the archway, towards him wiping sweat from his brow in the living room, guilt surges through you. Wearing gym shorts and a backwards cap, those stupid roman numerals tattooed on his bicep as he sighs softly and leans his head back, he looks so young.

You’re younger, but this decision was yours. You wonder if he would choose this if he got to do it all over again. Certainly not. All those years of carefree fun, getting to be himself finally, figuring out who he is. Now, those years belong to your son. Swallowing softly, you turn your attention back to the only thing that you can control.

Arranging spices in the rack hung over the stove.

The afternoon hurtles by just as quickly as all of the other days have recently. The routine is the same. Jake takes the couch, glad that Bradley sprung for the corner sectional that’s just about as good as sleeping on the mattress. After a day of not really talking, Bradley slips into bed beside you.

It’s never awkward, but it probably should be. Sharing all of this. A lease, a child, a future, with someone that isn’t even really yours.

“Man, I am fucking exhausted.” Bradley mumbles as his head hits the pillow, exhaling slowly into the comfort of this new space. Your first night in your new home with him. So, you connect with him in just about the only way you ever have.

Even with this protruding, exceedingly rounded stomach, somehow he still wants to fuck you at every opportunity he gets. Looking in the mirror these days is getting harder. It’s not that you have an issue with the way you look now, you think the bump is actually kind of cute. It’s just that you don’t look anything like you used to, and you’re starting to wonder if you’ll ever be that girl again.

Running your fingers through his curls, you lean over and kiss his temple softly. He hums at the feeling, reaching out and resting his hand on your hip. He turns his head and waits for you to kiss him without opening his eyes. You press your lips softly to his, his fingers curling softly to press into the fabric of your shorts. You ask gently, lips grazing his, “Too tired?”

His lips tilt up into a soft smile as he runs his fingers along the waistband of your bottoms, brown eyes flickering up to meet yours, “Never been too tired for sex.”

Turning the two of you over, he settles between your legs, working his talented mouth along all the exposed skin that he can reach.

Curling his fingers into your roots, he moans softly into the curve of your jaw, pressing delicate kisses along your throat. Part of these past few weeks has been learning your cues, your sweet spots and your sensitivities. He’s getting good at it. It’s right as you hum and lift your hips eagerly against his that there’s a sharp jolt, a soft, dull pain as the impact hits your mid-section.

Bradley sits back quickly on his knees.

You groan in complaint, rubbing over the sore spot at the top of your developing bump. It’s only once you lean your head back to sigh in complaint that you clock the look on his face. Eyes blown wide, lips parted, staring at you like you just grew a second head.

Over the past few weeks, the little guy has been getting more and more active. Wriggling around a lot, you’ve been feeling him almost constantly the past few days. It has been ridiculously frustrating, suffering in silence, Bradley constantly frowning and telling you that he can’t feel anything. The realization comes quickly.

“Was that him?” Bradley breathes out softly, brows scrunching together.

You push yourself up on your elbows, lips quirking softly. The pregnancy websites said that Bradley should have been able to feel the kicks about a week ago, you were getting worried. Bradley reaches out again and tenderly rests his hands against the bottom of your rounded stomach.

The two of you wait patiently for it to happen again, Bradley’s lips falling into a disappointed frown as your baby stops kicking. He sighs, moving to lie down beside you and smoothing his hand over the top of your stomach as he kisses your cheek.

“I’m jealous that you get to feel him all the time, moving around in there,” He mumbles, shaking his head softly. “It’s like you’ve met him already and I have to wait three more months.”

You scoff, settling down onto the sheets that you had picked out, staring at the white ceiling, “I don’t think you’d be as jealous if he was kicking your bladder like he kicks mine.”

“Probably no—“ As Bradley speaks, your lips part, jolted by another soft kick. He raises his eyebrows as you grab one of his hands and place it over your stomach. Nothing again. He furrows his brows slightly, glancing up at you expectantly.

“Say something.” You prod him.

“Um… like what? — I don’t know what to say to a —“ His sentence stops abruptly, jaw hanging open as he feels a small but unmistakable kick against his palm. “Holy shit, that’s what you’ve been feel— He did it again!”

You giggle, resting your hand on top of Bradley’s as he beams at you, “I think he likes your voice.”

His eyes widen slightly, making him look even younger than he is. It’s hard to tell whether it’s excitement or fear on his face to begin with. He leans down and presses lips to your stomach.

“I am so,” he stops, kissing your skin tenderly again, hands cradling your growing bump. “So excited to meet you, little man.”

Your heart feels like it just about splits into two and you aren’t even sure why. It’s supposed to be a happy moment. You should be happy about this. Bradley feels a slight hiccup and glances up. Your eyes are filled with tears, stinging and threatening to spill out onto your cheeks.

“Hey,” Bradley says softly as he shifts up the bed and wraps his arms around you. “Hey… it’s okay. What’s wrong?”

You swallow, trying to hold in a sob that consumes your chest and strangles your vocal chords. Sniffling, you rest your head against his shoulder. “Do you wish that we weren’t having him?”

His brows scrunch together as he tries to piece together what about that interaction could have possibly given you that impression.

“Of course not! — Where’s this coming from?” He frowns, resting his cheek against the top of your head as he smooths his fingers along your back. You’re in your third trimester now, and the pregnancy websites said that your hormones might be kind of out of whack. But you got through graduation without a hitch.

It’s as the thought crosses his mind that you break in his arms. Hunching forwards, sobbing into your hands, covering your mouth so that Jake won’t hear you crying from the living room.

“Hey… did — did I say something wrong?” Bradley asks gently, face creasing in concern. He kisses your shoulder. “I’m sorry, I—“

You sniffle and shake your head. “Don’t say sorry. Please.”

“…Okay,” He smooths his palm tenderly along your spine once again, now totally lost. “Babe, I think you’re gonna have to spell it out for me here. What should I do?”

It’s not fair on him, any of this. You pull yourself together long enough to wipe your tear-stained cheeks and string together a sentence. “Just… if we could go back and do it all again, would you… do it like this?”

“I’d probably have suggested a plan B or something.”

You look up, eyes filled with tears, throat burning.

“I’m sorry, bad time for a joke,” He shakes his head quickly and kisses your forehead. “Look, we both know that this wasn’t planned. But it happened, it’s happening — and no, I don’t regret being here with you.”

You allow yourself to sink into his arms as he kisses the top of your head and squeezes you softly.

“Is everything okay with you?” His fingers graze along the nape of your neck and over your shoulder softly. “You’ve not really said a lot to me since graduation.”

He smooths his hand over your stomach, feeling another soft kick against his palm. It’s almost midnight now, he hopes that this kid isn’t going to be this much of a night owl once it’s born.

“Everything’s just moving really fast.” You say quietly as you settle back down onto your side. Bradley copies, laying on his side so that he’s facing you, his stomach pressed to yours. He nods slowly. “Jake’s leaving, and you’re starting work, and my parents still won’t talk to me. The baby doesn’t even have a name. I’m just scared.”

He leans forwards and kisses your mouth softly. “We’ll figure it out.”

A dry laugh escapes your lips, it’s a helpless thing, really. You wipe the tears from your cheeks and shake your head slowly, “How are you so chilled out about this?”

“I’m not,” He promises, voice quiet, something in the way that he looks at you so earnestly makes you soften. “I’m scared too. But we’ll figure it out.”

A silence lingers between the two of you. No more tears, no more lump in your throat, your heart rate slowing enough that you think you might actually manage to sleep tonight. Bradley leans forwards and kisses your cheek, then flicks off the bedside lamp.

You turn onto your other side and he presses himself into your back, wrapping an arm around you and resting it against your stomach. He’s been sleeping like this for the past week straight. It always settles his racing mind. Having both of you in his arms.

He’s warm. Lips press gently to your neck and he hums softly into the curve of your neck.

You exhale softly, shuffling back against his bare chest. This feels awfully grown up. Seven months pregnant, laying skin to skin, in your new shared home.

The next morning, it’s time to drive Jake to the airport. Basic training is three months long. The next time he sees you, you’ll be a mother.

“I love you,” He says softly, wrapping his arms around you. Your stomach bumps into his as you hug him. He’s still getting used to that. “I’m gonna be back before you know it.”

“I know, I know,” You breathe out, squeezing him tighter and then patting his back as you let go. “Just be safe. Don’t do anything stupid.”

…

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Jake chuckles, giving a quick shrug as he picks his bag up from the floor and slings it over his shoulder. His attention turns to Bradley. “Take care of my sister, Bradshaw.”

“Always.” Bradley answers. You turn your head and scrunch your brows slightly as you look up at him. He drapes an arm around your shoulder and offers Jake a sincere smile.

As Jake turns and heads towards his gate, the two of you are left together. Him still leaning into your side. Always. You stare at him. Flushed skin, wearing a faded grateful dead t-shirt and blue jeans, smiling at you.

Just you and him. Alone, in a new state. Him swearing always and you staying up at night and wondering if there’s even a tomorrow between the two of you.

Ten weeks left until your due date.

…

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw smut #miles teller #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut #my future in you

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cybrsan · 12 days

Text

Treasure — J.WY [Pt. 8]

SUMMARY: It has been a long time coming.

PAIRING: Waterbender Wooyoung x Non-bender F!Reader

RATING/GENRE: M ; angst, fluff, eventual smut ; ATLA au, enemies to lovers

WORD COUNT: 3.4k

LINKS: Ode To ATEEZ Masterlist | Together in Harmony Masterlist | Cross-posted on AO3 and Wattpad

↞ Previous | Masterlist | Next ↠

Tap, tap, tap.

You don’t know how long it’s been since you ran away from the group and Wooyoung followed. The two of you have just been sitting on the floor in silence, the only sound being that of his fingers tapping restlessly against the stone tiles. The cadence of it is almost musical, or like a metronome keeping time.

You can tell that he wants to speak by the way he keeps looking at you and then looking away, but he is also trying to be respectful and give you the time that you need.

The rhythm of his tapping is broken as he suddenly stops.

"Please, talk to me," he urges softly, reaching out to take your hand in his own. “What happened back there?”

“Is that really important? Shouldn’t we be trying to figure out a way to avoid becoming one of those Inkling things?”

“One thing at a time, Y/N.”

You swallow hard, unsure of how much you should share with him. You're torn between honesty and self-preservation, unable to voice the truth but equally unwilling to lie. So instead of answering, you raise your free hand and gently, very gently, run your fingers through the blue-silver strands of his hair, marveling at its softness. It’s something you have wanted to do ever since you first saw him.

He startles at first but quickly relaxes into your touch, letting his eyes flutter closed. You continue to run your fingers through his hair, the gentle motion seeming to soothe him. You can feel some of the tension leaving his body, his shoulders relaxing slightly. It's a tender moment, one that makes your heart ache with a mixture of affection and uncertainty about the future.

After a few moments of sitting in silence, you ask, “Woo, why are you guys looking for an hourglass?”

He sighs, his brow furrowing as he opens his eyes. You’re sure that he knows you’re diverting, but he lets you anyway. “You remember what I told you the night of the sand storm? About what happened between Hongjoong and I?” You nod and he continues, “Well, it has something to do with that. This hourglass is magic—it’s supposed to let you control the flow of time. He thinks we can go back to the day before he made the accusation.”

Your heart sinks. So they are looking for the Cromer. You try not to let the disappointment show on your face as you probe, “So… what? You think that going back in time will fix everything?”

“Won’t it?” Wooyoung questions, a vulnerable edge to his voice. You can tell he desperately wants to believe in this, that part of him needs to.

"Maybe." You hate the way his face falls, but you can’t give him a more definitive answer than that. Time is a difficult concept, especially when it comes to altering it. “But do you really want to go back?”

“Of course I do!” he responds without pause. “It’s my fault that things turned out this way. If I can change it, why wouldn’t I?”

You take a deep breath, leaning your head back against the wall. You watch the balls of light flit around the ceiling beams as you attempt to collect your thoughts. Why are you trying so desperately to convince him he doesn’t want to go down this path? Is it to make your own chances of stealing the Cromer easier? Or is it something else?

"Do you really believe it's all your fault?" you finally ask. Wooyoung opens his mouth to respond but closes it again, seeming to really consider the question. “Like I’ve said before, Hongjoong knew your visions weren’t always accurate, yet he used you time and time again for his own benefit. He chose to make that accusation, knowing the risks, and then tossed you aside when things didn’t work out. He's as much to blame as you are, perhaps even more.”

"Is that what you think?" Wooyoung’s fingers tighten around your hand, the only indication that your words have affected him. You glance at him, finding his gaze fixed intently on you.

“That’s what I know. And you need to realize it too," you say emphatically, meeting his gaze with a determined one of your own. "You've been shouldering this guilt for far too long."

Wooyoung’s eyes glisten, his jaw clenched tightly as he tries to hold back the torrent of emotions threatening to break through. A single tear rolls down his cheek, tracing the contours of his face before disappearing within the folds of his shirt. He doesn't say anything, but the silence speaks volumes. Your words have made an impact.

“Hongjoong isn’t a cruel man,” he says, voice hoarse.

“I didn’t say he was. I see kindness in him. I see it in the way he cares for all of you, protects you. But power—and the stress that is often paired with it—has a way of twisting people.”

Wooyoung wipes at his eyes. "Maybe you're right. But even if you are, it doesn’t change how things ended up. It doesn’t bring back what was lost."

“What about everything you’ll lose if you do go back? What about…” You glance down at your intertwined hands, letting your sentence trail off as you swallow around the lump in your throat.

He follows your gaze, letting his fingers trace invisible patterns across your knuckles, his touch feather-light. He trails his hand upward, brushing over the pale silver of the scar on your arm, your permanent reminder of the sandwyrm encounter, and the look that crosses his face is so pained that it nearly breaks your heart.

“Us?” He finishes your sentence, the syllable so soft it is barely more than a breath escaping his lips.

His eyes are still downcast, focused on the visible reminder of the trials you've both faced. It's a complicated question and you’re grateful that he had the courage to voice it when you did not.

“We can find each other again,” he says, sounding so certain that it almost makes you believe him.

“But what if we can’t? We don’t know how the Cromer works. What if you don’t keep your memories when you go back? What if everything that happened just happens again? Or something worse?”

He stiffens, his fingers stilling on your skin, the unanswered questions hanging heavily in the air.

"I won't let that happen."

"But you can't promise that," you counter gently. "For all we know, it could change everything. I could still be indentured. Hongjoong’s punishment could become even more extreme than it was."

Wooyoung suddenly rises to his feet, pacing up and down the hall like a restless animal. The room suddenly feels too small, too confining for the magnitude of your conversation and the myriad of uncertainties that accompany it.

"I know," he finally says. He halts his pacing to lean against a bookshelf, running his fingers through his hair. "I know it’s risky. I know."

"But you still want to try?" Your voice comes out softer than intended, betraying the undertone of fear in your words.

You don’t know what the two of you are, or how you could classify your relationship with Wooyoung. What you do know is that you don’t want to lose him, or the others. For the first time since you were a child, you have a home again. You have people that care about you. Maybe that’s selfish, but you would be the first to admit you are a very selfish person.

He doesn't answer for what feels like an eternity but, finally, he pushes away from the shelf and turns to look at you. His gaze is unreadable, a stormy sea trapped under dark lashes.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” His shoulders sag with the weight of his indecision. "All I know is that I can't bear all of the regret and guilt I feel anymore. I need to be able to do something, to fix it.”

“The past…” you pause, trying to make sure you’re being mindful of the way you say this. “The past is like a ghost; it haunts us. We all have regrets and mistakes we wish we could erase. But we can’t let our past dictate our future. We can learn from it, we can honor it, but it is not meant to be something that holds us back.”

You think of your own past, the way you have been letting it guide you and determine your path. The memories of indentured servitude, the fear of losing your freedom again, the scars you bear... they've all shaped you, yes, but they don't have to define you.

“We need to learn how to let go.” You hope the words mean as much to him as they do to you.

“You’re right,” he admits. “I understand what you’re saying. But understanding and accepting are very different things.”

“Different,” you agree. You stand and slowly approach him, stopping only when you're close enough to touch him. You place your hand on his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palm. “But not impossible.”

“Y/N…” he whispers your name like a plea, a prayer.

One of his hands comes up to cradle yours where it rests over his heart, and the other reaches out to caress your face, his fingers tracing the path of your cheek as if committing the feel of you to memory. His gaze lowers to your lips and you feel your breath hitch in anticipation. There's an unspoken question in his eyes, one that you answer by leaning into him, letting the space between you shrink until your lips are a hair's breadth away from his.

Before either of you can close the gap, a shout echoes through the halls. You and Wooyoung jump apart and, after exchanging a quick glance, both hurry towards the source of the commotion. As you round the corner, you're met with a tense standoff. Hongjoong is facing both San and Seonghwa, sparks flickering from his fingertips thanks to his barely restrained frustration.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Wooyoung says, rushing to stand in between the group. “What the hell is going on?”

“What’s ‘going on’ is that these two are cowards,” Hongjoong hisses. “After all the work we’ve put in, everything we’ve sacrificed, they think we should just give up.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Seonghwa interjects. “I just think we need to find another way.”

San scoffs. “Well, maybe Hwa isn’t saying that, but I am. If that makes me a coward, so be it. Hongjoong is right—we have sacrificed a lot. Y/N almost died. We’re in the middle of the most dangerous desert in the world, in some ancient library protected by some giant owl guardian that can turn into stone at will, hundreds of miles away from our homes and our loved ones. Enough is enough.”

“San has a point,” Jongho says. “The owl said we can’t take anything from the library, so even if the Cromer is here, it won’t be of any help to us. Unless we can hang out here until the next full moon.”

“Yeah, that’s not an option,” you interject. “We don't want to become Inklings, remember?”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrow. "And so that’s it? We just walk away? Leave everything we've been working for behind?"

“Everything you’ve been working for—”

Yeosang puts a hand on San’s shoulder, interrupting him. “Arguing isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

Seonghwa nods in agreement. “Joong, I understand your frustration, but we need to be smart about this. There has to be something or someone else out there that can help point us in a different direction.”

“There are no other leads,” Yunho says. “We’ve got to at least admit that. It took us months to even find out about Pandora, and then twice as long to track it down. In all that time, we would have heard about something else if it existed.”

“If our only option is to keep going or leave, I say we leave,” Mingi adds. “I have too much to lose.”

"But you're forgetting one thing," Wooyoung interjects, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes shifting between each person before finally resting on Hongjoong. "We aren’t quitters. We don’t just give up, especially not on one of our own. We should see this through until the end."

You feel a flicker of surprise that he’s siding with Hongjoong, but when you catch the look that passes between them, the way Wooyoung visibly brightens under the leader’s approving gaze, you realize that perhaps his decision isn't as surprising as you thought.

Siding with Hongjoong and Wooyoung might be your best chance to find the Cromer yourself. If they're determined to keep searching, you can use their resources and knowledge to your advantage. Plus, staying close to them will allow you to act quickly when the opportunity arises. You try to ignore the stab of guilt the idea brings along with it.

"I'm with Wooyoung. We've come too far to turn back now," you reiterate, your voice steady in the tense silence that has fallen over the room. “I know I have. San is right—I almost died for this. Hell if I give up now.”

"We push forward," Hongjoong declares, his tone final. But the fire in his eyes dims just a little, his voice softening as he adds, “But I won’t force anyone to stay. I value everything you have all done for me and if you choose to leave now, I won’t blame you.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with the gravity of their implications. The room is silent for a long while.

Finally, Seonghwa steps forward. "I won't leave," he says, his voice firm.

San grunts, his brow furrowed in thought as he looks at Seonghwa. For a moment, it seems like he might argue, but then his gaze softens and he nods slowly. “Alright," he concedes. "I’m not happy about it. But I won’t abandon you guys, no matter what happens.”

"I second that," comes Yunho’s voice. "This may be hopeless, but we're a team."

Everyone else follows suit until all that’s left is Mingi. He sighs heavily, his gaze traveling from face to face. He finally relents with an exasperated groan. "Fine. I won't be the one accused of abandoning the mission. You guys would never let me live that down.”

The tension in the room dissipates slightly, replaced by a sense of renewed determination. Hongjoong nods, a small smile of gratitude on his face. "Alright, then. Let's get back to work. We'll cover more ground if we split up. Seonghwa and I will stay here and try to figure out a way to deal with the guardian. The rest of you should head out and try to find the Cromer.”

As the group disperses, you unsurprisingly find yourself pairing off with Wooyoung. You both head towards a section of the library you haven't explored yet, and he gestures toward a room filled with display cases.

“Let’s start here.”

You nod, heading toward the nearest case. The dust coating the glass is thick and undisturbed, a testament to how long it has been since anyone entered this room. You wipe it off with the sleeve of your robe, revealing the contents inside. Three pendants catch your eye, each etched with a distinct symbol: a crescent moon, a coiling snake, and a radiant sun. Alongside these, a tiara sparkles with precious gemstones. You imagine that this alone could have probably bought out your contract—too bad you didn’t find it before the deal you made.

Wooyoung moves to the cases across the room from you, his gaze raking over the worn items tucked neatly inside of each. An assortment of ancient scrolls, a detailed map of an unknown land, a statuette of some long-forgotten deity…

“It’s not here,” he murmurs, his voice echoing slightly in the otherwise silent room. He pauses briefly, his gaze lingering on an old scroll adorned with intricate calligraphy and faint drawings. He deviates from the mission momentarily to unfurl the fragile parchment. “Oh, Y/N, look—a waterbending scroll. It must be centuries old.”

Curiosity piqued, you abandon your own search and move to peer over his shoulder at the scroll. An array of swirling, complex lines traces out the forms for a waterbending technique you don't recognize. "Incredible," you breathe, your fingers itching to trace the ancient script.

“But it’s not what we’re looking for,” Wooyoung says, folding it carefully and placing it back into the case.

“Wait, you should try it out before we move on.”

His eyes travel from you to the scroll and back again. “We might not have time. It looks complicated, and I don’t know if I will be able to master it quickly.”

"Have a little faith in yourself," you encourage, your hand squeezing his for reassurance. “You’re an amazing waterbender.”

He brightens at your words, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile. He looks back down at the scroll with renewed determination and nods. “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

He uncorks the water pouch at his hip, the liquid leaping to his call and hovering in the air before him. Carefully, Wooyoung mimics the illustrated movements, the water weaving and spinning through the air. He struggles at first, sweat beading on his brow. But as he persists, his movements become more confident and, eventually, he perfectly matches the forms on the scroll.

The water lashes out like a whip before segmenting into separate sections and condensing into spheres. With a flick of his wrist, Wooyoung sends them hurtling through the air like liquid bullets, each one shattering against the far wall with explosive force.

Wooyoung laughs. “Holy shit. That’ll come in handy during our next sandwyrm fight, huh?”

You laugh too, a mix of elation and disbelief bubbling up from your chest. Without thinking, you run over to him, throwing your arms around him in a tight embrace. The momentum of your movement spins you both around, and as you come to a stop, your eyes lock. The air between you shifts, and before you can process what's happening, he's kissing you.

His lips are soft against yours, moving with an urgency that sends shivers down your spine. You feel his hand come up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. He threads the fingers of his other hand through your hair, pulling you closer as if he can't bear any distance between you. Time seems to stand still, the rest of the world fading away into the background.

It isn’t until the room shakes slightly and the sound of stone grinding against stone reaches your ears that you and Wooyoung break apart. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for the source, when you notice a beam of sunlight hitting a particular spot on the far wall. To your amazement, a hidden door slowly creaks open, revealing a secret chamber beyond.

"Well," Wooyoung breathes, his eyes wide with surprise. "That’s not creepy at all."

“We should check it out,” you say, grabbing his hand and attempting to pull him after you.

He resists, tugging you back into his chest. “You sure you don’t want to just stay here and continue this…?”

You take in the sly curve of his smile and the twinkle in his eyes and, as much as you want to give into him, you know that if you stay here you might miss your opportunity. “We can continue this after we get out of this damn library.”

Wooyoung chuckles, his breath warm against your cheek. "Fair enough. Let's go explore this creepy secret chamber, then." He intertwines his fingers with yours, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before leading the way into the dimly lit room. As you step inside, the grinding sound of stone against stone fills your ears once more. You both turn just in time to see the hidden door slowly closing behind you, sealing you in darkness.

You sigh. “Fantastic.”

NETWORKS: @kflixnet @pirateeznet @cromernet @wonderlandnet @cultofdionysusnet

TAGLIST: @nebulousbookshelf @ad0rechuu @seonghwaddict @sanniesbunnie @fruitcakebin @kickti @hwasflower @kibs-and-bits @wooya1224 @tournesol155 @ja3hwa @pocketjoong-reads @lovandr @yeoyeoland @huachengsbestie01 @baeksofty @deltamoon666 @yessa-vie @mlysalt @skteezcursed @vannabanana1995

#cultofdionysusnet #cromernet #kflixnet #pirateeznet #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung smut #wooyoung angst #wooyoung fluff #jung wooyoung x reader #wooyoung imagines #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez smut #ateez fluff #ateez angst #fic.tr

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latelyanobsession · 2 years

Text

Gossip Swap

summary rumors can be nasty. especially when straight out of your boyfriend’s mouth. kind words however, can make a world of difference when offered up by a kind soul.

warnings cursing, rumors/gossiping, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, smut, TW: use of fat-shaming slurs

word count 2,737

note based on a request by @harringtonfan4: "eddie x steve x plus size female reader…reader has been dating Steve he told reader he was sick he goes to party instead someone gets him on video all over Nancy and telling her and the others how unhappy he has been with reader because of how she looks and what he’s used too whole school sees it …eddie steps in to pick up the pieces (smut preferred) maybe eddie has a squirting kink or breeding kink (regular smut is fine if you don’t do those) and Steve decides he made a mistake..reader chooses eddie ….sorry my asks are long winded I have specific ideas I’m just not good at writing them lol. If it’s too much let me know I’ll tone down my explanations"

i've changed your request a bit by having the reader and steve's break up be based on the spread of a rumor through the school rather than a video. using a video would've taken a lot of effort back then, (ie. filming and then copying multiple VHS tapes or having to pass a single tape around to multiple people would've taken a lot of time). so using word of mouth to spread a nasty rumor would make better sense to spread something like that from a weekend party faster in the 80s.

also a couple lil tweaks to the smut and setting just to make it flow. a full disclosure as well that i've never read any existing smut for eddie so this is just my interpretation of how i think he would align in sexual interactions based on my interpretation of his character.

As always any feedback is much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

You pursed your lips, eyes zeroed in on the dial as you twirled the tumbler on your locker.

35 - 11 - 27

Hooking your finger in the latch, you opened the door. It's hinges squeaking.

"That her?" a voice asked, walking past.

"Yeah, I feel so bad for her..." another answered.

You peered past your locker door, eyebrows creased in curiosity.

The pair of upperclassmen quickly turning their heads away as they wandered further down the hallway.

You shrugged it off. They must've been talking about somebody else. There was nothing going on with you.

Sinking into your seat in first period, the low rumble of whispers slithered its way through the room, snaking its way up your spine and settling beneath your skin.

"I can't believe he said that...!"

"Well... I would want someone more... y'know..."

"Can you blame him?"

Clenching your fists, you tried to ignore their words as they coiled around you. Constricting you with each breath. Your chest pulling tight.

"What the hell are you talking about?!" you burst out loud, throwing your pen gruffly against your notebook, bouncing it to the floor.

Your classmates paused, quieting. Their faces mixed with looks of pity and guilt.

But none of them answered you.

The remainder of the period passed in relative silence, with you leaving the room in frustration.

It felt like the whole school's eyes were on you.

And you didn't know why.

The next period was no better. Nor the one after that.

The day was unraveling into an uncontrolled nightmare. And you wanted to get away from it as soon as possible.

Taking a deep breath, you latched the sliding bolt on the bathroom stall and sat down.

You didn't even need to pee. You just wanted a quiet moment alone.

You took another deep breath, closing your eyes.

The door to the bathroom swung open, the back slamming loudly against the tile wall as girls entered.

"I still can't believe Steve said that!" one girl hummed excitedly.

"Well you should, I was there. I heard the whole thing!" replied the other.

"He was seriously with Nancy?" asked a third.

"Of course!" answered the second, as if this were obvious. "They were all over each other... Steve was practically sobbing about wanting her back."

They giggled amongst themselves.

"But... what about the part... about... Y/N?" asked the first.

"Oh..." the second clucked, "Yeah, he wouldn't stop whining about how sick he is being stuck with a cow like her..."

They shrieked with laughter, the shrill sound clattering off the walls.

"He really called her a cow?" the third snorted ungraciously.

"...Like a pillow that's already too stuffed to stuff... if you get it..." the second mused.

They laughed again.

You swallowed thickly, trying to remain as collected as possible. You didn't want them to know you were there.

Your eyes were brimming over with tears as you clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle a shaky exhale.

"I mean why'd he ever trade Nancy for that whale anyhow?" the second complained.

"It's a complete downgrade..." agreed the third.

"There's no way a fatso like her could ever satisfy him... she's too busy stuffing her face." the first stated.

They all made varying sounds of agreement, washing their hands. The door slamming back open, and coming to with a soft thud.

You threw the stall door open, letting out a long-held sob. How could any of this be true?

But it had to be... "I was there. I heard the whole thing!"

Steve had bailed on you over the weekend. He called, coughing and whining pathetically through the phoneline of how ill he felt. And you bought it like an absolute sucker.

How stupid you truly were. Planning on bringing him homemade soup after school this afternoon, when he was already wrapping himself up soundly ... in Nancy Wheeler's lap.

Fleeing the bathroom, you quit the school building entirely. Not wanting to deal with another single pair of eyes on you.

You cut out across the football field and into the woods, just looking for a quiet place to walk. To seeth. To hide.

A few yards in you found a clearing with a weathered picnic table, empty beer cans scattered across its top.

This place didn't seem familiar to you, but it was close yet far enough away from school grounds that it seemed like a good place to settle.

Dropping onto the bench, tears began trickling out in steady rivulets down your heated cheeks. Your shoulders shaking with heavy sobs as the conversation you overheard began to replay in your mind.

Steve wouldn't have gone back to Nancy if I wasn't fat.

The voice in your head began...

Steve wouldn't have lied to me and gone to that party on his own if he wasn't embarrassed to be seen with me.

The voice pressed.

Steve doesn't love me. I'm too fat to be with Steve.

Too fat...

You crumbled.

Your hands coming up and hiding your face. Tears quickly turning bitter as your chest felt fit to shatter.

Every sweet thing he had ever told you must have been a lie. Why else would he be able to pivot so quickly? Turn back to Nancy so smoothly?

So thoroughly enveloped in your sorrow, you didn't notice someone enter the glade.

"Uhhhh?" the voice hemmed, cutting through a bout of your sobs, startling you.

"You doin' ok? I mean you're obviously not... but... Are you?"

You peered up through your fingers, snuffling horribly, your nose stuffed with snot.

A lanky boy with ratty hair and torn jeans was standing at the edge of the clearing.

He stood there awkwardly scratching his cheek, a black lunchbox in his other hand.

"I- I'm sorry... -'ll leave..." you sniveled getting up, not realizing you were intruding on someone's coveted lunch spot.

He tossed up his hands lightly, "don't worry about it... it's cool. Y/N right?"

You nodded slowly, he seemed familiar but you couldn't really place him.

"Do I know you?" you sniffed, wiping a sleeve at your eyes.

He shrugged, lips puckered thoughtfully as he clasped his hands behind his back.

"Well, you should... You and your boytoy bought weed from me a few times..." he stated dryly.

"He's not my -!" you clipped spitefully, snapping your jaw shut in realization.

"Oh?" he said, sitting down next to you. "My mistake... thought you were a thing."

"Not anymore..." you whispered.

You looked over at him, "I'm sorry..." you apologized again, "you don't need to hear about my shit."

Kicking his feet to and fro childishly, his heels tossed up leaves all around you. His eyes focused on the trees.

"Well sounds like someone should hear it... It's Eddie by the way..." he smiled at you gently, nudging your shoulder with his own to go on.

You smiled coyly, eyes dodging to your toes.

"It's just..." you sputtered, fingers wrapping around the bench tensely, "he said I'm too fat for him."

Tears were threatening to fall yet again.

He let off an obnoxious laugh, you wanted to punch him.

"I'm sorry..." his brows knitting together, as if in deep thought before they shot high, "Is he mental!?" Eddie shouted, hopping to his feet.

You blinked at him, dumbfounded, "What?"

"Boytoy. Is he completely certifiable?" Eddie pointed at his head, index finger swirling counterclockwise.

Your eyebrows furrowed, "I don't... think... no?"

He tossed his hands dramatically skyward, "Y/N!"

You jumped.

"He has to be!" he reasoned, arms still thrust high.

"You're just so .... kind. And so genuine. And smart. And beautiful and so –" he spoke rapidly, listing your qualities off each finger. Pacing himself into a small tight circle.

"You think I'm beautiful?" you interrupted him.

He stopped, looking up from his fingers, bringing his hand bashfully to his lips.

His eyes darting around the grove, before answering.

"Yeah. But you're so much more than that," he added.

Coming back to the table he straddled the bench, a leg on each side, looking you square in the eyes.

"He's a dumbass for cheating on you." Eddie declared. "I mean he couldn't be more of an idiot! Total dick move!" He waved his arms in an axing motion.

You laughed, "Thanks."

"Yeah, no problem! If you were my -" his words fell short as your lips collided with his.

"Eddie?" you hummed, pulling away, your foreheads resting together.

"Yah?" he breathed.

"Please shut up." you giggled.

"Yes ma'am," he replied enthusiastically.

Yoking a hand around his shoulders, you pulled him back in. Lips ghosting over his, your tongue playfully laving at his bottom lip.

He groaned loudly, lips parting in invitation. His hands swiftly seizing you and pulling you in.

His grasp was greedy. Desperate. Wanton. Tugging your sweater out of place, his chilled fingers pricking up goosebumps in their wake along every inch of newly discovered skin.

Small gasps tumbling from your tongue to his as those long fingers crawled lower, twiddling with the button of your jeans.

"You sure you want this?" he asked breaking from you, his eyes shimmering with sincerity.

"Wouldn't want Boytoy to miss you or anything..." he chuffed with a somber smile.

You placed your palm on his cheek. "Eddie, he's already missed me..." you leaned in kissing him chastely, "by a long shot."

A brilliant smile lit up his features, warm brown eyes shining.

"Really?" he was shocked.

"Yes," you replied, crawling into his lap. "I want you. I need... this." You emphasized with a searing kiss, grinding your weight against him.

His hands gripped your sides, digging in and holding you close as he whimpered at the feeling. Even through layers of denim, you could feel a thick bulge burgeoning against your inner thigh.

Sitting up momentarily you wrapped your hand around his belt, yanking him forward, manhandling him. Pressing him back gruffly against the picnic table, he planted both feet back in front of the bench, letting off a slight wince of surprise.

"What you got planned sweety?" he asked cutely.

Propping a knee on the bench you towered over him, hands undoing his belt buckle. Fingers nimbly unfastening his fly.

"You'll see." you teased, a finger tracing up the length of his clothed erection, his neck straining.

"Oh .... ooooh, that's not fair," he whined, a foot kicking in protest. Your hand slyly enveloping his length and pulling him out into the open.

You kissed him, lingering to pull at his tongue. "You're gonna get yours don't worry about it." you hummed, hand pumping smoothly up his length as you admired his pained expression.

Backing off, you unclasped your jeans shimmying them down just below the swell of your ass. A sharp inhale reaching your ear, "fuck."

Peering over your shoulder, you regarded him with heavily lidded eyes. "Like?"

He swallowed thickly, nodding as his gaze washed over you. "Y-yah."

You smirked your cheeks heating.

"You'll like this better..." you challenged as you reversed, placing yourself between his legs.

You lowered yourself onto his lap, grinding your bare cunt against his cock. The evidence of your arousal coating him from base to tip.

"Shit babe," he whined hands clamped onto your hips more so for his own sanity than for yours.

Reaching back you gave him a couple short strokes before lining him against your entrance, the bulging head already pressed between your pussy lips in anticipation.

Sinking down onto his length, you cried out. The stretch making your knees weak, your hands gripping his thighs to ground yourself.

"God Eddie!" you exhaled, eyes blinking widely.

"Babe you gotta move..." Eddie complained, voice straining. "I'm not gonna make it!" His grip was becoming harsh, almost biting. His hips trying to thrust, heels pressing against the ground for purchase.

"Eddie please..." you warned pathetically, "don't do that." He was already so deep. Your walls wrapped snuggly around him. Each small movement lighting up nerve endings you didn't even know you had.

Roping his arms around your middle, he hauled you back, knocking you off balance. Gaining leverage and driving himself deeper.

"Eddie!" you whimpered, pressed flush against him. "Eddie I can't...I'll –"

His pace was gaining, thrusting deeper. The sounds of your pussy beginning to fill the air. The sopping wet clap between your bodies with each stroke.

"Eddie please!" you begged nearly sobbing. You could feel it. That tingle. It was growing with every thrust of his hips.

"Babe I promise. I'm so close." he warbled, his pace growing erratic and hurried.

You were trying so hard to hold back, trying to focus. Trying to clamp down on your muscles. Pulling your legs together snugly. But everything you were doing made the feeling more intense and made him respond more aggressively.

"Fuuuuuuck babe. That's amazing. Just like that!" he encouraged with your last attempt, curling himself up and pistoning his cock into you even harder.

Tears were at the corners of your eyes, you couldn't hold it back. The pleasure was unbearable. Your walls starting to spasm, shaking the pitiful attempt at self-control that you had.

"Eddie... I'm gonna cum!" you wailed brokenly.

"Cum babe...!" he panted, slamming against your cunt. "Cum on my cock!"

"No Eddie ... I'll –" you cut off keening as he connected. Your head tilted back and your legs shook as it struck, warm fluid gushing out.

You thought for certain he'd come to a screeching halt. Toss you off for that. But he kept going, hips stuttering as his lips found your ear.

"Babe can I... can I cum insi –..." his breath faltering, as you dropped your hips back, grinding into him.

"Yes..." you exhaled shakily, continuing to ride him through his high.

The forest became quiet again as you both panted. Eddie beneath you.

You pulled off, trying to gather yourself up. The embarrassment was already suffocating you.

"Eddie I'm so so sorry." you looked at him miserably.

Sitting up, he looked at you casually, "Sorry? Sweets that was so fucking hot!" Tucking himself in, he stood up coming over to you.

Pulling a black bandana from his back pocket he offered it to you.

"Y'know..." he started, as you gratefully took the cloth, cleaning yourself off as best you could. "I'd love to do that with you again sometime..."

You blushed, handing him the bandana.

Looking up at him you nodded. "Yeah... but maybe not outside..."

He smiled coyly, laughing. "Yeah."

You looked at his pants, your face falling into a frown. "God... I'm–."

He laughed tossing up his hands, "Don't worry about it. Was gonna skip after this anyhow."

"You sure?" you looked at him guiltily.

"–'m sure." he soothed.

The warning bell echoed through the trees. How many periods had you missed?

You checked your watch.

"Shit," you cursed, "I gotta motor, but find me tomorrow?"

You grabbed your things and scooted from the grove.

Sliding in late to your last period of the day, the eyes and murmurings from your classmates was no longer as bothersome.

When the day ended you actually had a smile on your face as you headed toward the parking lot. That was until you saw your boyfriend.

"Hey Y/N!" Steve waved you over from his beamer.

You walked wide, heading off to the opposite sidewalk.

"Y/N?" Confusion was settling into Steve's features as he jogged after you. "Hey what gives I'm here to take you home. Y'know..." He reached for your hand flirtatiously.

You jerked yourself away.

"What gives?!" your eyebrows shot high. "Why don't you go ask Nancy!"

You turned on your heels to walk away, as he wrapped a hand around your wrist.

"Guess you found out huh?" he said sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck with his other hand.

"Yeah I guess so..." you spat venomously trying to wriggle free.

Stepping into your space Steve stroked a thumb over your cheek.

"Ya know I didn't mean it right? I was drunk." he gave you a lopsided grin. "You're my girl. Always will be."

You gave him a rough shove sending him shuffling back.

"No, I'm not!" you shouted. "You chose her! And I'm dumping you!"

He was stunned, his arms hanging limply at his side.

"You what?" he spoke each word as if carefully chewed, his mouth running dry.

"I'm...dumping...you" you enunciated each word. "Don't call me."

Readjusting your backpack you walked away, leaving him standing there.

The next day, you were back at your new lunch spot.

#apologies on the long wait!#plus sized reader #stranger things x plus sized reader #eddie munson x plus sized reader #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things oneshot #stranger things smut #stranger things x female reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfiction

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owl127 · 4 months

Note

I love your sports fics!! Can you write one (preferably in the Clexa universe) where Lexa has to get off before the game or else she doesn’t play well because she’s all horny. Im indifferent as to if it’s another locker room based fic, or it could be Lexa and Clarke are rooming together at an away game and Lexa keeps waiting for Clarke to fall asleep so she can mastrubate and Clarke ends up hearing and helping her out. Also I love the football world but whatever

(Ao3)

You have a routine. It is a meticulous process, though parts of it are spontaneous. The candles, the warm bath, the classic music, they all play the perfect part in relaxing your muscles and mind, preparing your body for the battle to come. You will demand perfection from yourself tomorrow at the game, so when you can, you take your time to prepare.

The water is borderline scalding as it fills the ostentatious hotel bathtub. The team went all out with the reservations, and you are grateful for the extra leg room. Your phone chirps lightly to Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto as the vetiver candle hits its earthy undertone. The fluffiness of your robe rubs against your exposed skin as it falls to the floor, leaving pleasant goosebumps over your things and arms. It’s perfect.

You’re halfway into the tub when a loud knock resonates from the bathroom door, making you slouch water on the pristine white tiles.

“Yo, Lexa!” Clarke, your loud roommate for the night, knocks again as if you didn’t hear the first time she almost brought the door down. “I’m going to get smoothies with the girls. Do you want to come?”

Why would they want smoothies right after dinner? Tall players like Clarke seemed to have an endless appetite. “Lexa?” Clarke’s large, goalkeeper hands smack the door again, and you finally respond, “No, thank you! Have fun!”

Clarke grunts an affirmative, and you wait until the bedroom door closes with a far away thud. Laugher and heavy steps die down the hallway, and the air calms. You trace the water with your fingers, drawing invisible patterns in the rose-scented bath. Music plays quietly, and finally, you relax. You let your eyes close, bundling up one of the many available white towels behind your neck, taking a deep breath.

You wake up with a high note from your phone, surprised at the song. You must have napped, the water lukewarm on your skin. The rustic, golden faucet squeaks as you open it to fill up with warm water. It falls next to your feet, almost too hot, but you enjoy the small torture, the decadent warmth. Your feet rub together while you stretch, the towel around your shoulders sliding down to soak into the tub. It must have been at least a thirty-minute nap with how stiff your neck is. Long fingers run over the tight ropes of your muscles, and you sigh at the pressure. Your fingers linger, the touch initially soft, but growing in pressure and expansion, exploring your collarbones, ribs, until they brush your breasts underwater, and you bite your lip.

It’s not unheard of, you argue with yourself to detox your association of pleasure with guilt that was hard coded into your brain. It’s not unheard of for sexual pleasure to be used for muscle and mental relaxation. So when you’re in the mood, you add an extra step to your pre-game routine.

You wait for the music to change from the boisterous major chords to the intriguing minors, which escalates beautifully. The water is a couple of degrees higher, the turbulent sound of the stream mixing with the song. You open part of the cold water and switch inside the tub so the thick stream hits your neck, with the velvety touch like a warm, large hand on your skin. It’s irrelevant to dwell on thoughts of large, freckled hands, or the day you found out your team’s starter keeper had freckles on her hands at all. Always hidden in her colorful gloves, you remember the moment in the break of dawn of the training room when long, freckled fingers curled around the chest bar to press an unsurprisingly heavy set. But you block these recurring thoughts because Griffin is a colleague at best, an annoying teammate at worst, and you have no intention of unbalancing team dynamics like that. So you do not think of the warmth of large hands on you as you close your eyes and touch your peaked nipple. Instead, you search through your memories for the audiobook you listened on the way to the away game, the trashy sapphic novel of girls fucking in a car. Faceless, fictional characters are safer than the thought of Griffin’s dimple, so that is your focus as you feel yourself slick between your folds. Sometimes you wonder if you would make more noises with a partner, but by yourself you are quiet, biting on your lips as you spread your legs as far as the tub allows you. The built up steam helps in your fantasy as you remember the rough voice in the audiobook begging, “fuck me hard, babe.” The music swells and so does your clit, and you feel the rush of an approaching orgasm, your toes curled on white porcelain, the water’s touch warming up your nape, and then—

“Lexa?”

You grunt to swallow the moan threatening to slip through. “You alright? You’ve been in there for a while.” Griffin’s voice is low and concerned, her large knuckles touching the wood softly as she knocks. “Lexa?”

“I’m okay,” you force out, croaking the words above the music and the shame burning your chest. “I’ll be right out!”

“Okay.” Some shuffling, and the creaking of mattress coils from the bedroom.

You slump down into the water and turn it to cold.

Something brings you back from unconsciousness, and you blink in the barely lit room. There is an undetermined source of light to your left, so you turn to face Griffin’s bed. Unsurprisingly, the goalkeeper fell asleep watching some show on her tablet, and the mix of lights take over the bedroom as your eyes adjust. Clarke sleeps soundly, her headphones lost inside a wild mane of sun-kissed blonde hair. You don’t want to stare, but the single source of light is right in front of Clarke’s face, dancing with hues of red and blue on her freckled skin. Your cheeks are warm, and maybe the light wasn’t the only impulse waking you up. Part of you wants to blame the impromptu tub nap, but the growing warmth in your lower belly claims you’re up because of other unfinished business. You watch Clarke, but not because you want to, but yet to judge how deep asleep she is. The woman snores quietly, a delicate expiration every time her lungs empty the air against her loose curls. Her mouth is slightly open, surrendered to sleep, and her limbs are scattered over her queen bed. You judge she’s dead to the world, and wonder if you can get away with touching yourself very quietly and very quickly. Since you are known for your efficiency, you ignore the rising alarms in your mind and shove a hand between your sleep shorts. Thinking of Clarke while touching yourself right next to her is too much, so you turn your back to her and close your eyes, focusing on the sensation of your fingers gliding through your folds.

The AC and the faraway, muted noise of Clarke’s discarded headphones combine with soft gasps that insist on leaving your pursed lips, but your bet is that nothing will awaken the goalkeeper. You try, you really do try to think of anything but the woman asleep next to you; you think of the smut books you indulge yourself into when the need strikes, or memorable past lovers, but those damn freckled hands keep coming back, and you feel yourself getting wetter at the thought.

Maybe just a peek won’t hurt.

You turn around on the mountain of pillows in your bed, snuggling close into the multi thread sheets, your skin hot against the soft fabric. Clarke remains immovable, chest rising and falling softly under a cotton shirt you want to touch, her nipples poking it and begging for your mouth. You lick your lips at the mere idea of your mouth on Clarke’s skin, soaking through your panties as your fingers struggle to find space in your haste. The hand spread on Clarke’s stomach twitches; the fingers shaking for a second, and you wonder how those fingers would feel inside your mouth, or inside of you. One of your own fingers complies with the idea, and you muffle a moan on your pillow. You got your fill, so you should turn around and finish this by yourself, but your eyes continue to take, take, and take, cataloging every detail of the magnificent creature that is Clarke Griffin. Her hands, the strip of pale skin under the messed sheets hugged tightly over a hipbone, the long line of her neck sneaking into her strong jawline, the dark into her eyes as she stares at you with such intensity you might—

Fuck.

The colorful hues of Clarke’s tablet reflect on open, alert eyes. Her lips part and she arches an eyebrow, watching, judging your moves; the sudden freeze of your hands under the sheets, the air that feels heavy as you gulp a loud breath.

You want to say something, and you want to disappear, suspended in between as Clarke’s eyes take your entire body up and down once, twice.

Her mouth twists to one side, a shadow of a smirk. She caught you.

You wonder if moving to Germany and buying a new identity would solve your problems. But any thoughts of identity theft and a recluse life in Berlin evaporate as Clarke deliberately slips one of her hands inside her pajama bottom. It is a purple string shorts sitting loosely on her muscled thighs, stretching to accommodate the largest hands you’ve ever wanted to be inside you.

She doesn’t move, though. Eyes as dark as you’ve ever seen them stare at you, waiting. Her headphones pool around her neck, and you notice how her nose flattens with a harsh exhale. She’s waiting for you. Silently, she lets you know that it’s your call.

You manage to convey a small nod, and it grows in vigor as you give consent. Your foggy brain can’t offer more than that desperate nod, and you hope Clarke understands. Clarke smiles, small and sweet, unbefitting of what you’re on the precipice of doing, and then bites her lips and plunges right in. You don’t hold your moan this time and she gasps, dark eyes shutting as her hands explore what your mouth desires.

You’ve never done this before. God, you almost never masturbate, but this? Touching yourself as you watch your crush’s hand move under unspeakable purple shorts, her breath catching every time a whimper escapes you; you must be dreaming. It’s the conclusion that keeps you going, that brings your hand to renewed gusto, that brings you closer. Fuck, you’re going to come watching Clarke touching herself.

You make a wish then, a small plea for one day for it to be your hands touching Clarke.

“Lexa,” she breathes because of course Clarke would ruin this with words. “Lexa, fuck, you’re gorgeous.” Or maybe not ruin this. You moan again as you fuck yourself with two fingers. You think about how thicker and longer Clarke’s fingers are, and how they would fuck you silly instead.

“I can make that happen if you want,” Clarke says, and you realize words were possible even in your frenzied state. “You’d look so good taking me.” An indescribable noise leaves your mouth, and you will die swearing you didn’t, but you whimper at Clarke’s words, nodding, touching, feeling. “Yeah, baby, let me hear you come,” she continues speaking because of course there’s no way to make her stop talking once Clarke is on a roll. Midway to the race for pleasure, you notice that in truth, you enjoy it. You like Clarke’s voice urging you on, telling how beautiful you look while you touch yourself, how wet you make her. “Lexa,” her voice is high, and you snap open closed eyes to watch as Clarke’s face contorts in bold pleasure, and can she, is she—

“I—I’m going to come for you,” she says and closes her eyes, hands lost in her sheets, and you cannot do absolutely anything else but follow her.

You come moaning Clarke’s name as she shudders on her pillow. There are few things you are sure of in your life, and that you will never forget Clarke’s face at the frozen moment of utmost pleasure is one of them. It does not simply push you to your own orgasm, it barrels you down the cliff like a runaway bison herd, and you meet pleasure in a new, flashing light, your tight muscles spamming in bliss, your toes pushing against the sheets, your mouth muffled over white linen.

Your breath is loud and wet as you slowly come back to yourself, your heart desperate and loud in a rib cage that doesn’t seem able to hold it inside. For a moment you almost forget you didn’t reach this alone, but reality and shame crash on you as a tired voice asks, “Lexa?”

Heat warms your cheeks. You clear your throat and face Clarke, watching the pink in her face blooming to her neck. “Yeah?” you say, gauging her reaction, doubt creeping in as endorphins fade from your bloodstream.

“Was this okay?” It is not always that Clarke Griffin has a small voice, but it’s how she asks you, shy and unsure, and you want to untangle the knot between her eyebrows.

“Yes.” You’re the captain. It’s your job to show certainty, even when you have no idea of what to do.

“Do you,” Clarke says and pauses, moaning softly as she takes her hands out of her shorts. Your eyes follow the wet digits, eagerly taking her in as she licks her own fingers in deliberate fashion. After your affirmation, the shy girl is gone. “Do you want to do it again? I can come over.” Her eyes dart between your beds. “If you want.”

You are sure of another thing now: you, Lexa Woods, are in trouble.

#clexa #prompt #ask the owl #drabble #sports fic #fanfiction #clexa fanfiction #look me at going through my prompts!#thanks anon #clarke griffin #lexa the 100 #the 100 fanfiction #the 100 fic

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the-local-lurker · 11 months

Text

Ectoberhaunt Day 17: Blood

Danny tries to find a reliable method to clean his ectoplasm contaminated blood from his clothes - there's a reason his parents always wear hazmat suits.

(748 words... and an illustration!) (a fair warning: it's probably not very good, I'm just trying to practice)

_______

It started out simple enough. He changed into his human form after a nasty fight and before he knew it, the side of Danny's t-shirt was soaked red with his blood, giving off strange green glints every now and then. Unfortunate, but not that bad.

Or that's what he thought, until he tried to wash it and realized that nothing worked. Not the usual things he used, and not even the tricks he found on the internet. Soap, water, baking soda, soaking, hydrogen peroxide, bleach…

“Ah!”

Bleach was a bit surprising.

Danny jerked his hand away from the sizzling brownish mess that was gradually eating away at the poor fabric of his favorite t-shirt, almost knocking over the white canister of bleach nearby with the sudden movement. Good thing that he had a few shirts like that.

He shook his fingers, slightly reddened and stinging from where they came into contact with the substance. It took him about a second of watching it bubble and increase in volume to deem it a lost cause and to hurriedly stuff it into the ecto-waste bag from the lab, whatever material it was made from thankfully withstanding the corrosive effects of the chemicals. Despite his swift action, a few leftover bubbles made it onto the floor, and proceeded to pop almost immediately, leaving nothing but a few small indentations in the tiles.

“… Man. I can't believe I use this thing regularly.” Danny mumbled, shooting a look at the canister.

So, that is a bust then.

Shaking his head, he stood up and lifted it, he should put it back in its place. And get rid of that bag.

The next morning, Danny frowned at his closet in irritation, looking at the splotchy stains visible on a couple of his t-shirts. He had four clean ones left, and a few on which the blood wasn't that noticeable or easily covered. One would think that with how fast he heals, this would be far less of a problem, but no. That would mean things going well for him for once and we can't have that.

... He'd have to get this figured out soon if he doesn't want to dodge even more questions, if only about why he suddenly insists on doing his laundry by himself.

Well, he'll think about it in school. Not much else he can do about it for now. He grabbed some clothes and quickly got ready. Shortly, he was leaving through the front door, yelling out a quick goodbye to no one in particular – it pleased him a little when he heard his parents respond from the basement – and headed out.

The walk to school was uneventful, and it was kind of sad how this was becoming a reason to feel uplifted. By the time he stood before the looming building, he still had time to spare, perfect.

____

“It sucks. Better outcome–no effect, worse outcome–when I tried bleach, it got all corrosive.” Danny threw up his hands in frustration as he walked to class with Sam and Tucker.

“Well, then you've got no other choice but to try random stuff until you discover something that works... What abooout… baking soda? Peroxide? Too obvious… lemon juice?” suggested Tucker, reading from his PDA.

“Nah, I tried all of that, among, like, twenty other things. I'm pretty sure there are literally no methods left,” answered Danny, sounding equal parts irritated and resigned.

“Even that detergent thing your parents made specifically for ectoplasm?”

“Yep. That smudged it a little, I think, but it's not really enough to be useful,”

“Have you tried stuff like sea salt or sage? Y'know, old school ghost purifying things? Might work on that too.” Shrugged Sam.

"I didn't. But that's..." Danny paused briefly, considering, before nodding: “that's worth a shot. Where do I get it?”

Sam grinned. “I've got you covered. I'll bring it to school tomorrow. You better take some rubber gloves or something though. If it works, it's not a stretch to say that it'll work on your skin too."

“Got it. Thank you, Sam, you're a lifesaver.”

____

What the hell, it works.

It took a few tries and combinations with other washing supplies, but finally, it works!

Danny will have to remember to thank Sam again after he's done with this, the relief he felt when he saw the dark spot gradually smudge and lose its saturation was stronger than he'd care to admit.

No more worrying about this particular problem.

Good.

#danny phantom #dp #ectoberhaunt23 #please don't mind me #Just practicing #I hope it's not *too* bad #my writing #if it even counts as that #my art #i actually tried with the drawing #I think i did a relatively decent job with the lined stuff #but i still can't get the hang of backgrounds #backgrounds are hard #also #how do I even begin to draw his hair???

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selineram3421 · 2 years

Note

hiii may I request alastor w a super cheery and sweet s/o? Basically everyone is terrified of him but then there’s reader who they think is the sweetest angel who somehow got sent to hell. Even alastor has never seen reader mad, but then an incident happens (you can decide what!) and reader loses it, later they’re covered in blood but they still have a cute lil smile even though there is a dead body underneath them. Alastor is watching respectfully. He’s stunned but is incredibly entertained. Def wants to see it happen again.

Oh I love this! Sweet sweet sweet.

Sweet Dangerous Thing

Romantic: Alastor X Sweet Reader

Warning! ⚠

⚠ descriptive injuries, blood, fluff, soft Alastor ⚠

Alastor was always unpredictable, chaos wise and just in general. Everyone around him would always be on edge. Waiting for his next plan of attack.

This time however, the hotel crew (who all knew of the Radio Demon's shenanigans) were surprised by the soft looking demon he brought over one day.

"This is the establishment I'm working with my dear.", he says softly.

Mouths hit the floor at the way he looked at the demon on his arm. It was like the way Gomez would gaze at Morticia, but ace.

"Oh its absolutely lovely!", they say with glittering eyes, looking around the lobby. "How does the kitchen look? Is it big?", they asked looking at him with a head tilt.

"That's what she said-", Angel coughed.

Vaggie whacks the spider quickly and Charlie shushes him.

"It's a chef's dream!", he says, walking them over to the kitchen. "A baker's too!"

The crew follows, peeking through the kitchen door windows to see the two demons interact.

"Who is that?", Charlie asks. "Hun, do you know?", the blonde looks to her girlfriend.

"Nuh-uh. Deadbeat?", Vaggie looks to Husk.

"Hell, I'm surprised that they ain't dead yet. Niffty?", the cat demon looks up at the little cyclops sitting on his shoulders.

"Nope! Not a clue!", Niffty says, face pressed against the glass. "Sparkle?", she says, not taking her eyes off of the two.

"How the fuck would I know?", Angel says.

Meanwhile, the two in the kitchen are looking at the oven.

"So much space! I could make pie, cake, bread, cookies!", they list off, opening the oven door.

"I assume its to your liking?", he asks with a smile.

"You bet'cha! And there's a sink in the island counter! It really is a baker's dream!", they gush.

The others just outside the door began arguing about who it could be.

"Must be another poor fool who made a deal.", Husk says.

"No way! Have you seen that smile! Its totally different.", Charlie shakes her head.

"What if he's just playing nice until he kills them?", Vaggie shrugs.

"Maybe a friend?", Niffty guesses.

"Nah. That's his fuck buddy.", Angel smirks, crossing his arms.

Everyone looks at the spider demon with a grossed out face. Vaggie literally kicks his ass and he hits the doors, falling face first onto the kitchen tiles.

It's quiet.

Charlie steps over Angel, watching out for his hands and looks up with a smile. "Hi! I'm Charlie and welcome to the Happy Hotel!", she says clasping her hands together.

"That's nice but are they ok?", they ask, pointing at the fluffy demon.

"I'm-", Angel is cut off by Vaggie.

"He's fine, just an idiot."

"Um-", they go to speak but the other two also enter the kitchen.

"Who the fuck are you?", Husk bluntly asks.

Alastor's smile twitches. "That's quite rude Husker, ask properly."

The cat demon quickly changes his tone after clearing his throat. "We don't know who you are, can you tell us?"

Everyone is shocked at the answer they give.

"I'm Alastor's significant other!"

After introductions, you all sat in the lobby.

The group asked for details, so you settled with telling them about the day that you and Alastor had met.

"I was trying to order something at a café and some brute of a demon tried to lay a hand on me.", you explain.

"Of course being the gentleman that I am, I couldn't let such a thing happen!", Alastor says proudly.

Most of them want to say bullshit but kept quiet.

You smile at your darling and place a hand on his. "He defused the situation and offered to pay for my things.", then you look back to the others. "Its quite the café cliché but we've kept in touch since and one thing led to another. Now we're here!"

They sat in front of you both, a bit shocked at you holding hands with the red dressed demon.

"I'm very glad that I took care of it. I got to meet such a lovely being worthy of my attention.", Alastor lifts up your hand and kisses the back of it.

That was nearly two weeks ago. The shocked look on their faces made you laugh.

And you being so kind, gentle, and naturally sweet. They wondered how exactly you ended up in Hell, deeming it a mistake.

(Also wondering how the hell Alastor got you. Especially with him being...well, him.)

You were at the hotel today, helping Niffty with making and setting up baked goods for guests to take. She would ask a lot of questions, but you surprised her by keeping up with things you could answer.

The doors open and a demon rushes in. "I need help!", they gasp out.

"Is everything alright?", you ask confused, stepping out from behind the check-in counter.

Husk's ear twitches and moves it to the side to listen in from the bar.

"Please! I n-need somewhere to hide!", the demoness says and looks back towards the doors.

"Calm down now, I'll help but I need you to explain at the counter.", you usher them over to hide under the counter and give a pen and paper. "Niffty, would you be so kind to finish up?"

The little demon nods and speeds her way into the kitchen to get the rest of the sweets.

Getting more check-in papers, you gently whisper to the scared demon. "Stay quiet and write down what's-"

The doors are kicked open by someone with a loud bang.

"WHERE ARE YOU!? YOU FUCKING BITCH!", a bull demon shouts.

The noise gains the attention of the others in the vicinity. Including Alastor.

"Hello sir! Would you like to check into the Happy Ho-", you don't get to finish as they stomp over, grabbing your face and pulling you forward.

"Where. Are. They.", he demands.

Before Alastor can take a step, there's a loud snap.

"AAAAARGH!", the bull shouts out in pain, his wrist twisted all the way around and to the point of muscles ripping and blood spilling out.

Your mouth split open with a sharp row of teeth, your smile is wide as you laugh in such a disturbing tone it sends shivers down everyone's spine.

"ꁸꐇꂑꍟ꓅! Quiet~", you shout and then repeat softly, tapping the demon on his nose.

He hisses as you pull at his hand, making the skin stretch at the wrist, the pain getting worse.

"I ought to teach you a lesson on proper manners! You just stormed through here as if you were the ruler of Hell! Tsk tsk.", you shake your head in disappointment. "And to treat staff so poorly. How awful."

The demon before you scowls. "I'm here looking for a bitch-"

Another twist of his wrist and he shuts up after letting out another shout in pain.

"Disrespectful too!", you say, ripping off his hand completely and tossing it to the side.

He screams in pain, moving away from you and holding his bleeding arm. "YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!", the bull shouts.

Then he makes the mistake of trying to hit you.

Most of the bystanders watch with fear or disgust. However, Alastor watches with fascination and awe. His heart skipping a beat as you tear the demons neck open with your teeth.

You drop the body of the now double dead demon and sigh when looking down at the messy floor. "Oh jeez, Niffty is not going to like this.", you say with a frown, blood stains covering your form.

Alastor goes up to you and holds you close. "That was magnificent my darling!", he says, picking you up with a spin. "You had my heart racing! You sweet, dangerous thing!"

You just giggle and wrap your arms around him.

The others just stand there stunted by how you both just ignore the body. Even the girl you helped looks weirded out. They watch as you both leave, Alastor still carrying you and not minding the blood at all.

Niffty quickly goes to work, disposing the body and cleaning the floors.

"So..that happened.", Angel says with a shake of his head. "Who knew Sweet-cheeks was crazy like Smiles."

Charlie walks over to the new demon behind the counter. "Hey.. Would you like to stay at the Happy Hotel?"

"It was like the way Gomez would gaze at Morticia, but ace."- I want this.

~Seline, the person.

Taglist@

@c4rved-pumpk1n @ducky-is-dead-inside @stolas-thebirb

I'm going to connect this to another work.

This one➡ Here!~✨

ML for Alastor🎙

#x reader #gn reader #alastor x reader #romantic #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel alastor #fanfic #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #niffty hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel angel dust #charlie hazbin hotel #vaggie hazbin hotel #husk hazbin hotel #like gomez and morticia but ace

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foryiujeans · 1 year

Text

too many nights.

synopsis. those nights of him coming back late with missing your presence snuggled in bed but everything changes when you’re gone.

pairings. ex-lover!ricky x fem!reader.

warnings. slight angst, crying, suggestive.

word count. 4k

general taglist. @forsobeans

“i want to stop.”

"i want to stop," you mumble, not sure if it's coherent.

with that, you flee to your room, covering your mouth to keep the sobs from coming out. you slam your bedroom door behind you, barely making it to your bed before you collapse on it. nausea works its way through you and you fight to keep it down, but it feels like your own body is fighting against the stupid choice you just made.

it's not even a minute later when your bedroom door flies back open and ricky barges in. you glance up at him, not even caring how horrible you look, and find that he almost looks just as bad as you. his face is beet red and his cheeks are wet with tears that tear you into pieces.

"what the hell are you talking about? why are you breaking up with me?"

"ricky, i told you to leave."

"no. i’m not leaving until we talk about this."

he moves toward you and gathers you up in his arms. he holds onto you tightly like you're a life raft keeping him afloat. when you feel his whole body shaking, you hate yourself.

"talk to me," he pleads into your hair. "let me in."

"i’m not good enough for you.," you cry. "you deserve so much more than I can give you. all i do is bring you down, and I can't live with myself for doing that.”

he gets down on the floor next to you and grabs your hand, holding it tightly. when his cracking voice penetrates your brain, the tears flow a little harder.

“just follow your dreams, ricky. become an idol, i have my own things to do too.”

the high comes down much quicker than you'd like. the feelings and sensations of existing in the real world start to tingle along your nerve endings. With a sigh, you lean your head back against the bathroom cupboard and close your eyes. while the cold tile underneath you starts to form, you feel wetness on your cheek.

bringing your hand up to your face, you pull it away to discover that you're crying. dropping your hand on the floor, you don't hear the front door opening or the subsequent calling of your name. you’re too focused on the fact that you've self-sabotaged. again.

no matter how much you say you don't want to keep doing this, you find that you can't stop. chasing that amazing high is always too alluring. it’s too desirable, and that's one of the many things that scares you.

loving shen quanrui.

you never moved on from the guy since last year. actually, since seven months. the eventful memories of you both doing so much activities with each other and enjoying every little details of it.

“y/n,” someone nudged your side, “we finished the tutor session, let’s get bubble tea.”

looking to your side, you see your friend, kim gyuvin already standing up and han yujin beside him, with their bags slung on their shoulders, waiting patiently for you while you were spacing out.

you quickly stood up and dusted the invisible dust on your pants. taking your totebag over your shoulder and stood up to exit the tutoring centre. you trailing behind the two boys and felt the cold breeze of spring blowing onto your face.

tugging on yujin’s sleeve, you sighed, “mid-terms is around the corner, i’m tired.”

“relax, cheer up and enjoy bubble tea with your two favourite boys.” the boy smiled down at you proudly and gyuvin hummed beside you.

the three of you entered the bubble tea café, you giving your order to gyuvin while he orders and pays it for you and yujin, considering it as a stress relief gift after studying too hard. you and yujin had found a spot near the window as the male takes out his phone and took a photo of gyuvin queuing to post.

you then felt like a familiar sharp gaze was looking at you. as you turned your gaze from yujin to the person, you felt your heart stopped beating.

you felt this lingering look since you both met again about a month ago when he suddenly got the new position at this entertainment in front of the college you go. even though you both had mutual friends, it was definitely a surprise to you, seeing him for the first time since you both parted a few years back. the fact that he still looked as handsome as ever, it was hard to not stare when you're around him.

the handsome face you ever missed so much.

the breakup wasn't bad. for you. both broke up mutually with no guilt or shame. perhaps, the timing wasn't right back then but if there was another chance, ricky wouldn't mind trying again because every time he sees the rain, he thinks of you. you adored it, and if you both hadn't broken up watching the rain together, he would've moved on.

you were enjoying this moment though, looking into each other's eyes. it was like those nights getting lost with time from studying together back then. it was only a wish that things would work just like the old days because you hadn't been in a relationship since with ricky. you could almost lose it when he smiled from your thoughts.

“signature bubble tea for our lovely y/n.” gyuvin then sat beside yujin who was already sipping on his drink.

a smile adorned your lips, thanking gyuvin and poked the straw through the cup. feeling the gaze was still on you, shifting in your seat shyly. ricky adored that small but genuine smile of yours at even small gestures.

“uhm, i’m going to call my mom for five minutes.” you excused yourself to go upstairs and out the porch of the café to pick yourself up.

a figure’s shadow appeared from behind you, almost towering your own shadow on the cement ground. you turned around and saw that blonde hair of theirs that you had adored fluffing and ruffling it up in the past. those cat-like eyes staring deep into yours. you shifted slightly, holding onto the railings.

when ricky clears his throat, your eyes flicker back to him and you try to keep the guilty expression off of your face. the look on his face is clear. he’s been trying to get your attention for a while and you haven't even noticed.

he turns his head to look in the direction your eyes have been glued, and you quickly sat straight. he can't. he can’t see what it is that's got you so distracted.

"y/n, long time no see." you immediately say, pulling his attention back to you. “how are you?"

your answering hum is quiet, noncommittal. his heart drops into your stomach in response. the relationship the two of you have is good. almost too good. if you mess this up, you'll regret it forever, so you need to get it together and focus on whatever else to do.

still, your eyes flicker back across the buildings.

back to him.

ricky must feel your stare burning a hole into the side of his face because he glances in your direction. When your eyes meet, it's like all the breath is gone from your lungs. his gaze is like a gentle caress along your skin, and he wants nothing more than to sink into your embrace.

"what are you doing here, graduated yet?" ricky asked. he leaned over the wooden railing like you before you turned around and leaned onto your back so you're facing him.

"it’s more quiet here than in there." you motioned the two loud boys in the café you went with before you both laughed.

he took a deep breath and sighed. "trainings been harsh."

"really?" you asked. "never knew about it till now."

ricky nodded, then he trailed his eyes on the gaps on the floor of the porch, hoping to get his thoughts straight. "did you finally find a real reason why we broke up?"

there was a gush of nostalgia running through you and you couldn't find the words to answer it.

ricky noticed, yet he knows you're a deep thinker so sometimes, it takes a while for you to have a complete answer.

"sorry if I made it awkward." he bit his lips to lean away from the weird feeling in the air.

“that, i don’t know how to answer it,” you said, eyes leaving his, “maybe i thought you found someone else and wanted to focus on your career.”

"can’t we feel vulnerable for once?" ricky asked. his gaze into your eyes was mesmerizing as you remembered. his body was heating up and you didn't know if his words were letting your guard down or if it was his touch, his hands that were resting softly on your back. "i have so much to tell you." he confessed in a blazing whisper.

"no, you don’t."

"yes, i do." he frowned.

"well, fine."

"please, please, listen to me." ricky was desperate, you could hear it in his voice. you let him continue as he gazed back into your eyes, wondering if you could hear his heart as he confessed. "i missed you. i was excited to see you again after so long but i didn't know if you wanted to be with me again because we're so friendly and-" he paused with a frown, "you’re a stubborn girl.”

"quanrui, sometimes we don't like things and have to change and move on." you tried to fight back. your grip stayed and you weren't sure if you were holding onto him or yourself.

"are you also doing that?" he asked and damn. you were caught in the throat. no words but thoughts ran through you because he could see it in your eyes.

one thing you knew is that you never moved on from ricky, not one bit. you were missing the nights where you both spend and cuddle together. you were missing his soft spoken words that encouraged you throughout your day. just like ricky, he missed your warm embrace colliding with his own. he missed your daily routines together.

slowly, ricky reached his head up towards you and pressed his lips onto yours.

his hands pushed your back closer to him, settling you close to the railings so he could move his lips against yours. his kisses were gentle, which made you crave the feeling more. you couldn't help to move along with him, smooching while you hovered over him to fix your knees. your arms locked him there as his hands gripped the railings between your body to keep you leaned against them.

your heads switched sides as if your minds were as one. in that brief moment, his hot breath kissed your cheek before your lips connected again. the desires you both wanted were burning against your soon-swollen lips and for a moment, ricky could feel himself being a complete wreck for you because everything was too familiar. you were falling apart in his embrace as your fingers found their way to his hair. it was such a habit that you almost bit his lips from the session.

"i miss you so much." ricky managed to breathe before he let out a chuckle with the tremble of his voice tickling against your lips. you were out of breath by then so when you pulled back to see those loving eyes of his, you thought maybe gyuvin was right: you should just go with what your heart is telling you.

"are you cold?" he asked when he noticed your hands hiding in your sleeves. "do you want to stay here for a bit before you go?"

"no." you declined his offer with a smile. "i’m gonna go and i still have your number so,.”

you blushed. he stopped himself from offering his hand since they're warm. he nodded once with his lips pressed tightly into a tiny smile. "see you later then. watch out for the weather."

“thanks. see you soon." you sighed softly. you gave him one last smile before walking away and downstairs to your friends.

he still remembered everything you’ve done together.

like how he was making your heart flutter, remembering all of the things you wanted to do when you were still with him. you hadn't done those things because it would be most perfect with him, you'd still think so. or like how he warmed you up without holding you close to him, or how he made you think everything was going to be about you and him.

too many nights for you both to be this close again.

a/n ! thank you so much for reading and giving me requests. i’m thankful that you guys enjoyed reading it and giving all the notes and support. i do not own any characters, music or pics given, will definitely work harder for the next ones !

happiest birthday to shen quanrui ! 🤍

signing out, miaaa hihi !

#zb1 #zb1 oneshots #zerobaseone #zerobaseone imagines #zb1 fics #zb1 imagines #zb1 x reader #zerobaseone fics #zerobaseone x reader #shen quanrui #ricky #ricky imagines #ricky zb1 #zerobaseone ricky

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