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coff33andb00ks · 8 months ago

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Until You - Part Two

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

charles leclerc x female pop singer!reader x oscar piastri f1 smau with intermittent scenes fc: none it's a mix of taylor swift, sabrina carpenter, and random pinterest ladies. {voice claim is adele}

Summary: he drives vroom vrooms, she sings soulful tunes. there's no way in hell this is gonna work, right? Warnings: language, implied smut (18+ only), oscar is a simp, lando is a horrible wingman, reader is a fangirl

Y/n set her phone aside and laughed as Leo jumped over onto her, headbutting her chin then licking it while she rubbed him. Charles stretched out, gently pulling the dog from her face.

"He's a bit insane," he apologized, rolling his eyes when Leo immediately scampered back to tuck his head under her chin.

"If he keeps loving on me like this I might smuggle him out," she teased, smiling as Charles laughed.

"You'd steal my dog?" he asked, clicking his tongue. Leo's ears perked up and y/n gasped as she was abandoned. Charles cooed at the puppy, cuddling him close.

"Not steal. Borrow." Reaching over, she smoothed her hand over the pup's back, not really surprised when he suddenly flopped onto his side, yawning with a squeak.

"You can babysit?" Charles offered, looking up at her with a smile.

"Hm… I don't know. What's the pay rate?" Watching as Leo nestled his head against Charles' shoulder, eyes drooping.

"My undying thanks, Leo's devotion… Paddock passes?" He leaned his head back. "A kiss?"

She blushed, thinking of the unexpected but very welcome kiss they'd shared on a dark street while walking Leo. The sweetness and tenderness had been sorely needed. Sighing, though, she shook her head. "I don't even get a Ferrari? I'll pass."

His chuckle was, like his company had been all evening, warm and soothing. "You don't have one already?"

"If I'm in New York or London my assistant arranges for a driver. And it's pointless having one in LA. I have a Mercedes but I rarely… Actually, I don't. That was his." She shrugged, impulsively scooping Leo up and settling him against her chest. He squirmed a little then relaxed and she sighed, knowing Charles understood her need for puppy snuggles.

The room was silent for a moment, Charles shifting so was next to her. "Why did you cry for yourself at the show, chérie?"

"I was stupid," she whispered. "I fell for everything he said. When I met him the first time people told me he was bad news but I just thought they were jealous, and when I told him he said they were crazy. And I believed it. By the time I realized they were right it was too late."

"That doesn't make you stupid. You were young when you met, yes?" he asked gently.

"Twenty-one."

"Exactly. So you weren't stupid, chérie. You were naïve."

"Perfect prey for a guy like him," she sighed. "I thought I was living my childhood dream because not only was I a singer, I was dating my childhood crush."

"He was your crush?" Charles made a face.

"I was like ten when his stupid Baby song came out," she defended.

"Ah, we were all stupid at that age." He nodded.

"I just…" She sighed, pressing her face into Leo's fur for a few seconds. When she lifted her head she stared straight ahead. "I feel like he played a colossal joke on me. He said all the right things at first and when he showed his true side I was too in love to want to give up on us."

Charles's hand slid over hers. He sat up, his expression concerned. "Did he…"

"Not physically," she murmured, answering the question he asked with his eyes. "He wounded with words. When I got excited about a new song I was working on he always downplayed it, you know? I got the opportunity to perform Your Song this year at the Grammy's—"

"It was beautiful," he said. "You said you would play it all the time as a child."

"And he—" She blinked in surprise. "You remember that?"

"It was during the lockdowns, no? The video of you playing and singing it at home went viral. I watched it a lot while I was learning piano."

"Wait." She laughed, shocked. "You watched me while you taught yourself piano?"

"Because I saw the video and you said you were self taught." His smile was almost bashful. "It was one of the first pieces I learned to play."

"But you've never played it publicly."

He shrugged. "It belongs to you."

"It belongs to Elton, I just borrowed it." She looked across the room, through the doorway where she could just see his grand piano. "Will you play for me?"

Charles protested weakly. "Chérie, I'm still not as good as you—"

"Please?" she murmured.

He sighed, looking at her for a moment. Then, sighing again, he nodded. She smiled, gently transferring Leo to the sofa and getting to her feet. Charles led her through to the piano, and she looked around the room, taking in the décor and noting that he had recording equipment in the corner.

"It won't disturb the neighbors will it?" she asked, joining him on the piano bench.

"No, they never complain when I play." He lifted the cover and let out a breath. "I feel like I am back in school doing reviews."

She giggled. "I promise not to grade you harshly."

He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, and as soon as he began to play she felt him relax. She couldn't help but hum along softly. He glanced at her, smiling, and she drew in a breath when he gave her a nod. "I am playing, you should sing," he said, tipping his head. "Please."

"The last verse," she agreed, turning on the bench so she faced him. Waiting for his nod, she admired his side profile and the focus with which he played, already aware that music was a passion of his. She began to sing, watching him, blinking and then finding him looking at her as she sang the line I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue and oh, they were both blue and green and she scooted back a little when she felt herself starting to fall into them. When his playing softened she softened her voice, watching his eyes light with something akin to admiration.

"Oh… I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind… That I put down in words… How wonderful… Life is… While you're in the world…"

She wasn't sure if he leaned in or if she did, or if they did it at the same time. But the music seemed to echo around them as their lips met, stealing her breath and drawing her closer to him. It seemed so natural to be kissing him again, and when he stopped playing abruptly and his hands cradled her cheeks she finally let herself touch him, tentatively resting her hand on the side of his neck.

"Y/n," he moaned, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against hers.

"We shouldn't," she whispered.

"I know," he agreed.

His breath caressed her lips and she shivered. "People will talk."

"Do you care?" he whispered.

"No, but…" She stared into his eyes, both hands sliding to cup the back of his neck. "Please just… I can't let myself fall for you, Charles. I can't get played again."

"I don't play," he murmured, tracing her cheek with his knuckles.

"How can I know that you're not full of tricks and unkept promises?" she asked, pulling away. His fingers trailed down to her chin and she felt a twinge of regret when she heard his sigh.

"You can't ever know, can you?" He lightly plinked the piano keys.

"I guess not." Pulling one foot up onto the bench, she rested her chin on her knee. She watched his hand move over the keys, unintentionally humming. "Play that again?"

He did, shifting to give her room when she reached to add a few chords.

"Take a bow… To the crowd… The joke's on me," she sang gently.

Charles hummed, nodding as they played through it again. And, apparently realizing what she was doing, he stood and left the room, coming back a moment later with her phone and his iPad. "Do you need pen and paper?"

"No, my phone's good, thank you."

He sat next to her, and when he shifted she realized Leo was tucked in the pocket of his hoodie. "Would you prefer I leave?"

She shook her head, opening her phone's camera and starting a video. "I need your input and help."

He scoffed at that, bending to place Leo in the soft dog bed beneath the piano. "You're the professional, mon couer."

"See, you say things like my heart and say you don't play," she teased, actually laughing when he bumped her shoulder with his.

"It's how I speak, amour."

"I'll believe that when you talk to Max or Lewis and call them your heart," she snorted.

"You have a point," he conceded with a sigh. "But I do not play."

"Only the piano, right?" she asked, ending the video and starting a new one.

"Only the piano, yes." He leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "Shall I play for you, mon couer?"

"Please? While I work on lyrics."

He kept calling her the professional but his input was better than from some who'd been in the industry for decades. And she knew it was because music for him wasn't a career, it was an outlet. He played and composed with emotion, not with a care for how much money it would make him.

"Again?" he asked an hour later.

Taking a sip of the tea he'd brewed for them, she nodded. "I think we've got it, Charles."

"Will you record it?" He took his place in front of the piano while she stretched.

"Yeah, video's going," she told him.

"I mean to publish."

"Oh. I guess? My manager can handle the rights and crediting and royalties for you."

He shrugged. "I don't need the royalties, mon couer."

"Would you record it with me?" she asked once they'd played through the entire song fully.

"You would want me?" He sounded surprised and she turned to him, ending the video and immediately emailing it to herself.

"Of course. It's your song too. Your melody. I'd love to be in the studio with you." Thinking of how busy he would be for the rest of the season, she locked her phone. "I'm sure we can find a studio nearby for us to use before I leave."

He chuckled. "You find one, amour, and I will be there."

"Thank you," she whispered, hugging him. His arms wound around her and she closed her eyes, letting herself enjoy the warmth and gentleness of his embrace. They both began to pull away at the same time, both freezing when his cheek brushed hers.

She was well aware it could be a big mistake, that she had once again fallen for the right words, and she would be left alone and cold once more. But she turned her head slightly, barely brushing his lips with hers. His arms tightened as he caught her in a gentle kiss and it felt different and she couldn't begin to explain how. Last time there had been the element of danger, the excitement and the butterflies and fireworks. But Charles…

He guided her to her feet, somehow keeping his lips on hers. He didn't pull her with him from the room, his hands at her waist keeping her steady.

It was warmth and safety. Exciting, yes, but calming at the same time. He wasn't an ice cold energy drink that would leave her buzzing and her heart racing. He was a cup of hot tea on a cold winter's day. His gentle touch soothed her even as it aroused her. When he sat on the foot of his bed she hesitated only a second before straddling his thighs, kneeling over him.

"Do you want music, chérie?" he whispered, leaning back slightly.

"Don't need it," she promised, shivering as his hands slipped under the shirt he'd loaned her, his fingers caressing and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Candles?" He grunted and chuckled when she lightly shoved his shoulders. Lying back, he stared up at her, humming through a sigh while one hand left her skin, reaching to stroke the curve of her jaw. "He didn't deserve you."

"Is this where I say 'no one does'?" she murmured, leaning over him. "Or do I say maybe you do?"

"Don't blow up my ego," he whispered, sitting up to meet her in another kiss.

YN laughed while she signed the CD, nodding when one of the mechanics asked if she would sign something for his niece. Ynbff was already on it, pulling a copy of the CD from her bag and YN signed it for him, handing it over with a smile then spending a few moments to take pictures. They then decided to walk along, mainly so yn could work off some of her nervous energy.

Pete stayed close as they walked along in front of the garages. YN walked slowly, breathing in the scent of the sea mixed with the aroma of fuel and rubber. Taking a few photos, she couldn't keep the smile from her face as drivers walked up to introduce themselves. As they neared the McLaren garage she snapped a photo of the car, stopping long enough to post it to her story.

ynyln has added to their story

"YN," Ellie hissed.

She jerked her head up, eyes widening at the sight of Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri standing with her assistant. "Shit, sorry," she mumbled, stepping forward. "Hi."

"Found your way to us at last?" Lando teased, an easy grin on his face once the introductions had been made.

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

Oscar snorted, grinning. "Heh, nice one."

"Thanks." Smiling up at him, she missed the knowing look on Lando's face as he looked between them.

"Oh this is mint – Catch ya later yeah? Media," he said, moving to shake YN's hand then turning to ynbff. "You said you wanted a drink, right? Follow me – you don't mind right YN? Perfect."

YN blinked as he easily swept her friend away, leaving her alone with Oscar. And Pete, but he was chatting with a couple of the mechanics. Turning to smile at her favorite driver, she cleared her throat. "You're doing great this season so far," she said.

"You think so?"

"Well yeah. You're already ahead in points as opposed to last year at this time. I know you've had a couple less than stellar races this season, but you're consistently top five and you had fasted laps a few weeks ago at Miami. You'll get a podium soon I know, and you're definitely good enough to get your first win." Realizing she was starting one of her rambles, she felt her cheeks grow warm and pressed her lips together. "I'm not biased, honestly. Just because you're my favorite driver—"

"I'm your favorite driver?" he asked softly.

She was sure she imagined the hint of wonder in his voice. "Well… Yeah."

He grinned and she was momentarily dazzled. "I'm honored."

"You're young and passionate, and more importantly, you're good. I've seen people brush you off because you don't have an outlandish personality but I think it's a benefit to you. If you steadily cry for attention people won't be surprised when you earn it."

As she talked she moved, and she didn't realize they were walking together until they reached the barrier. He leaned against it, continuing to tell her about his late night drive of the circuit as soon as he'd arrived in Monaco.

mclaren

liked by charles_leclrec, ybffn, oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others mclaren: We think we've discovered ynyln's favorite driver 👀 What are you talking about, oscarpiastri?? scuderiaferrari: please return our guest 😤 mclaren: no 😌 landonorris: you mean I'm not the favorite?????? user5: stop this is so cute!! user9: her face tho. same, yn, same user4: the way he's smiling omg

ynyln

liked by mclaren, ybffn, oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others ynyln: it was completely accidental that I found myself near the McLaren garage, and this lovely guy from Australia was kind enough to tell me how I got lost then escorted me back to Ferrari. Undying thanks to oscarpiastri, otherwise I'd still be wandering the streets of Monaco. (Ferrari's jokingly(?) threatened to lock me in hospitality for the rest of the weekend) mclaren: blink twice if you need rescuing oscarpiastri: always happy to help out 😊 (liked by author) user4: oh no he has no rizz 😩 user5: ugh this is so flipping cute user2: he's blushing!!!! AGH

ynyln

liked by charles_leclrec, mclaren, oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others ynyln: an amazing day. I'm in awe at all the work and dedication that goes into the vroom vrooms. Thank you so much scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, f1! (Now to crash because I'm waking up at 5am) scuderiaferrari: ❤️❤️❤️ charles_leclerc: it is already an honor. This week is going to be incredible! ynyln: c'est déjà incroyable user2: oop user3: "an honor" sir she stayed at ur house last night oscarpiastri: 5am?? Do you hate yourself? ynyln: sometimes but this is for TOP SECRET RECORDING oscarpiastri: Is it top secret because it's top secret or because you're doing it so early? oscarpiastri: also please don't hate yourself ynyln: it's a human weakness I'm afraid. And it's top secret because I haven't told the label I'm working on new songs already. But I promise to work on my self esteem oscarpiastri: I can't wait to hear them. ynyln: if I don't pass out I'll drop by mclaren's garage and give you an early access listen oscarpiastri: you can pass out at our garage (liked by author) user4: maybe he does have rizz mclaren: we can kick lando out of his room if you need a nap tomorrow, YN (liked by author and oscarpiastri) landonorris: no?? mclaren: changing the access code now ynyln: I watched the hub tour, can I take oscar's room? (liked by oscarpiastri) mclaren: done oscarpiastri: wait user8: hey scuderiaferrari, mclaren's tryna steal your girl scuderiaferrari: she'll have extra security tomorrow

"OSCAR!"

Oscar jerked, nearly hitting his head on the underside of the shelf, as Lando burst into his room. "Jesus Christ, mate," he groaned, backing out and turning to look at his teammate. "What?"

"Are you fixing the room up for YN?" Lando waggled his eyebrows as he looked around.

"Oh fuck off," he muttered, going back to plug in his laptop. "How are you this energetic so early?"

"Early?" Lando scoffed, flopping onto the couch. "It's almost noon. We've got the thing in forty-five minutes—"

"And you have nothing better to do than annoy me?" Oscar asked, kicking Lando's feet off the couch before sitting down to open his laptop.

"No? But also I'm here to offer my services."

With a heavy sigh, Oscar closed his laptop and set it aside. "What are you talking about?"

"You and YN."

Oscar just stared at him. "There's no and."

Lando waved one hand. "I saw the pictures, mate. Did you see the pictures?"

"Pretty sure I did? What the fuck are you talking about?"

Sitting up, Lando whipped out his phone and opened his photo album. "One perk to being so nice is the social media admin sends me any pics I ask him to." Swiping through, he pulled up one and turned his phone so Oscar could see. "Exhibit A."

It was the same photo posted to the official mclaren account. The one of he and YN chatting at the barricade. "It's two people talking."

"That's not the point – It's the looking," Lando pushed the phone closer to him. "Until I saw this I didn't really understand the heart eyes for days meme but now? Osc, mate, she's into you."

He let out a humorless chuckle. "And you call me a muppet. No she's not."

"What were you talking about that had her smiling like that?" Lando swiped to another photo.

"I dunno." About home. Not a house, but the feeling of belonging. And how important music was in destroying barriers of language and lifestyles. He could have talked to her for hours, could have listened to her talk about what she used to escape her demons for days. "I think music."

"And here?"

Oscar kept his face blank, as though he wasn't staring at himself blushing and giggling over what YN had said.

"I know you care but sometimes your whole attitude is literally 'I don't give a fuck about this' in interviews and I gotta say: same."

"Ah… Media I think." He cleared his throat and got to his feet.

"Mate, it's alright to like her."

No it wasn't. "It's not like that."

"Right so you telling her the view from the dog's head is enchanting was just small talk?"

Lando was not going to let this go. "She saw my video of my hike and asked about it."

"And?" Lando threw up his hands when Oscar just looked at him. "That was your cue to say oh it's lovely, why don't we go together one morning!"

"Er… No, I'd never say something like that." Oscar shook his head. Not to mention she was tangled up with Charles...

"That's the problem—" Lando cut off when the door opened. One of the PR team popped her head in.

"Hi Oscar, you've got a visitor. She said you're expecting her so I'll bring her up?"

"Uh… Sure?" Oscar winced as his voice cracked on the word, dragging his hands over his face as the door clicked shut.

"Who's coming to see you?" Lando asked suspiciously, helping himself to one of the drinks from the fridge.

"I don't have a clue," he sighed.

"Maybe it's YN. She promised to drop by so you can hear her new music right?"

"Are you constantly reading comments?" Oscar muttered. "Yeah she did but I doubt she'd come straight—" He gulped when there was a knock at the door.

"Oh this is gonna be great," Lando giggled, taking a sip of his energy drink as he went to open the door. "Well hello! We were just talking about you."

It was her, because of course it was, she wasn't the type to make even the vaguest of promises then not fulfill them, and she was in his private room, smiling and bubbly as she greeted him and Lando, and—

Lando. Fuck's sake it would take an act of god to get him to leave the room now.

"All good I hope," YN said with a little laugh.

"Only the best," Lando promised. "Osc can't shut up about you."

"Shut up," Oscar groaned, drowned out by YN's giggle.

"I think it's so cute that you call him Osc. My assistant – ybffn? She calls him Pastry Boy."

Lando's eyes went wide, and Oscar groaned again when his friend burst into high-pitched laughter. "No but it fits! He does love a good pastry!"

YN swiveled her eyes to him and he felt his stomach twist. "Do you?"

"Oh god, yeah. My trainer hates it because I can't say no to a good pastry." He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering why his palms felt sweaty.

"Yeah I'm with you there. We went incognito in Paris just so I could buy and eat every pastry I wanted." She sighed happily at the memory.

"You can still go incognito?" he asked, surprised.

"Sometimes. Luckily no one knew which hotel I was staying at so we were able to sneak out without being noticed. And Pete was with us. When he's in jeans and a hoodie nobody pays attention to him. Plus it was raining so I was able to keep my hood up."

"What's your favorite pastry?" Lando asked casually.

"That's like asking a mother which child is her favorite…" YN scrunched her face and sighed. "Pain au chcocolate."

"Perfect choice, that's the best," Oscar said with a nod.

"Isn't it? I love pastry and chocolate, it's—"

"The best of both worlds," he finished with her.

"Yes!" She grinned and the twist in his stomach loosened, unleashing a swarm of butterflies.

"Oh this is so beautiful," Lando murmured, yelping when Oscar elbowed him in the ribs.

"Did you get to the studio?" he asked her.

"Yes." She practically glowed, shrugging off her backpack. Motioning for her to sit, he stumbled when Lando pushed him towards the couch. "I got two tracks down and a couple rough demos—" She pulled out a tablet, shoving her backpack to her other side as Oscar sat next to her.

Lando huffed and took the chair. "Oh!" he blurted, his expression innocent. "Did you want me to leave? I don't wanna ruin a private listening party."

"No it's fine." She flashed him a smile then turned her attention to the tablet. "The first one is just a demo. I'm not that great on guitar and it was last minute, so…"

Oscar listened as she rambled on about how she'd been inspired for the one and the second was a last minute burst she'd cranked out with just herself and the guitar. "Anyways," she said with a small shrug, handing the tablet to Oscar. "Just hit play."

He did, and was met with a strumming guitar. Then her voice, and he marveled at her ability to sing so beautifully so early in the morning. He glanced at her, saw she'd pulled her knees up and was nodding her head to the beat. I was enchanted to meet you. Please don't be in love with someone else. Please don't have somebody waiting on you...

ynyln has posted to their story

[caption: got lost at the mclaren hub oops]

YN smiled as she posted the story and locked her phone, picking up her cup to finish her coffee. She'd been hanging out with them for nearly two hours. Well, with Oscar. Lando had been in and out, giggling and giving Oscar knowing looks. "I should really get going."

Lando nodded, smiling. "Glad you liked the transition. If you ever want…"

Laughing, she patted his shoulder. "As soon as I'm ready to do a remix album I'll call you."

"Perfect." He nudged Oscar and tipped his head.

Confused, because she could tell Lando was trying to silently tell his friend something, she got her backpack and picked up her paddock pass. "I can see—"

"I'll walk you out," Oscar blurted, already on his feet.

"Thanks." Waving goodbye to Lando, she headed out of the room, smiling her thanks when Oscar opened the door for her.

"He's a bit mental, but he's alright," he said as they walked along to the stairs.

"Lando? My grandma would say he's hyper." YN headed down the stairs, stopping at the bottom to loop her pass over her neck.

"She'd be right," he chuckled.

She felt him tugging on her backpack and glanced over her shoulder to see him zipping the front compartments.

"Don't want you losing anything," he said. His cheeks tinged pink and she almost giggled.

"Thanks. Did you get a hike in this morning?" she asked once they were walking across the hub towards the exit.

"No, I did work in the gym. Did – Oh right you were at the studio."

"I'm gonna try to go tomorrow," she said. She wondered if Charles would want to join her.

"Do…" He cleared his throat, stopping just before they got to the doors.

"Hm?" She turned to face him.

"Would you, um…" His cheeks darkened and he ran a hand through his hair. "Christ, I'm bad at this."

Realizing what he was trying to say, she gave him a soft smile. "Do you want to come with me on the hike in the morning?"

He nearly sagged with relief. "I-if you want company, yeah."

"I'd love to." Taking out her phone, she unlocked it and handed it to him so he could give her his number. "I'll text you so you'll have me – What time did you want to head out?"

"Whenever you'd like. I don't have anything until afternoon." He handed her phone back with a smile.

Making sure to save him, she sent him a quick text - 👋🏻 – and leaned to kiss his cheek. "Text me later and we can make plans."

"Yeah, alright," he agreed.

"I'll see you in the morning, Oscar. Thanks for everything," she said, rolling her eyes when Pete appeared at her side. Exchanging farewells with Oscar, she held onto her phone as she left, glancing back to see Oscar watching her through the window. Used to Pete's surly silence, she didn't talk on the way back to the Ferrari hospitality center, unconsciously chewing on her lip as she thought over the day.

Taglist:

@lichterfee | @formulaal | @a-beaverhausen | @dullypully |

#charles leclerc #f1 #formula 1 #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc social media au #charles leclerc smau #f1 x reader #f1 social media au #f1 smau #f1 fanfic #oscar piastri #oscar piastri smau #my writings > cl > smau #my writings > op > smau

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solarmorrigan · 2 years ago

Text

I have a lot of thoughts about Steve who craves physical affection, who thinks of his worth in terms of what he can do for other people, and who got very drunk at high school parties. This is one of them

CW for heavily implied past dubcon (not between Eddie and Steve). Please take care

Eddie has never seen Steve drunk.

At least – not up close. There had been a few high school parties back in the day where Eddie had passed by the “Keg Stand King,” but since he’s come to know Steve personally (intimately), Steve has barely touched alcohol.

He’s told Eddie the story of being drugged against his will and how he doesn’t want to repeat the feeling of losing control, and how he doesn’t like not being able to drive if he needs to, and how the hangover would probably just trigger a migraine anyway – and, really, he just doesn’t drink much anymore.

Yet tonight had been a special occasion: Robin’s birthday. She herself isn’t much for alcohol (for at least some reasons that match up with Steve’s), but drinking, she said, feels like a part of the birthday experience. She’d somehow gotten Steve to match her beer for beer, for “emotional support,” and it hadn’t taken long for the both of them to become entirely inebriated.

Time has apparently greatly eroded Steve’s tolerance.

Eddie had distantly expected him to be kind of a bitchy drunk—and he had become a bit cattier, for sure—but mostly he’d just become affectionate. There had been hugs for nearly everyone, and he’d spent the latter half of the party slowly migrating into Eddie’s lap, plying him with constant kisses on the cheek and giggling ridiculously at nearly everything Eddie had said.

It had been sort of adorable (not that Eddie will tell him that; no, he’s going to sit on that information until it benefits him).

It’s a little less fun now that he’s trying to cart Steve up to his room and into bed. Steve is a bit wobbly, and a lot heavy, and is much more interested in trying to cling to Eddie like a koala and bury his face in Eddie’s neck than he is in actually walking anywhere.

“Y’know, we could cuddle to your heart’s content if you’d just let me get you to bed,” Eddie points out when he and Steve have stalled out partway down the hall, leaning against the closed door to the bathroom.

Steve hums vaguely, tightening the grip he has on Eddie’s t-shirt. “But you’re out here,” he mumbles, nuzzling into the crook of Eddie’s neck.

A shiver travels down Eddie’s spine at the feeling of Steve’s warm breath ghosting across his throat, but it doesn’t go much further than a gentle, dying flutter in his gut. As affectionate as Steve has been, as hungry for contact as he’s acted all night, there’s been nothing sexual about it. It’s been all hugs and sweet kisses, not heated embraces and sloppy make outs.

Besides– Steve’s drunk. Eddie’s not going to take advantage.

He wedges a hand between himself and Steve and gently pushes Steve back.

“I’m coming to bed with you, you colossal dork,” Eddie says.

Steve blinks at Eddie, slightly unfocused. “Oh.” He finally heaves up and away from the wall, grabbing Eddie’s hand to tug him along as he weaves unsteadily down the hall. “Well why didn’t you say so?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, all affection. “Where else would I be going?”

Steve stops when they get to his room, apparently pondering the answer.

“Away?” he finally volunteers, half-questioning, as if he’s hoping he’s wrong.

“No, baby,” Eddie assures him immediately, leaning in to give him a quick kiss. “I’m staying. Gotta make sure you don’t choke on your tongue after you pass out, anyway.”

“’m not that drunk,” Steve says; he rolls his eyes and then immediately seems to regret it, reaching out for Eddie’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Uh huh,” Eddie drawls. “Okay, time for bed, big boy.”

Grumbling, Steve releases Eddie to shuffle over to the bed, where he flops down on his back with a sigh, jeans and all.

“Alright, not exactly what I meant, but I can work with this,” Eddie says, kneeling on the bed by Steve’s hip.

They’d managed to ditch their shoes in the entryway, but they’re otherwise fully dressed, and Steve is going to be uncomfortable if he tries to spend the whole night in his belt and jeans.

Steve squirms a bit when Eddie reaches for his belt buckle, as if he’s not quite sure whether to move away or not.

“Eddie…” he groans – an exasperated sort of groan, rather than the usual way he groans Eddie’s name when he’s squirming on the bed.

“Just hold still,” Eddie shushes him with a quick pat to the hip.

He gets as far as pulling the tongue of the belt through the buckle before Steve’s hands shoot out and grab Eddie by the wrists. His grip is surprisingly strong, considering how uncoordinated he’d been tonight, and Eddie stills immediately.

“Steve?” Eddie looks up to see Steve staring down at him, wide-eyed and apprehensive; hell, if Eddie didn’t know any better, he might say Steve looks… sort of frightened.

“Not– not tonight,” Steve says, enunciating carefully, and Eddie’s confusion only increases.

He doesn’t want his belt off tonight? Is that what he’s worked up about?

In the wake of Eddie’s baffled lack of response, Steve only grows more insistent, tugging Eddie’s hands away from his waist.

“Not while I’m–” Steve breaks off, licking his lips nervously. He shakes his head and adds quietly, “Please.”

Brows furrowed, Eddie stares at Steve a second longer. “Not while you’re…?” Then the penny drops, and Eddie jerks away from Steve so quickly that Steve barely has time to let go. “Oh shit, no. That’s not– no, I’m not– Steve, fuck, no, that’s not what I’m doing.”

Steve stares up at Eddie, the anxiety he’s a little too drunk to mask still lingering in his eyes.

“I promise, I was only trying to get your belt and pants off so you’d be more comfortable. For sleeping!” Eddie says quickly. “But you can keep them on if you want. Hell, put on more layers. Do you want a jacket?”

Distantly, Eddie realizes he’s rambling and tries to stop; it doesn’t seem to be helping.

“I– I know I was kissing you,” Steve says, then glances away with a grimace, seeming a bit more sober now. “Practically throwing myself at you. ’m sorry, I just–”

“Don’t be sorry. Don’t be,” Eddie says firmly. “Even if you were throwing yourself at me—even though you weren’t; like, I can tell the difference between cuddly you and horny you, okay?—but even if you had been, you can still say no. You can always say no. But I swear, Steve, I was only trying to get you comfy, that’s all.”

For a moment, Steve just breathes, processing Eddie’s words as carefully as his sloshed brain will allow.

“Are you still going to stay?” he finally asks. “Even though I don’t want to have sex?”

“Of course,” Eddie blurts, some dizzying combination of baffled, anxious, and incensed. “I’m only gonna leave if you tell me to.”

And even then, he’d only go as far as the couch downstairs (just in case).

Slowly, Steve nods, then reaches for his belt to pull it off in a series of determined, clumsy movements. He drops it on the floor when he’s done but makes no move to remove his jeans.

Eddie, following suit, resigns himself to an uncomfortable night. He strips off his jewelry and his own belt but leaves his pants on.

All the lights go out, save for a small, dim lamp on Steve’s desk, and then Eddie crawls on top of the covers with Steve, pulling the blanket from the end of the bed—a gift from Claudia—up over both of them.

A little of the churning, anxious mess in Eddie’s chest eases when Steve immediately plasters himself to his side, resting his head on Eddie’s chest (and Eddie just knows there’s going to be drool there come morning, but he can’t bear to move him). All the same, even as he hears Steve’s breathing even out into sleep, Eddie can’t get his mind to rest.

What has he done to give Steve the impression that he’d try to fuck him when he’s too drunk to really say yes? What has he done to make him think he’d leave if Steve doesn’t put out?

Nothing.

Genuinely and truly, Eddie can’t think of anything. There have been plenty of times they’ve hung out, even shared a bed, and they haven’t had sex. Sure, they’re active, but they do actually do other things together.

There have been other nights where sex has seemed like a sure thing, only to be halted by an apologetic look from Steve and the start of a migraine. There have been times Eddie’s called it off because his anxiety has reared up and bit him in the ass. There’s never been anger over it.

That leaves two options: it’s either an imagined scenario stirred up by anxiety and insecurity and alcohol, or… it’s based on a different experience, in a different time and place.

All things considered, Eddie has a terrible, sinking feeling that he knows which one it is.

#is Eddie's attitude a little more socially aware than is warranted by the time period? maybe 🤷#sometimes it's just like that #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #eddiesteve #solar wrote #cw past dubcon #cw past noncon #let me know if there are other/better tags to add!

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harmonictechnicality · 2 years ago

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my heart is my armor for @thefreakandthehair's Spicy Six Spring Challenge (mwah mwah!) | *ao3 link here*

Eddie doesn’t understand Steve’s sudden interest in having a garage sale. Everything that they own is junk disguised as furniture. None of it is worth looking at, let alone buying.

Besides, they don’t even have a garage. They’re still slumming it in this dingy duplex, too broke to afford decent cutlery.

“A garage sale with no garage is just false advertisement, babe.” Eddie flops onto his stomach, hears the boxsprings of their shitty mattress groan underneath him.

“We need to do some spring cleaning anyways.” Steve sinks his nails into Eddie’s hair, scratches at his roots the way Eddie likes it best. It’s all mindless now, physical affection. Five months ago, both of them would’ve been scared shitless to behave this way. Now, it’s easy.

Routine bliss.

“Might as well make a few extra dollars out of it.” Steve adds.

Eddie scoffs. Flattens his face into the mattress, ignores the questionable dude smell. “What the fuck is spring cleaning anyways?”

“Just a thing. Always has been.”

“Hmph.”

Spring cleaning sounds like a tradition that rich assholes invented as an excuse to throw away the winter jackets they never even wore - never even took the tags off of. Eddie can just imagine a gaggle of housewives, swishing their wine and speaking in some fake transatlantic accent: ‘Oh sweet darling lambchop, it’s not wasteful. It’s simply a bit of spring cleaning.’

“I never agreed to do spring cleaning.” Eddie says.

“You never agree to do cleaning, period.”

“That’s not true. I did the laundry last month.”

Which isn’t a lie. Eddie did three (two) loads of laundry after Steve refused to go anywhere near it. Claims that the final straw was seeing some sort of mutated rodent emerging from their hamper.

“Oh that?” Eddie had fished his brain for a plausible explanation. “That was just a mouse or a rat or a… miniature possum. Something like that.” At the time, he phrased the whole thing like the weirdest multiple choice quiz - the most suitable answer being Something Like That.

“Whatever.” Steve snorts, likely recalling that same night. He turns off the lamp, lets the dark bleed into the room, swallowing the light.

They both inch into the middle of the bed, where it’s naturally starting to dip at the center. All of their belongings are used, including this mattress. If money weren’t an issue, they would invest in a new one.

Or not. Eddie kind of likes that it sags in the middle, where they always meet. Like it’s giving in, shaping itself around the weight of their relationship.

The thought makes him smile, a stupidly smitten grin at his stupidly pretty boyfriend.

“What?” Steve pokes a finger at the corner of Eddie’s mouth.

“Nothing.” He catches Steve’s finger, pretends to gnaw it off his hand till Steve laughs. Best fucking sound, even better in their bed.

Christ, he’s so in love. Wants a megaphone to scream about how in love he is with Steve Harrington. Wants to call a local radio station and request the sappiest love songs imaginable. Wants to be able to just say it, then never stop saying it.

That feels colossal though. Like the playfulness will fizzle out or the blissful routine will rupture.

So he just says it in other ways, like tonight.

“Okay, fine. You win.” Which is a direct translation to those three important words, because Eddie hates losing. One of his top ten least favorite things in this world is losing.

He folds Steve’s fingers into a fist, kisses over every knuckle. Looks up to see Steve blinking slowly, half-asleep. Looks happy.

And damn, that makes it all worth it, right? Losing so Steve can win. That makes it tolerable, almost enjoyable, for a soft expression like that.

“I’ll do the non-garage garage sale.”

Steve yawns, nuzzles into his side of the pillow. “I knew you would.”

Eddie complains the entire time they clean. Makes the biggest fuss, stomps from room to room. Their place is small, sure. Yet somehow, they generate enough dust and dirt to fill multiple trash bags. Which means multiple trips to the dumpster.

Fuck Spring for making cleanliness a seasonal personality trait.

It’s late into the afternoon when they finally take a break. Both of them are pretty disgusting, so they sit on the front steps of the duplex.

“Quit scowling, you big baby.” Steve passes a glass of water to Eddie. Takes a long chug from his own glass, throwing his head back to get more down.

No human being has the right to look this sexy without proper legal representation. But Steve wears dirt and sweat like an accessory. Makes the grime so damn rugged, utterly hot.

Yeah. Eddie finally can relate to all the women that drool over erotica novel covers. Fully gets the appeal.

“So, find anything worth selling?” Steve asks.

“As a matter of fact, yeah. I did.”

Eddie reaches to his side and grabs a black binder: Steve’s baseball card collection. An extensive one at that.

He smooths over the plastic cover, fluttering his lashes up at Steve, who seems to be seconds away from hulking out over the suggestion.

“Oh fuck that, man!” Steve yanks the binder from Eddie’s hand. “I’ve had those since I was a kid!”

“Which is exactly why it’s time to retire them. Give them a new home. One that’s not a brothel for cockroaches.”

Really, Eddie gets far too much pleasure out of this. Watching people squirm under the uncomfortable magnifying glass of his sense of humor.

Steve cracks his neck to one side and snarls.

Ha. Perfect. Eddie has dwindled him down to nonverbal replies. Just caveman actions that are equally as sexy as the dirt and sweat.

But Steve throws a curveball, too quick to catch. He slips into the house and returns with one of Eddie’s favorite cups. “And what about these, huh? What about your dorky Star Wars glasses?”

Okay, ouch. This game is not funny anymore. Totally bypassed Humor and went straight to Dire territory.

Han may have shot first, but Steve Harrington is aiming where it hurts. Cutting him deep (deeper than that very unlucky tauntaun…).

“These are collectibles, Steven. Collectibles!” Eddie exaggerates every syllable, first-grade teacher style. “I spent two years tracking down the complete Empire Strikes Back set. Still missing three from Return of the Jedi, but whatever. Progress is progress.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, these are valuable.”

“Like, worth a lot of money?”

“No. You know what I mean…” Eddie stands. He carefully grabs the glass from Steve and holds it up to the sun.

All the designs are just as vibrant as the day he found them. Him and Wayne had searched almost a dozen Burger Kings before he found this design - the scene on Endor. Eddie will never forget that day.

“The memories.” He finally answers. “These are sentimental and shit.”

Steve hums, nodding. “They mean something to you.”

“Precisely.”

“Noted.” He takes the cup back inside. There’s silence for another minute before Steve lurks around the door, saying:

“Then I guess we’ll have to sell one of your guitars instead.”

Oh shit.

Another direct hit to Eddie’s blackened heart.

“You little fucker!” He chases Steve all around the kitchen and into their bedroom. Wrestles him down on their saggy bed, instantly dirtying up again.

They end up with a decent amount of items to sell that Saturday morning. Duplicate records and cassettes, a few kitchen gadgets from Steve’s grandma, and some trinkets that Robin kindly donated. A hodgepodge of treasures, that’s what Steve keeps saying.

He’s so proud of their three tables of junk. Hodgepodge treasures, whatever. Just keeps rearranging things and straightening them out. Concentrating so hard that his eyebrows crease together. Adorably focused. Eddie loves when he gets like this. If they weren’t in a conservative small town in broad daylight, he’d kiss Steve’s twisted-up lips, make him relax a little.

“I…” Eddie starts, quickly tripping on his own tongue. Stumbles over that dumb fucking word. Four letters should not hold the power of an entire emotion, goddamnit.

He scoots out of his lawn chair, stretching upward. “I think I’ll go pester the lemonade stand across the street. Haggle the price down to a penny or something.”

Steve huffs out a laugh. “You get more bizarre every day, Munson.”

“So does the economy, Harrington.”

The lemonade stand is an immediate mistake. A little girl peers up at Eddie, eyes starting to swell with tears. Maybe the clouds are casting a big, scary shadow over him, making him look twice as evil.

Or maybe he severely underestimated how badass his look really is, who fucking knows.

He dives right into his haggling-monologue, when the girl points to his latest Iron Maiden patch on his vest. Asks in the thinnest voice who the ‘skeleton man’ is.

And look, Eddie doesn’t mess around when it comes to educating this fine nation’s youth. So he answers honestly:

“Eddie the Head. A vessel for soul-sucking metal.”

The answer is probably what makes her run. But it’s definitely the voice that opens up the floodgates.

Anyways, he’s not just gonna let all this freshly-squeezed goodness go to waste. That would be a shame. A travesty, even.

So he helps himself to two full cups of lemonade. Makes a quick escape before the kid’s parents bring pitchforks.

Eddie sneaks up behind Steve, whispers nervously in his ear. “Well… there’s good news and there’s bad news.”

“What did you do?” Steve doesn’t miss a beat.

“I got the lemonade for free.” He hops up on the table, waves the proof around with a big, cheesy grin. Still no reaction from Steve, so what the hell? Might as well get all the information out there.

“Bad news is, I made the pigtailed kid cry.”

“Dude!”

“It’s not my fault!” Eddie is suddenly very defensive. “She asked who this ‘skeleton man’ on my vest is and I couldn’t lie.”

“You lie about shit all the time.”

“Not about history, Steve! Get your head out of your perfectly-shaped ass.”

Steve puts his hand over Eddie’s mouth, gesturing to the nearby shoppers. Not that Eddie is overly concerned about what the elderly couple can hear from this distance. And he assumes that the suspender-wearing dude admiring the Barry Manilo record, would probably agree on his Ass Opinions.

However, Steve is shrinking further into his chair from Eddie’s commentary. Grunting something unintelligible but mostly likely explicit.

“Here.” Eddie determines that the safest solution is to back down. Ease off until Steve’s complexion returns to normal colors. “You can have the lemonade that isn’t diluted with the tears of a child.”

Steve laughs into the cup and takes a long swig. Chases it with an exaggerated ‘aaah’ like all of those airbrushed models do in the commercials.

Eddie is just so damn crazy about this guy. Would drink a thousand tear-soaked beverages for Steve if it meant getting to experience every day just like this. With a smile like that.

“How is it?” Steve asks.

“Tastes like citrus and fear.” Eddie responds proudly with a wink.

There’s a pause before they both erupt into laughter. Steve slapping Eddie’s knee rather than his own. Eddie snorting like a sitcom dweeb. He’s laughing so hard that he almost misses Steve uttering the most incredible sentence:

“God, I love you.”

Says it just like that. Clear as water. Easier than oxygen. Like he has told Eddie that very phrase a thousand times before.

And Eddie… Eddie can’t locate a single word in his brain. His access to language is padlocked after hearing that. Experiencing that.

All he can do is move. Move away from the table. Move behind the clothing rack full of used jackets. Move his arms outward, pulling Steve along with him.

He kisses Steve before he does something stupid like scream or flail around. If he’s going to open his big mouth, it’s going to be against Steve’s lips. Licking the drops of lemon clean off his mouth. Pushing his linen-soft hair back and holding it between his fingers.

They’re obscured by clothes and scarves, but it’s risky. Too risky to linger into a deeper kiss like Eddie craves to do. So he lets go of this moment and ducks into the house to catch his breath.

The rest of the day goes by at hyper speed, too fast to notice details. Not that anything could possibly top hearing Steve say what he said. It’s tattooed deep into everything Eddie hears, permanently inked in his mind.

Once they head back inside, Steve flicks through the wad of cash, counting their profit. It’s not much, merely pocket change - but certainly more than either of them expected. Eddie chalks up the surprising amount to Steve's charm and short-shorts. The yummiest eye-candy of the whole damn neighborhood.

“We should save up for a trip.” Steve suggests.

Eddie raises his brows. “A trip?”

“A vacation. You know, get away from this shithole town for a weekend.” The more he talks, the more Steve’s face glows. Fucking shines with daydreams. “A change of scenery might be nice.”

Eddie holds back the urge to remind Steve that he’s the best scenery in the solar system. He already gushes too much, too often. It’s bound to scare Steve off at some point.

So he simply kisses Steve’s shoulder instead, agreeing with a soft hum.

He starts to fall asleep while listening to Steve name all the places they should travel to. The last one he remembers is Boston.

“Boston would be fucking awesome, right?”

Eddie nods. Drifts off.

Thinks that anywhere with Steve Harrington would be fucking awesome.

Eddie heads up north for a couple of weeks to help Wayne move into his new place. Since Hawkins was previously sliced apart like pizza, Wayne wisely decided to retire early. Used his government hush-money in the most predictable way he could.

“All I need, son, is an empty mind and lake full of fish.” And that’s exactly what he gets. A one-story house near the top of Lake Michigan. Has one hell of a view too.

They head out to the private dock to chat and fish. Except Eddie isn’t too keen on jabbing sharp metal into a water-dweller’s mouth, so he keeps Wayne company on the dock. Lends an ear for all of his stories.

“Shame that Steve couldn’t make it.” Wayne waits to bring him up till they start packing up for the evening.

“Yeah. It is.” Eddie agrees. Misses him already. “Next time though.”

During his last weekend with Wayne, a package arrives on the front porch. It’s addressed to Eddie, which is strange. The only people that know he’s here are his boyfriend, his bandmates, and his boss. More than likely, Steve probably told their crew of demon-destroyers too, but still…

Why would anyone bother to send him a package if he’s driving back home in three days? Doesn’t add up.

He cuts into the cardboard, practically ruins the box. Inside, there’s an absurd amount of tissue paper. It’s stuffed in every corner, overflowing at the top, just a sea of noisy paper.

“Whatcha got there?” Wayne peers over his shoulder.

“Not sure yet.” Eddie sifts through the noise. Digging around more carefully now because he takes notice of the ‘Fragile’ labels on every side of the box.

He pulls out one of the overly-wrapped items, begins removing it from the tissue paper. After twirling through a few layers, he realizes exactly what it is.

Glass. Colorful designs. Fits in the palm of his hand.

The Star Wars cups. The last three Star Wars cups that had been missing from Eddie’s collection.

“No fucking way.”

“Watch it.” Wayne warns.

“It’s a warranted response, I promise.” Eddie hands the pristine Darth Vader glass over to Wayne. “Look!”

Wayne examines it for a while before letting out a long whistle. “Well I’ll be damned. Haven’t you been looking for these since-”

“1983.” Eddie answers. He gently picks up each glass, thumbs over the artwork to feel the tiny ridges of paint.

They’re in perfect condition too, more than perfect. No chips, no blemishes, no smudgy fingerprints (except for Eddie’s now). He has to place them back into the box because his hands are shaking with excitement. Smooths his palms against his jeans, head shaking in disbelief.

“That romantic asshole.” Eddie grumbles. “Couldn’t just wait to give me these once I get back home.”

Wayne cuts him a vicious side-eye, one that makes Eddie’s spine shiver. He's received this look many times throughout his childhood, even more in his teenage years. It’s Wayne’s signature stare before he calls Eddie out on his bullshit.

Apparently, it still has the same effect on him too. Works like witchcraft.

Wayne looks over the gifts, then back up at Eddie. His edge melts away, turns into something softer. Kinder.

“You know… some things can’t wait, son.”

With that, the tension in Eddie’s spine unravels. His chest inflates, warming up a few extra degrees. His whole body knows exactly what he needs to do - the thing that can’t wait another second.

The phone only rings through one time.

“This is Steve.” That voice. Hits like a homemade remedy.

“Hey, it’s Eddie.” His nails are tapping next to the phone speaker, rapid and impatient. “Listen, I just got your package and-”

“Oh, god.” Steve sounds pained all of a sudden. “Was it too much? Is it gonna be too difficult to transport back home? I know it would’ve just been easier to wait, except-”

“I love you.”

There it is. The words that can’t wait. The phrase that demands power.

“You… what?”

“I love you. Just, so much.” Eddie feels lighter, weight lifting from his lungs each time he says it. “And I couldn’t wait another second to tell you. So, yeah. Really, really in love with you, Steve.”

All Eddie can hear is Steve’s breath. Just as rapid as his nails tapping.

“Wow… um.” Steve clears his throat, but the sound comes out small. Strained. “Do you mind if I call you right back?”

Not the response Eddie was expecting. “Oh. Uh.”

“Just - hold on a sec.”

And the line clicks dead.

After the third hour of organizing pans in the kitchen, the only room close enough to launch himself at the phone if it were to ring, Eddie accepts defeat. Retreats to the guest bedroom, contemplating what the fuck went wrong.

He groans into the bedspread, claws at his hair till it’s a fucking jungle. Frizzed out beyond repair, just like his nerves.

“That’s enough moping.” Wayne knocks at the door, creaking it open. “We’re going down to the lake.”

There’s no point in arguing with him. The man is the human embodiment of Stubborn - more so than Eddie, which speaks volumes.

Besides, moping in a different location won’t make him any less pathetic.

Wayne is a master in the art of distraction. Doesn’t waste any time before telling Eddie all about the local gossip he overhears downtown. He quickly transitions into asking Eddie questions about his job. Continues this pattern till the sun falls into the horizon. Not allowing Eddie’s mind the chance to jump to conclusions until they get back to the house. To the phone.

The phone that’s still not ringing.

Wayne nudges Eddie’s arm. “Wanna give him a call?”

Yes. Desperately yes.

“Maybe. Gonna go change first.”

Eddie opens the door to the guest bedroom, and his lungs slingshot out of his chest.

Steve is there. Sitting on the bed. Looking at him with that knockout smile and slightly tired eyes.

“Hi.” He sits up a little straighter. Gives Eddie the tiniest wave.

“You’re… you-”

“Caught the first flight out here.” Steve cuts him off. “Had to.”

“How?”

“The vacation cash jar.”

No no no.

Eddie’s throat feels swollen with that realization. Knows just how fucking much that potential trip to Boston meant to Steve.

“But-”

“Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not, I’m not.” Eddie spits out. Needs to swallow this barrier of emotion in his throat so he can form an actual sentence, for christ’s sake. “Fuck. You just… have no idea how much I love you.”

Steve perks up even straighter, seems fully awake now. His smile creeps up to one side of his face, outright mischievous. He tilts his head to the side and holds an arm out, reaching for Eddie.

“Get over here and show me then.”

In one fluid motion, Eddie lands on the bed, draped in Steve’s arms. They kiss and cling to each other as if they might float off somewhere. It’s all too good, too delicious. Just can’t get enough of how Steve tastes, needs to savor it after not having him around for ten days.

Being under the covers, kissing wildly, is becoming dangerous. And if Wayne weren’t in the room directly across from them, Eddie would have Steve in unspeakable positions by now. Steve tugs multiple times at the zipper on Eddie’s jeans. Causes physical damage to Eddie’s horny soul to pull Steve's hand away.

They stay like this instead. Leisure, molasses kisses. Knotted fingers and tangled legs. Closer than skin.

Steve lifts up onto his elbow, swipes Eddie’s bangs off of his forehead to make room for another place to kiss. “Can’t believe it took a few dorky cups to make you realize you were in love with me,” he says, lips still smushed in that spot before backing away.

Eddie flips onto his back with a heavy sigh. No way he can look at Steve’s face while admitting this outloud. “I’ve loved you since the day you fed me a curly fry that you had twisted around your pinky.”

“That was the moment?”

“That was the moment.”

He can hear the smile in Steve’s voice. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Never gonna dodge that ‘freak’ reputation, am I?”

“Not a chance.”

The sky is dusted with stars that night. Not the kind of night sky they ever get to see in Hawkins. Steve marvels at them, mentions that he’s never seen so many at once, not even through a window.

“We could go outside?” Eddie offers. “See even more, if you want.”

“Fuck that.” Steve burrows his nose into Eddie’s neck. “Too comfy.”

Eddie agrees with a laugh. “It’s a good bed, isn’t it?”

“Ours is better.”

It’s not, it’s really not. Their bed is rotting, the oldest relic of their home.

But it bends with them, forms to their bodies perfectly.

And since this bed has yet to learn their language, Eddie takes the lead.

“You’re right.” He curls himself around Steve. Leans in closer and Steve follows. “Ours is definitely better.”

Even miles away from home, they somehow always manage to meet in the middle.

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #lexsspringfanworkschallenge #I hope y'all like this one :)#it's still snarky but also cozy #and I definitely went overboard on the Star Wars jokes at one point #but yeah please enjoy this spring fic 💕

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ladythornofrivia · 1 year ago

Text

Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Two)—Revised

🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉

Next Chapter

summary: modern!reader survived from the attack. But the new coming threat awaits her.

pair: aemond x reader

warnings & disclaimer: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, size kink, obsession, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and Aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Pro-Green, Reader is a green supporter. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)

a/n: I’m sorry; I have to redo the chapter due to my perfectionism and complications of getting my chapter point across. I hope it's better this time. By the way, I misspelled Criston’s name so I edited on the first chapter, and my mind STILL wouldn’t stop thinking about Aemond. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Two: The Green Star

Within their reach towards the destination in King’s Landing, under a stretched mile, moving from town to town, and markets and orphanage—after entering through Gate of the Gods—someone held you tight with one arm as he gripped the reins with the other hand. Your head bobbed and flopped from the tremendous speed from a horse. Your eyes opened to a band of armored men couldn’t find words to question or dare to challenge at someone’s actions from carrying you—a mysterious young woman—in his arms.

With your one eye open, for the last few hours, the moonlight casting its soft radiant light over the lands. Finally, underneath a cloaked hood, you spotted Criston Cole. You knew him, of course, based on how he acts in the show. Men who have seen Criston—his excellence in combat in training grounds and battlefield—never gave or reveal a soft spot for a woman. For a Knight in Westeros, the knights held the upkeep of never to lay a hand on a woman, let alone consummating a woman. Just like kings and queens, knights’ reputation must purify through oath and the civility of duty, not by the heart.

Within these governed laws must require a sheer will to not break a vow from a source of desperate love and intimacy or camaraderie of long-lasting companionship, one woman to the next. Being sent into the Wall and join the Night’s Watch is inescapable when choosing to lay or develop affections for a woman, whether the woman is married or lonesome whether being a bachelorette or widow. Or perhaps through dissent, other than committing a heinous crime. Once being sent at the Wall, the stories on what they have done in Westeros will be nothing but a fruitless conversation.

Meanwhile in Criston’s thoughts, although Criston thought you’re beautiful—even in your sleep—he does not love any woman; his unshared notions and expression to come into terms on how he adore the Targaryen princess, Rhaenyra, but all that’s forgotten when she gave birth to not one but three children and is betrothed and married to Prince Laenor Velaryon. Soon it erases the traced reminiscences of their shared times between the princess and the knight in armor, Rhaenyra, as a mother, placed her adoration for the children—and the claims to the Iron Throne—above all else.

But now he still loathes the dragon princess, buries hatred it in secrecy for Rhaenyra leaving him, and swear loyalty to Queen Alicent—as you read and watched the show.

Once the army infiltrated through the colossal gates, halfway to the Red Keep, you spotted Criston and his men trudged their way on the crowd—men, women and children were all staring at Criston Cole, but for one main reason: you—your hood came off due to the rush of wind. Although Criston carried you with ease and attentiveness, lifting you in his arms without so much of a trouble despite traveling, how his arm grew tired, not wanting to carry you anymore, but does it to maintain his clean image.

At first they made no effort to complain to Criston’s questionable nature regarding to his deeds. Bringing a young woman is unexpected.

“If you so much on planning to bring a whore into the Targaryens’s court, I do not wish but to think of the worst consequences for you and for the good of the realm. Your decision will cause a catastrophic downfall,” the man beside Criston spoke with urgency.

Criston spun his head and pierced his deadly and relaxed glare. “I’m in no position to take anyone as my bitch, ser. In fact, why don’t you do as you’re told by our queen.”

“You mean your queen,” the man seethed.

Criston ignored him, rolling his eyes.

“In fact, you can put this useless girl in the Street of Silk. She’ll be a great asset to men who needs tight cunt for a good breeding and it can swallow every seed and it can give birth to multiple bastards until she accepts her failure in death.”

Criston halted his tracks. “Then why don’t throw yourself to a woman’s cunt in the Street of Silk, Ser Marrow. I’m sure the fine ladies in King’s Landing will appreciate your service on fucking someone for having delicate desire of yours.”

This did not sit well with Ser Marrow. In fact, Ser Marrow could not register Criston’s reasoning on bringing the girl.

Knowing this won’t end well, but the girl has to be robust.

Hasten into the street of Rose Road, but then encountered traffic, to which he lead the horse to Street of Sisters, then turned right at Flea Bottom. Flea Bottom, filled with watchful eyes as Criston Cole and his men passed through.

All was quiet until you heard the words all at once:

“A whore!”

“The knight is carrying a whore!”

“Kill him!”

“To the death of the knights!”

“Fuck the Targaryens!”

People in Flea Bottom cheered as they fell from the windows of their townhomes and landed on the knights, who are all powerless when their swords were still in their sheaths; the swords are long to draw out for retaliation.

Criston, as brutal as he is, stabbed and slashed with his jagged sword, as people roared with rage and clawed the stallions skin. By their mistake, the horses punted and jabbed and ran, stomping over people’s bodies, and reached to the Street of Looms by the west side of the road.

Criston errored. When he glanced behind him, the people who are left alive still hunted them down, but his comrades slashed their way through for a clear promenade.

Night is throng with potential threats and sacrifice.

“For fuck's sake," he hissed. "We must reach to the Red Keep! Warn the others!” Criston shouted. “We must protect the Targaryen line!”

Suddenly the man’s speed had caught up with Criston and yanked you by the cloak and dragged you below, but Criston pierced his bloody sword on a man’s throat and retrieved you back in one swoop as his steed and his company ushered in the entrance gates of Red Keep.

By the time the gates are shut tight, you have woken up, but immobile and drowsy.

“Where…” your voice croaked. “Where am I?”

“You’re safe, my lady,” a voice said, looking up, you spotted none other than Criston Cole, a character you recognized in the House of the Dragon.

Screaming, you nearly throw yourself off the horse, but Criston held you. Though the men behind you gave an impression of unused to seeing your antics.

“At ease, my lady. You’re safe,” he said with a tight smile.

You cringed at his pretentious charm.

Did I potentially became an actress without giving an audition and be on a set of House of the Dragon?

But then recalling Ser Remon Blackwood’s words and call upon a realization. Westeros is real.

“Sorry, you just have me startled,” you said, deadpan. But you felt a tremendous wave of affliction after facing three men who tried to ambush you.

“It’s quite alright,” he said, still wearing a tight-lipped smile. Dismounted from his horse, he helped you down and ambled towards the stoned bridge. “Stay behind my men; they’ll protect you.”

Out of nowhere, Prince Daemon comes to into a scene.

“You’re late, Ser Criston,” he said with a sardonic grin.

Excited as you’re now, Prince Daemon wasn’t really your favorite member of House Targaryen.

“Apologies, my prince. I never knew you’re concerned of my punctuality, you’re merely acting as a dutiful handmaiden,” Criston remarked smoothly.

Asshat, as always.

Prince Daemon scowled. “Alicent needs you at this moment. I’m here to see my brother, not as a messenger. That damnable green star has caused ruckus to Caraxes and I.”

Criston’s jaw shifted from gritting his teeth. “I’m her guard not her hound.”

Prince Daemon rolled his eyes, and marched upon the gates leading to the Red Keep.

You’re certain that your wounds won’t fall into another failure as you watched Criston speaking to Daemon. One man leaned over against your ear. “One wrong move and you’re good as dead,” he warned.

Giving him a cold shoulder, you gazed upon the view of the dark ocean and crystal, ink sky. From gazing at far away town, it was magnificent, but upon a closer view, you knew how the underbelly of King’s Landing is.

Then looking upon the Red Keep, you were still in awe of the structure, vibrancy with crimson and ivory. But before you admire other parts of the Red Keep, two of the men blindfolded you—one wrapped the fabric on your eyes, the other on your wrists, then tackled you down while the others ignored your voice.

“One more sound and I’ll slit your throat,” he said.

Hiding behind them, even with a dark vision, you’re carefully planning out on your exit avoid of gaining infliction.

With a strike of punch, there’s not much you could do but felt trapped into a situation you can’t escape in.

The noise ensued.

The swords had drawn in.

Overhearing Prince Daemon is being ambushed by a band of thieves and killers who clambered out from under the bridge in the usage of strong rope and hooks secured and pierced the stone. Hoisting themselves in the air as they drew their blades out, attacking the rogue prince.

Grunt by grunt, Prince Daemon sliced and slashed through ragged clothe.

Though two of the men dead, except the bulky man with a great sword, twice as thick and honed. When he lifted the sword, you blocked the attack with a dagger in one hand while your eyes are blindfolded. With your rage, the green spark eroded, and snapped the sword in half, your blindfold tore in half, leading you doing a spin kick across the man’s cheek, sent him flying around seven feet away. Criston, Daemon and the army watched in awe. The dagger shattered; picking up the dead man’s sword, tying the sheath's belt around your waist, you clutched the blade and fought your way near the entrance. Although you retaliate, you earned wounds gashed on your exposed flesh.

When Jacaerys and Helaena appeared outside the palace due to curiosity, they spotted you fighting the band of killers with one slice and left them dead, blood sprayed everywhere, and tainted your peculiar clothe, fighting together with Prince Daemon.

Jacaerys—Jace—drew his blade out, but Helaena held him back, but Jace stubbornly charged in. Prince Daemon spotted them a mile away and towards the man who attempts to aim Jace’s head maimed through a roundish belly and fell down, the man’s body split into two. You managed to seize Jace and dodged the attack—blocking the blade from the killer before managed to have the upper hand; piercing through the heart, returning Jace back to Helaena’s side in one piece. “Get back inside! I’ll take it from here,” you said before charging back into the battlefield on the bridge.

The sentinels and men from the City Watch fought with their battle cry, attracting the attention from commoners at the streets behind them, flooding in, scattered at every corner.

Unbeknownst to you, Prince Daemon wondered who you were, or where you came from or why you came with Ser Criston. But you skills in battlefield, hasn’t seen anything extraordinary. He parried and lanced through the enemy’s chest. Behind Daemon, the killer held a brick and held above his head, but your split his head into two.

Prince Daemon’s peered at you as you smiled at him shortly before the men were charging towards the heirs. You skewered and slashed their legs in half; the earning of the intruders’ agony was worth it.

Until the man, thrown Helaena off the bridge, her shrilled screams filled the night’s air, but Helaena seized the rope, holding onto her dear life. When the man undo the hook, you knocked him out with a kick on his balls, resulting of him falling back with howling cry.

“Give me your hand,” you said to Helaena, your other hand outstretched to hers.

“Jace!” she bellowed, as the rope wobbled.

Behind you, Jace killed another man, who was trying to push you off the bridge.

“Help me pull the rope,” you said to Jace. Within an instant, you and Jace worked together and lifted Helaena off from the brink of death.

With the battle nearly over, you reached for Helaena’s hand and lead her back, safe and sound onto the bridge and fled with them into the gates.

Prince Daemon and Criston reached alongside.

“Close the gates!” Criston commanded. “Close the gates!”

“You’re safe,” you told them.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Jace said, putting a smile on his face.

Facing Helaena, you asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Helaena nearly sobbed. “Thank you.”

“See, everything’s alright.” You grinned widely.

Then a hot stab seared into your lower belly and collapsed; your body violently shaken, suffocating.

“Take the girl to the Maester,” Prince Daemon said, cut the traitor’s throat. “I’ll head back to the bridge with Caraxes.”

Screams echoed outside the gates, garnering everyone’s attention, but others fled into the Red Keep.

Your eyes gazed upon Jace and Helaena watched you in horror as Criston elevated in your arms, sprinting down in the castle, then through the secret passages, his mind motioning the idea of who could escort you faster to the Maester to dispose the poison; Criston rarely attends the healer’s room; Criston is an undefeated warrior with no battle scars.

With the last of your awake, you watched Criston entered the secret passage, and while crossing from a secluded hall, from there, he spotted the one-eyed prince, who returned from his training, softened at the sight of you, vulnerable in Criston’s arms, as you collapsed, eyes halfway lulled in oblivion. “She has been wounded,” you overheard Criston said.

Sheathing his sword, Aemond took an examine of you, as you examined him, listening in while dazed.

Tall and handsome, graced with fair hair and delicate yet strong features.

“What happened?” Aemond approached you.

Criston trudged passed Aemond and turned the corner into another hall. “The people from the Flea Bottom saw her, and wants me dead,” he said rather composedly.

“What you’re doing is treason,” Aemond reminded.

“Consequences be damned, my prince. But I found her alive in the forest.”

Aemond’s brow quirked. “How?”

“The men in armor are dead; all have been stabbed, and their cocks have been…cleaved,” Criston whispered at the last part.

Aemond’s eye widened.

“She saved Princess Helaena from falling of the high bridge, and protected Prince Daemon himself.”

Aemond’s hardened expression softened.

“Ask her once she’s awake,” Criston suggested.

Aemond suddenly swept you into his arms. “Go and ward off the people from Flea Bottom. Otherwise my mother will question your knighthood and send you to the Wall.”

Criston is relieved when you’re not in his arms anymore and fled back.

In these last awakened moments, your eyes saw but a glimpse of long, silver-gold hair glowing like halo, and a soft glow of his blue eye gaping into yours.

“Well done, my fair lady,” Aemond’s voice crooned. "You fought bravely."

Before you faded into your subconscious state.

~Aemond’s POV~

After positioned you onto the surgical table, he faced the Maester, who was bewildered at the dragon prince with a fallen maiden in his arms.

“You mustn’t tell no one of this,” Aemond said. “Heal her, and I’ll reward you well.”

Soon, he heard the footsteps, and sprinted outside the Maester’s room and hid among the shadows—after unlocking the secret wall and spied on Rhaenyra, and his mother, Alicent, who accompanied Rhaenyra the Maester’s room.

“Your Grace, Lady Rhaenyra,” the Maester bowed after prepping the medicine on his tiny desk beside the surgical table, where you lay.

“The men outside the Red Keep were severely injured,” Lady Rhaenyra said. “And the people from Flea Bottom arrived here without a warning, flooding through the gates; the guards were gravely injured from defense by the time we arrived.”

Queen Alicent, on the other hand, was surveying the maester with tensed posture.

“I cannot spare this room for the men,” the Maester said. “I shall send more healers for the guards. There’s another room for them to repose.”

Rhaenyra stood with neutral expression, still obtain a regal posture. “Good.”

Queen Alicent intruded with, “What of those from the Flea Bottom?”

“Syrax escorted them out,” Rhaenyra vexed. “I never would’ve expect that the plans to visit my father would come to terms of bloodshed.”

Queen Alicent chimed in with, “It is already been taken care of. However the penalties must continue; the people from Flea Bottom are beastly as they come, and should pay for its crimes from infiltrating the Red Keep.”

Rhaenyra darted her hues on Alicent. “The Commander of City Watch has been injured. That is why I came here on his behalf.”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” the Maester said. “I happen to be in a delicate procedure.”

Rhaenyra’s brows furrowed. “What might I ask what the cause of your refuse my request?”

The Maester turned around. Alicent and Rhaenyra pivoted their gaze to a lying figure on the table.

While laying still, you were mumbling incoherently, sighing.

“The poison has taken a great effect on her,” he said.

“Who brought her here?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Ser Criston, my lady,” the Maester said, but Queen Alicent knows that the tongue of a liar has shown nothing but hesitation; the grey eyes of an old maester averted. Alicent has known her subjects well for as long as she could remember; resided in King’s Landing for more than six years.

“What a strange attire she was wearing,” Rhaenyra commented, approaching your sleeping body, caressing the side of your face. “Beautiful girl, but, strange choice of appearance. Her gown is too short.” Then she took notice on your right thigh inked with a large and fiery outline of a red dragon stretched across the thigh, and on the arms until the knuckles of your delicate hands. “I’ve never seen anyone with strange markings,” she said, fascinated.

The maester gulped. “She fought valiantly outside the Red Keep, princess. She not only protected Prince Daemon, but rescued your son, Jacaerys, as well.” He then looked at Alicent with pride. “She also saved Princess Helaena from falling off to a drowning river beneath the bridge and consulted from this young girl before traitor stabbed her, contaminated with poison.”

Both Alicent and Rhaenyra are in deep bewilderment of the revelation regarding to your deeds.

“Impossible,” Rhaenyra said, paled.

“Are you certain?” Alicent chimed in.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said. “Thank the gods your heirs has been graced by the valiant savior.”

Queen Alicent approached you, though rather carefully, studying your face.

“So young and vulnerable,” she whispered. “She shouldn’t die in vain. Not when she saved our children,” she said to Rhaenyra with watery eyes.

“She secured the successors to the Iron Throne and Driftmark,” Rhaenyra added.

Alicent could only stare at your visage. “We shall bless her with our gratitude.”

“We shall await for her recovery, and ask her questions, regarding to the green star,” Rhaenyra determined. “Until then, she must rest upon the hands between the Gods and you, Maester. Keep her alive and guarded from The Stranger.”

The Maester bowed. “As you wish, Lady Rhaenyra.”

As soon as Rhaenyra left, Alicent moved closer to the maester. “You have served as a Maester for many years of your excellent service. You may be truthful to your skills, but your eyes offered a lie. Tell me, who summoned her here?”

The Maester is unable to dart his eyes at her. “Your Grace,” is all he uttered.

“I can assure you that you won’t be punished; I shall spare you from the slice on your tongue,” she guaranteed, rather kindly. “Pray tell, who gave you the order? Who brought her here?”

After a minute of glancing at your sleeping form, he then veered at Alicent, and leaned against her ear. “Prince Aemond, Your Grace. He requested for me to treat her wounds and aid her through salvation, and handed her over to me—carried her from the entrance of the Red Keep.”

Alicent was awestruck once more with another revelation.

“I do not believe he sees her as Helaena’s rescuer to offer his gratitude,” she mumbled. “Rather more than what it lies beyond the prince’s decision.”

In the heart of a dragon prince’s mother, Aemond perceived the nature of your goodly heart. In the heart of a dragon prince still remains unknown. Rather what Queen Alicent seems to believe in.

Then the sincere smile fell onto her face.

~Your POV~

Your eyes have opened. Not in the apartment you lived in, but rather in the hands of a man who was drawing out the equipment to settle the resolute force on the poison that is bestowed on you.

In the maester’s room, there you were, your immovable body splayed at the rocked surface of the surgical table, weakened arms and hands clinging onto dear life. You wouldn’t hold still, not when the maester held the tools with honed end lancing on the poisoned area by your lower stomach.

“No, don’t touch me,” your groaned with plea, tears on the corner of your swell.

The old maester did his bidding, and gazed upon your agony with his melancholic eyes upon your fettle. For a short moment, you were sure that you’re going to die soon. With all that it’s left in your body is shattered and bleeding with venom, leak altogether against your raw and vulnerable flesh.

“It’s alright, my lady, you’re safe,” the maester said with a sad, polite smile.

“Don’t hurt me,” you pleaded, tears prickling.

“It’s alright,” the maester repeated, his gentle voice gradually turned to a firmed tone, petrified of severing you through medicine.

The heavy oak door opened, unveiling the dark silhouette. Though your vision remains unclear, it is obvious who entered the healing room.

A young woman with elongated copper-brown curls reached on her chest, with brown eyes and elegance of her dark green dress was flowing across the floor as she ambled, encountering the maester as you listened in.

“How is the girl?” she asked, rather in a motherly voice.

“I was eliminating the disinfection of the poison, Your Grace. The girl’s stature could not survive long in this dreaded indisposition. She won’t last. Her bones have been fractured and her flesh is newly bled.”

“Have you used the Milk of the Poppy,” the queen asked, hoping. Her hands folded together with anxiousness.

“She took the last of it, Your Grace,” he said with a scowl on his face. “The lack of substance is insufficient—only a quarter of the liquid left; her mind is as resilient as a bull’s head, still awake and eccentrically movable.” He wiped the bleeding knife, sighing. “Mumbling and groaning in her unconscious state. Gods be good.”

“What of her wounds? The markings? Will she ever move again?” Queen Alicent noted your deep scars forged on your smooth, delicate skin, her hand smoothed against your tousled, stiffed locks across your softened look on your face, sleeping.

“The girl requires the milk of the poppy. Should the girl move while under the stead of my delicate care on discarding the poison within her body, her death will be as slow and merciless,” he reminded the queen. “It cannot be undone—The Stranger won’t spare a second chance for anyone. In additional process of cleansing and stitching on her fresh wounds needed delicacy, requires of greater assistance.”

Queen Alicent comprehended. “Go see if there’s anymore milk of the poppy. Bring the other healers to aid the maester,” she eyed and told the servant.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The girl bowed and quitted, skittered through the door.

Queen Alicent ambled and sat beside your restful sleep, whilst you’re unaware of her presence, watching you laboring your staggered breath in the humid air, smothered in heated sweat. Queen Alicent bestowed her concern on your poor health that’s closely endangered, to be sent to the God of Death—The Stranger, one of the many Gods in Westeros. Regardless, Queen Alicent’s main concern is your well-being.

“The effect won’t last long,” he reminded the queen. “There so little of the substance.”

Queen Alicent swept your hair longer. “Do what you must, Maester.”

For she and the others have something else in store for you once you gained consciousness and well accord.

As of now, you must battle your life between the air of life and death.

Piercing cries reached into the barricaded doors in the Red Keep. For those who walked pass by near the halls and down on the staircases leading to the lower grounds, would surely be terrorized by the sounds of your screams that is twice as loud. They were certain it was a dying sound of a dragon, but they were undeniably mistaken.

Luckily, the doors were sealed. No one was awake at the sound of your voice.

“Keep her still,” the maester instructed.

The godswives pinned you down from failing on the table each time you shifted. On a pair of limped legs, your one leg slithered downward across the table, and one of your fractured bones punctured with twinge of pain, searingly poking and a sensation of splinting.

You could no longer withstand the pain, not with the surgical instrument lancing through your bleeding skin. The wounds on your flesh stopped the blood from flowing. Albeit the process was painstakingly slow. The poison was heating up from your stomach and down on your hip.

And the conflict you upheld will unleash. One kick sent the godswife fell on the floor before she had seized your lower calf.

The door boomed, unveiling the healer delivering the milk of the poppy to the Maester. And Queen Alicent entered the room, which the Maester is unexpected with her reoccurring attendance.

The maester was undermined in the position of stress, hoping for other solution, but gained no new ideas to soothe you. Therefore, Queen Alicent went over to your side, ordering the godswife to loosen their grip.

“Listen to my voice,” Alicent murmured.

Little by little, you listened, but your breathing rasp with dejection.

“Don’t fight it, sweet girl,” she said gently, holding the cup filled with milk of the poppy. “This will do you good.”

Struggling to free from their grasp, you gazed at woman in green gown with trepidation.

“I don’t want to die,” you whispered with your ongoing struggle. “I have so much to live for.”

“You won’t be,” she reassured you, settling the cup into your parched lips, and you consumed the liquid and let your head fell down again. “Be brave,” she said. But this time, your struggle has dimmed, as did your eyes blurred harsher, unable to see the silhouettes of her, the maester and the knight. With your limbs sank, your breathing went from rush to steady flow. Your eyelids lulled into sleep.

~Aemond’s POV~

The repair of your wounds has gone successfully. Though rather took quite long, it has gone in favor. Rather, in Prince Aemond’s favor.

Aemond awaited in the dark of the great hall, eavesdropping his mother’s voice, and eyeing on you. As soon as she and Ser Criston left, Aemond met up with the Maester in silent haste.

“Have you told anyone of my whereabouts?”

“No, Your Highness.”

He knew that the Maester told Alicent; spying from one of the secret passage.

His eye flickered over the Maester’s shoulder. “How is she?”

“She’s in good health. She has defeated The Stranger.”

Aemond gave a small smirk. “You did well, Maester. At least I don’t have to kill those who harm the young woman.”

“It would be unwise to pose a threat for the Greens, my prince.”

Aemond had his hand behind his back. “I couldn’t care less of what the common people think of my duty.”

“That you do, my prince.”

Aemond gave the Maester small pouch with five coins for keeping his word, and make his way to your repose body, wearing the strange attire, which it struck an intriguing notion to him. Aside from your appearance, what caught his sight more is your visage and your long locks splayed across the table you laid on, Aemond pressed his fingers and traced the soft line of your face, the smoothness of your face.

Candle light flickered, it casted soft glow onto your features. Lifting your shirt, it revealed the greenish color of the poison faded as for the fresh wounds has been stitched.

Aemond’s hand ached to linger his touch on your flesh. Without so much doubting, his fingers traced over the lines of your waist. Hearing you moan, Aemond’s lips curled upward.

“I shall be taking my leave. Tell the servant to bring a spare attire for her,” he told the Maester, lifting you up in his arms and left the room, walking to a staircase and settled you down to one of the spare rooms. If his family rejected his idea of you staying, he’d rather annihilate King’s Landing than to put you into one of the servant quarters. He found a perfect spot for you to lay rest.

Resting you down on a bed with washed sheets, he dragged a spare chair and sat beside you. Aemond couldn’t restraint his smile at your sleeping figure. Despite it all, he was thankful.

He should have been sleeping in his own chambers, but curiosity lead him awake.

The servant entered with a nightgown and handed it over to the dragon prince. Shivering from the cold, Aemond discerned of your body devoid of blanket.

“She’s cold,” Aemond told the servant. “Fetch her warm blanket.”

As the servant dismissed herself, obliging.

Aemond, without a shred of single doubt, is intrigued with you. While the servant is gone, he resumed tracing his hands and fingertips onto your body.

Moaning, your body shifted on the side, which caused him to chuckle and reverted you back to the former position. A soft hum rumbled into his throat, studying you further, his hand hand splayed over the lines of your exposed thigh, slithered back up to your waistline, cupping your breast while the undergarment is intact. Seeing your chest heaving, it coaxed him to further his touch, smoothing again with your waistline, then up onto the back of your neck, smoothing your cheek with his thumb as he smiled adoringly.

He placed his hand afar when servant returned with a wooly sheet and placed it over onto the foot of the bed.

Aemond then stopped the servant; the girl’s eyes gleamed with fright. “Don’t let her wander out from her chambers; she needs few days of rest. It’d be unwise if she puts herself into harm’s way again. She can stroll through the gardens and the training yard as long as she watched afar.”

The servant could only nod then departed to rest in her own quarters.

Alone again, Aemond unfolded the sleeping wear and had you sat up, your long locks veiled most of your naked figure, though choked when he spotted red outlined marks on your arms. With precision, Aemond had your strange attire remove and exchange with new ones. Laying you down, he undo your tennis skirt and pulled downward, he spotted the red dragon on your whole leg and a pair of thin and pink material clad your womanhood.

Licking his lips, he smoothed the linen of your nightgown, shielding your legs and awaited for the maid to return.

When the maid has been summoned upon the demands of a prince, Aemond handed your attire over to a trembled servant, requesting for a good wash.

“I trust you tended to her needs whenever she desires and not utter a word to my family regarding to my requests or my doings,” he stated.

“No, my prince,” she said.

“Should you utter, I’ll feed your corpse to Vhagar,” he growled.

Aemond could only gaze upon her meek stance and parted away into the room anew and stayed, eyeing you. Shifting onto your bed, particularly your legs from sliding down with a soft stretch, Aemond couldn’t keep his hands apart. His mind plagued with other ideas. But held them off and left your chambers after looking at you one last time.

~your dream~

The sudden chill on your body has left with warmth and comforted with safety, not with the sheets of think blanket, but rather in the arms of a strong man. In the void of your dreams, you spotted long locks of silver-gold shining like golden halo as the blue eye behold with a sapphire stone on the other eye.

“My beloved star,” his voice echoed.

~Your POV~

Your drowsy body lurched, resulting your stomach and stitches twinged in exasperating pain, hissing.

“My lady, you should be careful with your wounds,” the servant girl said.

Hand over your head, your tousled hair tainted the pillows you slept on with black sand sticking onto your head.

“Oh, I stained the pillow,” you said. “I’m so sorry, I’ll wash it.”

Before you had a chance of disarding the pillow case, the servant girl halted you. “I shall take of it, my lady.”

Remembering where you’re at, you surrendered; the wounds you endured is another battle.

The servant carried the bowl with porridge, lifting the spoon and approached close to your mouth, you said, “I never like porridge.”

Shocked, the servant insisted with, “You must, it’s good for the wound.”

“As much I would like to, I’d rather eat something else, if you don’t mind,” you insisted.

She settled the bowl down. “What do you wish to have at this moment, my lady?”

“Ham, bread and cheese,” you requested. “A hot cup of tea. If it’s required for me to eat porridge, then I’ll do it.”

The servant rose onto her feet with a smile. “I’ll fetch your food right away, my lady.”

“Thank you,” you said.

“Anything else, my lady?” she anticipated.

“A bath,” you said, cheeks flushed as your head lowered, hidden in shame.

The servant bowed and calmly shut the door.

Your head plopped back down on the tainted pillows, not for long. The morning weather has simmered with sunlight. Abiding for your meal, you lounged, idling and contemplating.

From a modern world, jumping back to centuries past is one thing, but in a fictional world is another. In order to see another day, you must play the game.

You’re startled at the sound of a knock from the door in your contemplation. It was rather quick.

The servant returned, gladly served the meal on the round table and quitted the chambers, as you consumed every single piece of the breakfast portion. Once you’re finished, you propped the tray on the desk, and as you grabbed a cup of tea, the parchment fell down onto your lap.

Breaking the seal, the parchment wrote in few words.

Beauty is not when a soul finds when awake, rather in sleep.

Your heart raced, though slowed when it has no name—not knowing what the letter meant.

But for some reason, you feel as if you’re being watched.

In solace, your servant returned with new dress and shoes for you, and prepared a steaming bath on the room next door with smoke materializing.

“The bath is ready,” she notified.

Undo your nightgown and undergarments, you hopped into the bathtub, soaked with bubbles and rose scented bar soap with a new bottle contained in liquid substance like jelly—the Maester created hair cleanser for hair like yours—muddy and greasy. And so, while the servant assisted you, scrubbing your hair, you lathered yourself with bar soap, washing off the black sands from Blackwater Bay at the Dragonstone. By the time you’re done rinsing and drying yourself, she wore the dress over your head. While you’re combing your hair, she tied the corset around you and then gestured your feet to insert into the shoes. Last but certainly not least, she clasped the golden necklace on you at the vanity mirror.

For a moment, the self-conscious in you dwindled, for you have seen yourself in a mirror, filled with new life striving.

Another knock came in. You answered, revealing the Maester with medicinal items in hand and greeted you “Good morrow.” After a short exchange of words, you let him in, and allowed him to inspect your wounds and delivered you the milk of the poppy, then made a further inspection of your new wounds and the poison in your belly. In the end, the maester is relieved.

Another knock came in for the third time. Revealed Ser Criston Cole swung the chamber door open, following Queen Alicent. The servant already left once she gathered the soiled sheets before the arrival of the maester and the Greens.

“Your Grace,” the Maester bowed, though you didn’t have time to curtsy because the characters you’ve seen on the show are brought to life.

Overwhelmed, you curtsied though as if you’re suffocating with elation.

Queen Alicent gazed at you before the Maester.

“How is she fairing, Maester?”

“The wounds on her flesh are still new. But with her withstand to harm is astounding; and yet she’s able to move with agility and ease.”

Queen Alicent darted her eyes on you, from head to your shoes. “How are you fairing, sweet girl?”

Your mouth opened, stuttered. “I’m doing perfectly okay, Your Grace.”

Alicent grinned. “Wonderful. I hope King’s Landing doesn’t settle disagreement in your heart,” she said.

“No,” you replied, shaking your head. “I’m not offended. Not in the least.”

Queen Alicent examined you. With your cleansed appearance, she finds herself genuinely smiling again.

“What is your name, sweet girl?”

“Name’s (y/n), Your Grace,” you said in a somber smile, drowsy during the massive effect of Milk of the Poppy.

Alicent seems pleased with your introduction. “A pleasure. Rhaenyra’s right. You are beautiful.” Then her face turned grave. “As much as we idle our conversation, you must be prepared with your answers with the Blacks. You protected their heir, just as you rescued my daughter, what’s more is your capabilities, so brace yourself. I shall be heading to the council with the others. Ser Marrow will escort you to the council room once you’re done meeting with the Maester.”

You nodded. “Alright.”

“I shall see you there.” Queen Alicent left without a word as Ser Criston followed.

After done conversing with the Maester, you thanked him as he left your quarters.

Dabbing your lips with lipstick, you ushered yourself to meet Ser Marrow. But instead of a greeting, he struck a blow on your belly and the side of your cheekbone with his gauntlet not once but seven times, bruising your lips and nose, and blindfolded you with a golden fabric.

“You should’ve stayed dead, you whore,” he said, then dragged you down at the council.

~Aemond's POV~

It was a clear message when Alicent told Aemond that she had an important council meeting up the high floor. Meaning, no heir is allowed to enter unless the heir becomes King or Queen. Disregarding of his mother's words, Aemond found his way through the secret passage again, peering through the carved hole, as he flicked his gaze, spotting Alicent and Criston, chatting, while the rest were still on a most gossiped subject that lasted in recent days--the green star.

"Looking for someone," a voice said.

Aemond looked over to his brother, Aegon, who was drinking red wine in a heavy goblet.

"You shouldn't be here, brother," he said.

"Neither should you," Aegon said. "Besides, you didn't answer my question."

Aemond ignored him and listened to Alicent's conversation.

“Where could she have gone? Did the guard lead her onto the wrong room?” Alicent agitated.

“She’ll be here soon,” Ser Criston assured her, watching the Blacks interacting.

Their talk has cut through the air when the double doors boomed, startling the Blacks and Green; with you in his hand, keeping you standing, bleeding as your dress tattered, and your nostrils bloodied, eyes shielded with blindfold, and your hands tied on the back.

“Here’s the whore you wanted,” Ser Marrow seethed to the Greens, casted you down with splat.

Your head raised and studied the environment—the council room. But you took noticed of the Blacks and Greens’s faces, are all unexpectedly mortified of your bruised appearance and the guard’s sudden outburst.

In the land of Westeros, a girl from a modern century has entered into the House of the Dragons.

Taglist: @galactict3a @daonenonlysandman @toodlesxcuddles @hufflepuff1700 @colored-tr-panels @valeskafics

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droumack · 2 months ago

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↻ FLIP FLOP - Ohhhhh girl please I am begging for the stretching scene in Haunting Me Like a Shadow from Christian's perspective. He knows what Nate's doing, Nate knows what Nate's doing (sweet oblivious Jo knows nothing), and Christian seems like he's trying very hard not to overreact in this moment, but Nate is so BRAZEN about it and any overreaction would've actually been a colossal underreaction with Jo on the line, it makes me screeeeam.

A weird ask though so no worries at all if it doesn't spark interest!! Absolute love forever to you for that fic, it is an all time fave.

I LOVE this idea.

----

“Fuck,” Jo groans. “Oh, fuck. You can do more, fuck, that feels good.”

Christian lets the door thud shut behind him, dread unspooling in his stomach at the sound of Jo’s voice floating down the hall.

Jo wouldn’t cheat on him—Christian knows this, he does. Jo is good, and sweet, and painfully earnest in a way that still makes Christian’s heart feel like it’s crawling into his throat.

But those words—that tone of voice—Christian knows that sound. It’s what Jo sounds like when he’s getting fucked, or when Christian gets a hand on Jo’s cock just right; deep, satisfied, a rumble that makes shivers run up his spine despite the dread unfurling in his stomach.

He rounds the corner and blinks at the sight that greets him. Jo isn’t cheating on him, but judging by the way the sight of MacKinnon with his hands all over Jo makes Christian feel, he might as well be.

Jo’s face scrunched up in a mix of pleasure-pain as MacKinnon, settled between his thighs like a lover, pushes him deeper into the stretch. He’s sprawled on a yoga mat on the floor of his and Christian’s place, Nate looming over him.

Nate slides his hands down so he can dig his thumbs back into the knot of muscle, and Jo whines.

Honest to god, he whines.

Christian watches MacKinnon shut his eyes for a long, drawn-out second like he’s trying to find his composure. Then he begins kneading again, working out the tension, as Jo sucks in little aborted breaths through clenched teeth.

“Like that?” Nate asks, and he sounds like he’s gargled gravel.

Christian knows what MacKinnon is thinking, can see every blatant thought and desire written out on his face like a teleprompter. He wants to drag MacKinnon off, break that crooked nose a few more times, but the thing with challenging MacKinnon to a fight—

Christian doesn’t know if he’d win.

Instead, he interrupts: “The fuck are you guys doing?”

Both of their heads turn. Jo, guileless and guilt-free, just gives him a “welcome-home” smile. MacKinnon’s eyes sharpen, and the small grin that slides onto his lips makes Christian’s stomach churn.

“Hey, babe,” Jo offers, voice strained. “Just stretching, I’m wound tighter than a watch.”

“Don’t you have trainers for this?” Christian asks, taking a few steps closer. Coincidentally, MacKinnon’s hands slide a few inches higher, until MacKinnon is thumbing at the crease of Jo’s glute and his thigh, rubbing his hands over the generous curve of his ass.

Christian’s eyes zero in on the motion before they flick back to MacKinnon’s.

MacKinnon holds his gaze and grins.

It’s childish on MacKinnon’s part; a clear show of ‘look what I can get away with,’ like a kid who’s not technically doing anything wrong. Christian’s self-preservation is starting to fall by the wayside; he’s thinking of taking a swing and seeing what happens, consequences be damned.

Jo, cheerfully oblivious on the ground, lets his eyes flutter back shut when MacKinnon shifts forward a bit, gets his leg up even further. “Trainers were full-up today, would’ve been a couple of hours to wait. Besides, Nate knows what he’s doing.”

They’re almost crotch-to-crotch now, the difference a scant few inches, and Christian doesn’t think he’s hallucinating the bulge in MacKinnon’s shorts. Maybe he’s not hard, but he’s packing, and looks like he’s one more little whine away from saying ‘fuck it’ and rutting again Christian’s boyfriend.

“I can take over,” Christian volunteers. He needs MacKinnon’s hands off of Jo like he needs air.

Jo shakes his head and says, “Sorry, hon, but you don’t have ten years of stretching your teammates under your belt.”

The look Christian gives MacKinnon is all venom, and MacKinnon doesn’t look like he gives a fuck. He just continues to grope Jo under the pretense of a stretch between buddies, leaving brands that Christian is going to devote hours to wiping away later that evening.

Maybe MacKinnon has this, but Christian gets Jo in all the other ways that count.

#ask me anything #writing #fic writing #flip flop

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theother456-stories · 2 months ago

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Diego had worked at Sweet Dreams Pudding Factory for years, overseeing the daily production of its famous pudding vats. It was a relatively quiet job, and Diego enjoyed the sweet, comforting aroma of vanilla, chocolate, and caramel that filled the factory every day. But there was one rule that everyone knew: Never mess with the colossal pudding vat.

The colossal vat was the crown jewel of the factory, holding enough pudding to fill thousands of jars. The engineers had designed it with industrial precision, and a long, sturdy hose attached to the vat allowed the pudding to be transferred into the packaging machines. To Diego, it was a thing of beauty—and a source of endless temptation.

Late one night, after most of the crew had gone home, Diego found himself alone in the factory. He stood by the colossal vat, staring at the golden hose that snaked out from its side. The idea had been teasing him for weeks: What would it taste like straight from the source? He knew it was against the rules, but curiosity gnawed at him.

“Just one taste,” he muttered, gripping the hose. “No one will know.”

Diego switched the pump to manual mode and brought the hose to his lips. The first taste was heaven. Warm, creamy pudding flowed into his mouth, richer and smoother than anything he’d ever tasted. He couldn’t stop himself. He took another gulp… and then another.

But then, something went wrong.

The suction on the hose suddenly increased, locking it tightly to his mouth. Diego tried to pull it away, but it was as if the hose had a mind of its own. The pudding kept flowing, faster and faster, and Diego’s belly began to expand.

“Uh-oh…” he mumbled around the hose, his eyes wide as he looked down. His stomach, once flat, was already rounding out beneath his shirt. The pudding showed no signs of stopping. Diego stumbled back, his hands gripping his now-bulging belly, which sloshed audibly with each step.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” he shouted, though the hose muffled his words. He fumbled with the controls on the vat, but it was no use—the pump had jammed, and the entire colossal vat was emptying straight into him.

Within minutes, Diego’s belly had grown to absurd proportions. His shirt ripped clean off as his skin stretched to accommodate the sheer volume of pudding. He stumbled to the floor, forced to sit on his ballooning belly as it grew larger and larger, pressing against the machinery and walls.

“HELP!” Diego tried to shout, but the hose refused to budge. He hiccuped, sending ripples through his pudding-filled belly. His legs dangled helplessly off the sides as he grew too big to stand. By now, his belly was the size of a car, wobbling and sloshing like a living pudding vat of its own.

Alarms blared through the factory as the colossal vat began to empty completely. The hose finally dislodged itself with a loud pop, and Diego gasped for air, his face red and his body trembling under the weight of his newfound size. The room fell silent except for the sound of his belly groaning and gurgling.

By the time the factory manager arrived, Diego was sprawled in the center of the production floor, his belly so large it filled nearly half the room. The manager stared, slack-jawed, as Diego hiccupped again, sending his massive pudding-filled belly wobbling like a gelatin dessert.

“Diego!” the manager shouted. “What in the world happened?!”

Diego groaned, his face red with embarrassment. “I, uh… I got curious.”

The manager pinched the bridge of his nose. “Curious? You drained the entire vat! Do you realize how much pudding that was?!”

Diego’s belly let out a loud, gurgling groan as if in agreement. He tried to move, but his body was far too heavy. He sighed and flopped back onto the wobbling mass.

“I think I might need a little help,” Diego muttered.

#fat gay #fatboy #gaining fat #get me fatter #ssbhm belly #ssbhm feedee #fat belly #fatty piggy #obese gainer #fatty

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juneknight · 10 months ago

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In the spirit of missing dorm room Marc: maybe something fun like them going to a costume party, maybe matching, maybe in a couples costume, with colossal tension because of the implications of going matching? Anything that’s fun for you and is written by you is fun to read tbh

The exact moment you realize you’ve fucked up is this one: the bathroom door opens (a rush of steam and humidity flooding out, scented softly of Marc’s shower gel the one you use every now and then just to have his scent on you) and Marc comes out dressed nearly in the full costume that you had thrust into his arms a half-hour ago. The look in his eyes lets you know right away; you’ve overplayed your hand.

Now he knows that you’re in love with him.

“We don’t have to do this,” you backpedal. “Actually, this was a bad idea—”

You bite off your own words, aware of how offensive they might seem, but Marc doesn’t look offended. He has paused to lean against the bathroom doorway—god he looks good, the holster sitting so low on his cocked hips, it’s enough to make you drool—and watch your frantic pacing, the white robe you’ve donned swishing around your ankles. You immediately sense that he’s doing That Thing, the one where he doesn’t speak and lets you dig yourself into a deeper hole.

Well two can play at that game. You flop down on your bed and bury your face in your hands. How’s that for silence. You can barely hear his slow, careful footsteps over the ruckus in your brain, all your internal voice telling you that you had dug your own grave, you had fucking coordinated these costumes and now your feelings for him—for your best, closest friend—were plainer than day.

The bed depresses as he sits down next to you.

“You okay?”

You shake your head.

“You ever coming out of there?”

You press your hands against your face tighter.

His breath brushes your fingertips, his forehead resting against your temple as he whispers: “Is there room for me in there too?”

“I didn’t even think when I bought the costumes, Marc, I swear.”

“You didn’t?”

“No!”

He hums.

“The couple’s costumes were buy-one-get-one-half-off, and so I spent most of time in that part of the shop anyway.” He hums again. “I saw mine first and I thought—wow, I’d look really good in that! Not that you don’t look really good in yours too—” He hums. Goddamnit, he’s doing The Thing again! “Marc, say something, you know I’m prone to nervous rambling, this isn’t fair—”

“I think…we’re going to be late for the party if we sit around much longer.”

You peek from your hands. “You still want to go? With me dressed like this? And you dressed like that? But people will think things. Most people who show up together and are dressed in couple’s costumes are…together.”

“We should get together soon, then,” he says mildly. “Like now. Or on the walk to the party. We could get together outside Harrow’s apartment while we wait for him to open the door, but that’d really be pushing it. I’m more of a safe-than-sorry kind of guy.”

You blink. “You. Say that again.”

“You say it, actually. I want to hear you say it.”

Your hands fall to your lap, tugging at the ends of your sleeves. You’ve always heard that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but you hadn’t really believed that until you met Marc. Sure his eyebrows are expressive, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes let you know that he is happy, but there’s something about his eyes themselves—warm and dark and so fucking safe—that can look at you and see inside you and somehow love what they see.

“Marc, I really like you,” you murmur hesitantly.

He has the perfect opportunity to say it, to say the most notable Han Solo line in all of cinema. I know.

“I really like you too,” he says softly. “Let me get the vest on. Gotta complete the look.”

And when he does complete the look, it is a sinful one. Yes as a little girl you had had a huge crush on Han Solo (and Luke, Leia’s plight truly resonated with you). Seeing his image come to life over the blueprint of the man you are (swiftly) falling in love with is a recipe for a cocktail of feelings in your belly. Arousal. Fondness. Adoration. Desire.

“Ready, Leia?” he asks, holding out a hand to you.

You let out a breath you’d been holding since he opened the bathroom door. You take his hand. “Ready.”

#marc spector x reader #drm

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 2 years ago

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CONGRATS STAR!

I’m here for Jake and “What are you doing up?” “My personal heater went away.” 🫠🫠

Cassie! Thanks for your congratulations! Here is your cute and fluffy Jake blurb for “What are you doing up?”, “My personal heater went away.” I hope you like it! 🥰😁

I Wouldn't Want This Without You

In hindsight, you should've known that you could take the Texan out of Texas, but he'd never really like the snow. Jake was so fond of you that when you'd suggested spending two weeks skiing in Colorado over Christmas and New Year's, he'd agreed almost immediately. He'd gone all out. He'd booked an apartment with a fireplace and views of the slopes, purchased ski gear and premium passes for the slopes, and done everything. And his excitement was catching. You'd been starry-eyed, dreaming of the trip for the entire month before you were due to leave.

The two of you had driven up to your AirBnB in the middle of a snowstorm the night before. Seeing the fat flakes drift lazily down from the sky, glistening in the late afternoon light, was intoxicating. While Jake had checked you in, you'd hopped out of the passenger seat, your head upturned, letting the flakes dust across your cheeks and catch in your hair and eyelashes. Jake had twirled you about in the snow, a childlike gleam in his eyes at the sight. Of course, the cold had set in later that night, and you’d walked out of the bathroom in a t-shirt and sweats to find the fireplace roaring and Jake wearing flannel-lined pants, thick socks, a long-sleeve t-shirt, and a sweater over it. He’d complained that he was cold until he fell asleep.

On your first day on the mountain, you’d been up with the birds, excitement flowing through your veins at the thought of the crisp, clean powder that had been falling from the sky all night. Jake, on the other hand, had reached for you, grumbled under his breath while still asleep, and rucked all the blankets around his body until all you could see was the top of his head. It made you giggle, looking at him as you got ready to hit the ski lifts.

Jake finally left the bed 45 minutes later when the scent of coffee yanked him out of his dreams. That was pretty much what the rest of the day had been like. You'd had a blast coursing down the slopes, rejoicing in the perfect snow and conditions. Jake spent most of the day falling on his ass. You should probably correct yourself in your earlier statements. Jake had thought of everything on your trip except ski lessons for himself.

"Sweets, I'm going to have a bruise the size of Texas on my ass when we get to the apartment." He'd groused on more than one occasion before he sidled up to you and murmured, "You're going to kiss it better, right?"

And you’d brushed the snow out of his parka each time, kissed his cold-bitten pink lips, and told him to try again. As the day progressed, you’d seen how the cold had sapped his good mood and how he struggled to stay cheerful for you. He’d nearly fallen asleep into his food when you ate dinner at the lodge. When Jake had face flopped onto the bed exhausted, you’d undressed him and tucked the blankets around his shoulders before curling into his arms. You’d fallen asleep soon after him, your body and mind just as exhausted after the relentless onslaught of the weak winter sun and biting cold.

Everything is dark when you wake up. The bedroom is illuminated only by the glowing embers of the fire and the blue glow from the snow piled up on the mountain town. The alarm clock glowing on the coffee table tells you it is just past 3AM. You’re still exhausted, but your mind won’t let you sleep, no matter how you curl into Jake’s arms. Fifteen minutes of tossing and turning later, you carefully slip out of his arms, padding silently out to sit on the sofa in front of the colossal windows in the living room. It’s started snowing again since the two of you had turned in for the night, and you’re content to sit and just observe the snow as it falls.

As you do, your mind turns to Jake. Things hadn’t always been smooth between you. In fact, he’d hated your guts when you were first introduced to each other. You were a friend of Natasha’s, Phoenix, as her squadron knew her, and she’d wanted you to meet the people she trusted her life with every day. You thought you’d been nice when you met him, introducing yourself and striking up a conversation with him like you would have anyone else. Phoenix had told you he flirted with everyone under the sun, so that’s what you’d expected. But what you got instead was a stand-offish rude man who’d greeted you perfunctorily and then walked away. Your rampant lack of self-esteem had taken it to mean that you were too ugly to flirt with. The more you saw Jake, the more you hated yourself. Everything had reached a fever pitch the day you’d been stood up at the Hard Deck on a blind date. You’d walked up to the pool table, handed Tasha your bag, and locked yourself in the bathroom.

Jake had been the person to get you out of there a couple of hours later. He’d wheedled and charmed until you giggled on the other side of the door and hugged you tight when you finally stepped out. The rest, as they say, was history. Of course, he’d gotten the shovel talk of all shovel talks from Natasha, but you adored him. It’s been nearly a year since that fateful night, and you couldn’t imagine your life as it was before Jake. You love Jake. You love him with all your heart. So how are you going to tell him? You’re not a nun. Far from it. Your sex life with Jake has been mind-blowing. Every time you’re intimate with him, your orgasms take your breath away. And you know he loves you too. So why can’t you tell him?

You’re startled out of your thoughts when an arm wraps around your shoulder.

“Jake, what are you doing up?” You nuzzle into his chest as he drapes the blankets he’s carried from the bed around you.

“My personal heater went away, sweets.” He presses a kiss against your temple before tugging you into his lap. “The real question is, what are you doing up?”

“I just woke up, and my mind wouldn’t quiet down enough to let me get back to sleep.” You shrug, playing with one of the tassels on the blanket’s edge as you stare out over the snowy vista.

“What’s on your mind, darlin’?” His arms are so warm as you cuddle closer to him. “Please tell me, beautiful, especially if I did something wrong. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what I did. C’mon, sweetheart.”

Your resulting sigh is shuddery as you play with his fingers. “It’s not anything you did, Jake. Not intentionally, anyhow.” You turn in his arms and straddle his lap. His hands rest on your waist as you cup his face in your hands.

“So, what is it, gorgeous?” You can see something way too close to resignation on his face as you peer into his eyes in the half-light. “If you want to break up with me 'cause I can’t ski to save my life, can it wait until we’re home?”

“I’m not breaking up with you, Jake.” You swallow, trying to collect the words. “I love you. So, so much. But what’s happened, I don’t know if we’re, if you’re ready for.”

You can’t see his face when you say the next words, so you snap your eyes closed before finally spitting the words out. “I’m pregnant. 10 weeks. I found out a week ago. And I know I should’ve told you sooner. But you’re away so much, and while you love being an uncle, that’s different than being a dad. I didn’t want this to be the reason why we fell apart. M’so”

You’re cut off by the sweetest kiss Jake has ever pressed against your lips. His tongue slides soothingly across your bottom lip, pressing into the seam of your mouth until you’re kissing him with all the passion he’s kissing you. You’re breathing raggedly when he pulls away, and you open your eyes. This is a look on Jake’s face you’ve never seen before.

“I love you, gorgeous. You make me the happiest man in the world every day I wake up by your side. And now you’re giving me a family? I never thought I’d have that happy home to return to before you. I’m going to take care of you and this baby. I promise.”

You kiss him wrapping your arms around his neck before fishing your phone out of the pile of blankets around you both.

“Want to see the pregnancy test and come to my 12-week scan when we get back home?”

“Yeah, sweets.” His voice sounds so fond as the two of you go through the pictures.

“Merry Christmas, Jake.” He presses a kiss against your jaw before setting his palm against your lower stomach. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart. I love you both. We’ll figure out all of the rest of this together.”

Want to request something for my 100 Follower Celebration? The guidelines are here! Please leave me a request in my inbox with your ask!

- XOXO Star

#star writes #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #100 follower celebration #top gun imagine #top gun fluff #jake hangman seresin x reader #hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #hangman imagine #hangman fluff

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skin-of-my-teeth · 11 days ago

Text

The Taste of Fear

Tags: horror, hard vore, fatal, explicit vore, digestion, weight gain, monster vore, Predator Namjoon/monster wolf , Prey Jungkook/piggy hybrid, fat blobby prey, this is the most explicit i've ever wrote- indulgent vore smut<3

Deep in a top secret science facility, a huge monster werewolf lurks in an observation enclosure.

Namjoon was being studied, tortured, and documented, all from the result of a twisted experiment involving hybridized predator gene splicing.

The results were... unnerving. The scientists couldn't figure out what was wrong with their predator. Namjoon didn't eat anything for weeks, downright refusing every type of food and raw meat thrown to him.

Eventually, out of frustration, the scientists stomped down to the feeding cages and selected the slowest, plumpest pig hybrid they could find.

Jungkook dumbly waddled along on a leash, thinking he was getting his dinner early! Or maybe he was finally selected for breeding! He had certainly grown big enough and heavy enough over the last month to be one of the breeding hogs. Jungkook was such a good piggy. This must be his reward for eating so well! He was so excited...

Until big cage doors opened and Jungkook was shoved into a large forested enclosure.

The piggy oinked in confusion, waddling around and cupping his heavy belly, not realizing that he was the next test to see if the werewolf will accept a fresh, fattened prey as a meal.

Jungkook's porky gut hung down, rolls wobbling as he slowly waddled and explored. To the scientists, he was no more than a stuffed ham to tempt the monster lurking in the shadows. Namjoon silently watched and sniffed the air, trying to identify that delicious buttered scent.

Jungkook oinked in mild confusion, chubby hands resting on his doubled gut. His chin rolls were fat, arms squishy, sides creased with folds and hips and thighs dumpy.

He had been fattened to perfection in the cages.

The piggy smelled so supple and delectable that the large wolf licked over his chops while hidden in the darkness of the foliage. He hunted the plump little thing as it dumbly ambled closer.

So fat and slow.

This was the perfect meal. A downright feast.

Jungkook toddled along obliviously, until a deep, unearthly rumble behind him radiated into his bones.

He turned and dumbly stared up into the face of a giant, monsterous wolf.

The realization set in too late.

Predator.

Jungkook squealed in fear and scrambled to get away.

The huge wolf's appetite ignited at the scent of such a plump prey, and his large gut groaned with a lusty growl. Namjoon finally realized just how starved he was. He was feral at the scent of one piggy.

Jungkook's prey scent flared as he clumsily fleed, so delicious and inviting. He was practically begging Namjoon to chase him.

But the pig was so slow. He was too fat to run away, even though Namjoon took such pleasure in watching the prey try. Oinking and squealing like a dumb hog, slowly waddling away from the colossal beast.

Namjoon couldn't let this prey get away, he was so hungry. He drooled, taking his time to slink after the fattened ham trying and failing to run.

Jungkook tripped over his own weight in his panic. He squealed as he tumbled to the ground in a heavy heap.

He laid there, frozen, until a large snout rolled Jungkook over like a sausage in a frying pan. He flopped onto his back, belly pushing up into the air as he was assessed by the massive beast. The piggy was met with dark, hungry eyes and sharp teeth dripping with saliva.

The large predator sniffed, voraciously nosing deep against Jungkook’s gelatinous belly and pulling back an inch to watch the porky weight wobble. Jungkook whimpered up into the face of the wolf as he was assessed. Two thumping paws planted on either side of him, one pinning down his arm and keeping Jungkook from squirming away.

A long, heavy tongue lolled out of the wolf's jaws and slathered across Jungkook’s belly, dragging from the bottom of his hang, up the crest and doubled stack, over his soft chest, and up each fattened chin roll. The piggy squealed in fear as a deep, rumbled purr of pleasure growled out of the massive predator towering over him. Its breath was hot as he watched the tongue pull back to lather over its chops. Drool dripped onto Jungkook from the sharp, frightening teeth as the huge wolf panted, clearly sizing him up.

"P-please don't eat me-" Jungkook tried to speak, but his voice was no more than a little squeak. He oinked in panic, "I'm a good piggy-"

Namjoon's predator instincts only grew as the prey begged and struggled under his teeth, a massive blubbery pile of rolls. The hunger in the wolf's aching, empty gut intensified into a painful throb. Namjoon needed to devour this sweet ham before another predator did. He opened his jaws and fit them around the pile of lard, biting down just hard enough to claim the meal as his own. His instincts were licking at him to tease and taunt his prey with the threat of being devoured, all just to inhale more of the prey's sweet, terrifed scent.

Namjoon's starving wolf wanted to ferally rip into the fat meat under his canines, but the greedy beast plaguing Namjoon’s mind purred about how delectable it would be to swallow this prey down whole.

It was mouth-watering to feel the pig squeal under his tongue.

The prey's oinks would sound even more enjoyable muffled from inside of his belly. How much more appetizing would he be... devoured whole for his stomach to digest while the prey squirmed and squealed inside for hours, rather than swallowed piece by piece. Namjoon drooled around his prey, slowly tightening his jaws in answer to his starved gut demanding that he devour this prey now.

A fat squeal tumbled out of Jungkook as heavy jaws began closing around the thick weight of him. Strong, sharp teeth slowly sunk in and dimpled the plush blubber. Jungkook tried to squirm away but the bite tightened, almost like the wolf was keeping him in place to make sure his dumb meal didn't accidentally slice himself open on the teeth before Namjoon was ready.

Jungkook huffed with exertion. He fell limp as the rough tongue laved over him again, tasting between his rolls and slathering drool all over him. Jungkook whined in his lazy exhaustion from struggling against his own weight, until he was glossed with saliva and his skin was dripping with it. Jungkook didn't understand why- until the thought surfaced that he would probably be easier to gulp down the wolf's gullet if he was slicked up and buttered. Jungkook let out another lazy, scared oink, his heavy body so tired. The piggy now protested with the only lie left that he could think of to not be this predator's next meal.

"P-please- big wolfie- I'm too fat for you to eat! Piggy is too big and heavy for your belly- I won't fit!" He tried to inhale and push out his flabby gut, to look too fat to devour. "Piggy won't even taste good- promise!"

The beast didn't seem to care, or even listen. It only drooled around him and licked, consumed and obsessed with his flavor. Jungkook was terrified that the monster would just bite into his gut and sink those sharp teeth in to rip off a hunk of fatty pork.

"Please-" he sobbed in last resort, "M'a good piggy- please dont eat me-" He begged and babbled, not knowing just how luscious he felt squishing under the wolf's teeth. Each moment he was toyed with, Jungkook poured sweet prey pheromones across the wolf's taste buds. Hogs were meant for eating, and Jungkook's instincts were fighting each other. The prey part of himself squealed at him to fight and run, while the dumb, lazy hog part of himself oinked at him to relax. To be a willing meal and fulfill his purpose as a fat ham, only bred and fed to eventually feed a predator.

Jungkook whimpered in defeat, feeling the infatuated licks turn more greedy and hungry.

The huge wolf shifted its weight and his strong tongue shoved underneath Jungkook's fat legs. The hog peeked down over the rotund swell of his belly to see the wolf's large, wet maw, stretched wide open around him... Jungkook's tubby legs were suckled in and swallowed around.

He lurched an inch closer, and screamed.

Jungkook used the last surge of his depleted energy to try to fight, but his immense, blubbery weight made it impossible. He was too heavy for himself.

Leaden paws settled over the prey and pushed him further into place. The pig pooled heavily across the wolf's meaty tongue and sunk in deeper with every greedy gulp. Jungkook squealed in fear, too weak to struggle and run away. All he could do was watch in horror as the huge, fleshy throat constricted and swallowed around his mass with painful slowness.

His legs and hips were bound in the tight muscles and dissappeared from his view, half sunk down the formidable maw. He was devoured up to his ass, his love handles, the rotund curve of his gut now the only thing keeping him alive.

The wolf swallowed around him obscenely, stuffing the hog down his throat inch by fatty inch. The prey squealed and begged uselessly, but the predator only gulped with purred delight. The immense blubbery weight of Jungkook's belly seemed to test the limits of the wolf's hot, wet throat. The dense weight and girth of his middle made the beast growl in clear irritation that Jungkook was not an easy meal to gobble down.

A spark of hope ignited that he was too fat to fit, but quickly guttered out as his salivaed rolls gave way to the insistent digestive muscles trying to down such a fattened feast.

The prey squealed in terror as the beast lifted its head up to let gravity help. Jungkook slid downward. His legs dangled down the hot, wet throat squeezing him like a snake as he was stuffed into the tight space, past his belly and up to his chest. The wolf's tongue greedily lapped at him, pushing him deeper into the fleshy muscles as they contracted to inevitably slurp him down.

With one last heavy, powerful gulp, Jungkook's slippery lard dislodged and he screamed, sliding down the predator's huge gullet. He glimpsed the backside of massive jaws snapping shut after him in delight, effectively cutting off all light and fresh air.

He was forcefully shoved downwards and stuffed into a heavy, fatty dark space that gurgled happily upon his arrival. Disoriented, Jungkook tried to get a purchase on anything but the walls were soft and thick, molding to him and manhandling him into hanging uselessly like he was wrapped in a tight hammock.

The prey bounced in place as the wolf padded back to his den. Belly hanging down heavily, meal proudly devoured and ready to be digested.

Jungkook whined as a wet, loud gurgle engulfed him, and he yelped as the beast flopped down on him, squashing the prey flat. The huge wolf shifted and settled. The mass of blubber sitting in his gut made it hard to lay down comfortably.

Jungkook was jostled around this way and that, rolled around until he was pinned in place, face down, and crushed completely immobile by the weight of the massive wolf laying on top of him.

A hefty thudding of the monster's heartbeat and pulsing organs radiated into Jungkook's back. The fleshy, thick padding wrapping him up stretched and contracted with the beast's inhales. Tight, squelchy squeezes were accompanied by a weighty, deafening gurgle of satisfaction.

Jungkook whimpered. The wolf's belly seemed to slowly be getting used the fat size of its meal. Gently distending with more space for the prey to relax as it accepted the fat hog as its feast.

Jungkook used the extra inches of freedom and tried to muster his exhausted strength to squirm and move. The fear of being trapped in a predator's hungry belly forced him to at least try to escape. At once, a low, powerful growl rumbled around Jungkook and he froze. Namjoon shifted his weight to make sure his prey was completely pinned down.

The dark growl made the wolf's directions clear. Jungkook was not allowed to move. He would not, by any means, be able to get out. He was to be a good meal and stay nice and still while the wolf's belly digested him.

Jungkook let out a dumb, oinking sob, too fat and finished to do anything but obey. He laid there, pinned, like a stuffed ham waiting to be devoured.

Namjoon lounged on his heavy belly and panted in bliss, tongue occasionally lolling out to lick over his chops for remnants of the delicious piggy's rich, fatty flavor. The immense weight in his gut was delicious. Namjoon had never had a meal like this before.

One that he'd eaten alive. One that squirmed in his belly and promised hours of entertainment to satisfy his monsterous appetite.

A deep thudding through the stretched swell of his gut told Namjoon that his belly was warming up, assessing the size of the meal and seeing just how rich the meat was. After a loud gurgle of pleasure, a hefty bubble of gas belched upwards, full of the prey's flavor. He licked over his lips again on instinct. The pig was such a sweet, fattened thing.

Namjoon dropped his head onto his paws and purred as he felt his belly begin a slow, lazy churn. The dumb piggy oinked uselessly, but stayed still even as the strong walls of the predator's gut squeezed and kneaded. The wolf panted at the delicacy of digesting something so plump and supple. Perfectly ripe and tender.

Namjoon's eyes drooped closed in sated bliss as his stomach gurgled excitedly around the corpulent feast, pig oinking in lazy defeat as the wolf's belly began digesting its heavily fattened prey.

The scientists wrote furiously to document the scene, noting that the beast finally devoured something after weeks, that it preferred prey, and that it seemed to thoroughly enjoy its meal. Not only consuming for nourishment, but exhibiting pleasure in hunting and behaviors of self-satisfaction. It was huge progress in their study.

The predator's actions were documented for research, how Namjoon eventually flopped on his side in bliss, the massive wolf drooling and panting as the huge swell of obese prey was slowly ingested and melted into meaty lard that made the hulking predator even more enormous.

After hours and hours, the sated wolf eventually got up, lazy and well-fed, gut hanging down so heavy and fat that it almost dragged across the ground.

They would need to send in a scientist to take measurements, but hopefully not become the beast's next meal. Now that it had a taste for prey.

They prepped a series of test launches, more prey hybrids at various sizes. The next hybrid would be a skinny, runty one that could escape if it tried hard enough. And they would observe how the massive wolf entertained a thin, fiesty meal after having one so slow and blubbery.

Maybe the monster would only devour the fattest prey. More tests needed to be conducted.

#ladybug fics #🐞

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faulty-heat-vents · 2 months ago

Text

//Narrative communication established.

[CONTEXT: CONTINUATION]> Previous installments

Ashton sits on top of his desk with his knees pinched under his chin and hands around his paw-ankles.

Patience- this is Ciryn’s first rodeo, he thinks to himself. She’s not used to this shit.

Ciryn is seated on Thermie’s reconstructed leg, using the colossal war-machine as a bench as she fiddles with a mechanical box. She knows how to open it- she’s the only one who can- but she’s more preoccupied with finding out who sent it.

“Commander Oracle was right, you know.” She doesn’t raise her head from the box when she talks. “This open inbox thing is dangerous.”

Ash rolls his eyes under his helmet. “Would it make a difference if I closed it? Hive broke in and dropped off-“

“I know what that Hive pilot did. I also know that Oracle set up stronger security.”

“THIS KNIFE TELEPORTED.” He holds up the knife in question, waving it around despite its sharpness. “I don’t think whatever’s happening gives a shit about a few secturrets!”

Neither side says anything for a moment. A mirrored sigh, another pause, then half-laughter.

“We’re so fucked,” Ash exaggeratedly whines, letting himself flop to the floor beneath his desk. Ciryn copies him again, similarly sliding down Thermie’s leg. She tosses the box to the side as she shifts to lay on her back to face the rafters.

Ashton tries to redirect the tension. “How tall do you think this place is?”

“Hm?” Ciryn rolls her head to look at him.

“I mean- half-size frames are usually, like, two or three meters tall, right? And size one frames are twice that big, size two is double that, size three doubles that. Three, six, twelve, twenty-four meters tall?”

“Ash, you’re the only person here who’d think of that.”

“I think they rounded up to thirty.” Ashton sits upright and points to the hangar beyond. “Class-group C has a Barbarossa in their sortie, and the Apoc doesn’t even scrape the catwalks.”

“You have a rangefinder in your helmet, yeah? Just ping the ceiling-“

“That’d ruin the fun!” He crosses his arms in mock offense, then drops back down with a laugh. “Nah, I like to think there’s a Fomorian Frame Yermak running around here somewhere. Size Four.”

“Doesn’t IPS-N restrict that mod to size three? And besides, if there was a size four frame here, we would’ve seen it.”

Ashton sweeps his hand across his view, waving to the metal walkways above them both.

“Maybe this whole base is a Size Four. GMS Expanded Compartment. We’d never know- they never roll down the windows in the vertibird during deployment.”

Ciryn runs a hand across her face. “Ash, that’s because we’d be sucked into space. There’s no conspiracy going on.”

“Bullshit! Command’s lying to me about my past. Who’s to say they aren’t lying about the entire base?”

Despite Ash’s jovial tone, Ciryn can tell he’s upset with that one. She rolls over and leans her head on her hand, arms on their elbows. Ash doesn’t turn; he just side-eyes her.

“Ashton, you know why Commander Oracle is being so secret.”

“I don’t, but you’re talking like you do. What’d they tell you?”

“Nothing… forget about it.”

“They told me to pilot a meat mech.”

Ciryn shoots upright, lying to sitting ramrod in a blink.

“What?! When?!”

“A few hours ago. Dunno when the next drop is, but I’m gonna have to strap a bleeding gun onto Thermie.”

“Thermie,” Ciryn pointedly asks the frame to her back, “did you know about this?!”

//Affirmative. I was informed shortly after Pilot received the order.

“And you’re not freaking out?!”

//Negative- irrational response is not my directive. I have my concerns, but I will not field them. Instead, I will field the armaments assigned to my chassis. Good soldiers follow orders.

Ashton places a gentle hand on Ciryn’s shoulder, trying to pull her out of her panic. It doesn’t work. She whips around and snaps at him.

“Ashton, why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I…” He breathes to steady himself, sits up straight, then admits- “I was working up the courage to ask you.”

“Ask me? About what?”

Ashton stands up and offers her a hand to her feet. Once she’s up, he grabs the knife from his desk.

“Follow me. And bring the box.”

——

TO BE CONTINUED.

#lancer rpg #lancer ttrpg #lancerrpg #lancer rp #oc rp #textpost #lancer pilot #ashton talks #lancer nhp #thermie talks #lancer medic #ciryn talks

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zot3-flopped · 5 days ago

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Why is Louis celebrating 5 years of that colossal flop Walls? It debuted with 39k and still doesn't even have a gold certificate. What will lt3 sell in its first week?

Probably less than 10k the way he's haemorrhaging fans.

#lt3 #louis tomlinson #so greedy for his fans' money

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maraschinomerry · 2 years ago

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Firstly, your fics give me life, they’re incredible! Secondly I was wondering if you could do a Lockwood x sibling!reader fluff? Where reader comes back to Portland Row injured and Lockwood’s worry comes across as frustration and they’re both tense until they eventually both cool down and it’s a soft/bonding moment. Maybe with dialogue prompts: “i’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. no matter the cost.” And "it's alright... it's okay... i'm here now. i've got you."?

Tea and Torn T-shirts

Pairings: Anthony Lockwood x gn! sibling!reader

Content: physical and emotional hurt/comfort, blood, Lockwood being a fluffy protective big brother, mild swearing

A/N: thanks for being patient with this, I've been away all week and haven't had as much time to write as I'd planned! This is my first sibling fic so I hope it's okay!

Word count: 1.8k

Tag list: @neewtmas @marinalor (if anyone wants adding to the list, let me know!)

Where was your key? Where the hell was your key?

You scrabbled frantically across your pockets, trying to feel for the lump of your keyring. Not in your jeans. Damn it. Relief flooded you when you found it in your jacket, only to drain away as you tried and failed one too many times to fit the key into the lock with shaking hands. One more try, you told yourself. The key slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the step, and you swore as you dropped your bag and knocked firmly.

George was shuffling out of the kitchen with a glass of water when there came a colossal thudding at the front door. Nothing good ever came of knocking like that, but against his better judgement he opened it.

"Oh shit," he muttered before he could stop himself.

He barely recognised you at first. Your hair was matted against your head with a mixture of rainwater and something dark. That same dark liquid coated the fingers of your left hand, raised level with your weary face as you tried to look nonchalant leaning on the doorframe. On closer inspection, it was a deep red. The bottom of your T-shirt was jagged and significantly higher than it had been last time he saw you, exposing a grubby patch of stomach. What was missing of it was tied around your left leg, above a tear in your jeans from which radiated a large purplish patch, reaching from a little above the tear to almost down to your knee. George swore again.

"George please," you hushed him, doing your best to ignore how much of your weight you were now putting on the doorframe, "I'm fine. Just help me inside." The pressure of the wood digging into your arm subsided as George ducked under your shoulder to take the weight, other arm wrapping round your waist and holding you up as you hobbled through to the living room. The second you were in range of the sofa, you flopped onto it with a wince.

"I'm going to get Lockwood," he announced.

"No, don't-" you began, frantically and in vain; he'd already gone. Great. About the only thing that could make this worse was a lecture from Anthony bloody Lockwood, your overbearing older brother. Your only hope was to get patched up before he got here. There was a first aid kit in the kitchen, wasn't there?

You hurried to your feet, but a dagger of burning pain shot straight up your leg and into your brain, sending you staggering backwards. So much for that plan. Best bet now was to minimise any opportunities for him to fuss. That could work. You set to, untying the scrap of cloth from around your thigh with one hand and brushing your hair into a vaguely normal style with the other. Hasty footsteps hammered down the stairs, and in a last ditch effort you dragged a blanket over your lap.

—

"What the hell happened?" Lockwood appeared in the doorway, casually dressed in a black T-shirt and light grey sweatpants. His hair was unstyled. Had it not been for the fire in his eyes and voiced, he'd have seemed the most relaxed you'd seen him in years.

"Nothing, I'm-"

"Don't you dare say you're fine," he cut you off sharply. "George said you were bleeding!"

You feigned innocence. "George must have been mistaken." Lockwood moved towards you, silent, calculating, and you were attempting to figure out what he was doing when he whipped the blanket away. You gasped, a combination of shock and the lance of white hot pain the sudden movement sent through you. He swore at the patch on your jeans. You supposed everyone else had a go at swearing tonight, he might as well too. All the colour had drained from his face, and he instructed you to stay put as he dashed from the room.

"Not like I can run off anywhere in this state!" you yelled after him. You looked down at the rip and the gash underneath. Thick, dark blood had started to trickle from it once again. You quickly pressed the heel of your hand to it, biting back a groan.

Your brother returned a few minutes later with the first aid kit and a pair of your short pyjamas.

"Thanks." You held out a hand for the kit, but he kept it close and knelt down beside you. "Ant, I can handle it." As his sibling, you were the only person allowed to call him Ant, he was strictly Lockwood to everyone else or Anthony at a push, but under the circumstances even you felt on thin ice.

He ignored your protest. "Jeans off." Debating whether to be stubborn, a wave of exhaustion washed over you and shattered your willpower. You stood, a hand on his shoulder to keep yourself upright, and when the waistband brushed against the wound and you hissed his head snapped up, eyes filled with concern. As soon as you stepped out of the jeans, you wriggled carefully into the shorts and changed your top at the same time before sinking back onto the sofa. Lockwood held up the tattered remains of your T-shirt.

"What happened? You loved this top." His voice was much softer than it had been. He was right too - he'd bought it for your last birthday, emblazoned with the logo of your favourite band, and you could barely go a week without wearing it at least once. It wasn't unsalvageable, it would just have to be a crop from now on.

"I made a tourniquet with it."

"Oh, so you're not completely stupid," he smirked, but there was an edge to his words that suggested he meant the last word a little more than normal.

"No, just mostly." You tried to keep it lighthearted, thwarted when he pressed an antiseptic to your leg and a whimper fell involuntarily from your lips. He looked up at you again, worry painting his features, and you watched as those same features hardened. He dragged his eyes away.

"I can't believe you went on a case alone."

You frowned in confusion. "Wait, that's not-"

"I know you're still getting used to having George and Lucy around, but at least take me with you."

"No, Ant, listen-"

"No, you listen!" he snapped suddenly, body jerking upwards like he was reacting to the noise as much as you. His fingers slipped from the bandage he'd just finished tying round your thigh to ball into quivering fists, and his eyes were narrowed. You'd never seen him look so angry, and you shrunk back a little. If he noticed, he didn't seem to care. "Do you have any idea how worried I was when I realised you weren't home? How I've spent the whole evening wondering where you were and if you're okay? How much I'd blame myself if anything happened to you, because you're too young to be out there alone and it's my fault for getting you involved in the agency in the first place, because I was so excited that my sibling wanted to be just like me so I let you. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe, no matter the cost, but I can't do that if you go off half-cocked on cases alone!"

"Anthony!" you finally cried. The red mist lifted from his vision, and all his rage left with it when he saw you, trembling and on the verge of tears. Immediately he sank to his knees, hands on your shoulders. "I wasn't on a case!"

Now it was his turn to look confused. You sniffed, rolling your lips in as you persuaded yourself not to cry. A single tear broke the barricade, and in an instant Lockwood wiped it away.

You steadied yourself with a shaky breath, then explained. "I'd gone out for a walk, to the shop across town for that tea you like. I was on the way back when I heard a scream. There was a little girl, locked in the park, she was on her own and it was past curfew. I couldn't leave her there, Ant." Your voice cracked as you saw him nod in silent understanding. "I hopped the fence and boosted her over. There was something coming so I rushed and ended up slicing my leg on a fence spike."

"Was... was the girl okay?" Lockwood asked quietly.

"She was fine, she had no idea how much danger she was in other than being afraid of the dark. But I..." The Visitor in the park flashed violently behind your eyes, mouth warped in a piercing scream and hands reaching, grabbing. You broke down. "I was so scared." Lockwood leapt into action, moving beside you on the sofa and pulling you into a hug. "I didn't have any salt bombs or anything, just my rapier, and I didn't know what to do. I wish you'd been there, Anthony."

Your brother shushed you calmingly, stroking your hair. "It's alright... It's okay... I'm here now, I've got you."

"I'm sorry I made you worry," you mumbled.

"No, hey it's okay. I'm sorry I got mad. You were doing a good thing, two good things actually, and I don't want you to think that's wrong. Sometimes I forget you're not such a little kid any more, but you're the only family I've got. I know we have George and Lucy now, and they love you to bits too, but it's not the same. So I'm going to be the fussy big brother for as long as I can, okay?"

You agreed, then it clicked what he'd said about two good things. "Oh, I almost forgot! Where's my bag?"

Lockwood went to look - George had brought it into the hallway after he helped you inside. You rummaged through it, producing a small pink box with delight. "I managed to get you that tea after all!"

Lockwood laughed as he turned the box over in his hands. "Now I definitely can't be mad at you."

—

You sat together for a while, all frustration having faded away now you'd cleared the air. He told you stories to keep you calm, adventures from cases he'd done without you or memories from your childhood. At one point, once it was clear the animosity was gone, George popped in with tea, and Lucy also came to check on you. Eventually you let out a yawn, and after checking your bandage once more Lockwood helped you up to your bedroom. As soon as you were under the covers, he disappeared. No goodnight, no sweet dreams, nothing. Rude. You were about to call out for him when he returned with pillows under one arm and his duvet under the other.

"What are you doing?" You let out a surprised chuckle.

"Sleepover," he shrugged. You knew what he was really doing: showing he was there to keep you safe, proving he was absolutely not mad at you. He pitched up at the end of your bed, between you and the doorway. You smiled.

"Thanks, Ant. Love you."

"Love you too. Sleep well."

#lockwood & co x reader #anthony lockwood x reader #sibling!reader #gn!reader #lockwood & co fanfic #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood

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spreadyovrwings · 1 year ago

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64 Oslo Square

"Companion' Middle English. From Old French ‘compaignon', literally 'one who breaks bread with another.

Strapped for cash, John gets a job at a bakery as their new delivery boy. Juggling school and Queen and work is exhausting, but it's more than worth it. It's worth it because of you.

Warnings for this chapter: self… induced… smut…. and some more flirting

Chapter Eight

John leaned his weary body up against the door to his room after it clicked shut behind him. His digs had never felt more empty, more dark or unwelcoming.

The last of the day’s light was still filtering in through his tiny, square window, alighting on the scratchy old carpet and highlighting a pile of textbooks he’d forgotten to put away the night before.

With a sigh, John flung his bags down on the floor, then carefully propped up his bass in the corner of the room. He let his fingertips drag along the spine of its leather case, a sort of thank you for helping him play so well tonight. It had become a ritual, though John would rather die than admit that, to himself or to anyone else.

His stomach growled, a dog pawing at the back door, waiting impatiently to be let in. John thought about making some dinner but it was late, he didn’t want to disturb the others as he crashed around in the kitchen. A cup of tea could have been a reasonable substitute, but the process (another usually calming, nostalgic ritual) seemed exhausting and tedious. He just wanted to sleep.

Luckily, John had a good amount of leftover food from the bakery stashed away. He grabbed a couple of the white boxes from his shelf and dragged open their satiny scarlet ribbons. You’d saved him again.

Chewing gratefully on a flaky croissant, John flopped down on his bed and closed his eyes. He was so tired, they stung at first and he had to blink a couple of times so push away the pain.

He polished off the croissant, flicking his fingers over the side of the bed to get rid of any remaining pastry crumbs. He already felt a little better.

John drew in a long breath then slowly released it again, until all the muscles in his body had finally unwound and he had sunk further into the mattress.

“You sure you won’t come in? The sofa’s got your name on it. Or, you know…”

John opened his eyes and stared blankly up at his low, beige ceiling.

How could he have been so stupid. You had stood on your doorstep, asking him, plain as day, if he wanted to stay the night, and just when it mattered most, he’d chickened out.

“You were such a good boy for me.”

John groaned. What a moron. He turned and pressed his face into the pillow. Maybe if he pushed hard enough, he’d get lucky and suffocate.

He could still feel your soft skin against his palm. John found himself curling his hand around the ghost of your cheek, his eyes closing as he pictured you gazing up at him, smiling, always smiling.

“They need you, New Boy.”

“Don’t you need me?”

“I want you, that’s different.”

You got all shy after you said that. John didn’t think he’d ever seen you look so bashful. You wanted him. He knew it. And, God, he wanted you too.

It was late. He had an exam in the morning. He was still hungry and dehydrated after the show. He’d said ‘no’ to you like an idiot. He really shouldn’t do anything but sleep.

John unbuckled his belt with one hand.

He closed his eyes and pictured you laying beside him, the what-would-have-been if he hadn’t been such a colossal git. With a soft, relieved groan, he forced his hand down the front of his trousers, just as the you he’d conjured in his head kissed him hard enough to bruise.

Not too far away, you were also staring at the ceiling. Try as you might, you couldn’t sleep. You’d eaten late, you’d stayed up too long, you had a million things to worry about - you’d almost managed to convince yourself these were the reasons you couldn’t drop off. Almost.

With a sigh, you turned over onto your side.

You could still feel John’s big hands in yours. You loved those hands. Skilled in electronics and an expert at the bass. He’d probably play with you just as well, if not better.

You sighed dolefully.

Maybe if you’d been more insistent, if you’d asked again and maybe been more obvious about what you wanted, John would’ve followed you home and you wouldn’t be lying here, alone, pressing your thighs together and trying to ignore the ache between them.

You stared at the wall. You stared and stared and stared, willing sleep to claim you. Behind your closed eyes, images of John on stage awaited you, daring you to do something about how delicious he looked that night.

“Oh, fuck it.”

You stuck two fingers in your mouth and swirled your tongue around them, the way you’d been picturing John doing ever since his trick with the ring. His lovely, funny mouth. You’d give anything to have it between your legs right now.

Whispering softly to yourself, you closed your eyes and imagined how it might’ve started, what you might’ve done if you’d been brave enough to entice him in properly, and all the while you gently coaxed at your swollen clit

You’d have to sit in his lap again. You’d simply die if you didn't get the chance to do that again soon. John had felt so small beneath you but so warm and sturdy too. You could wrap his hair around your fingers as you lazily kissed him, whispering sweetly against his lips as he gasped and rocked his hips against yours.

So close to each other, you seemed to be sharing one breath, you imagined yourself breaking away to mouth down his neck, sinking your teeth in here, sucking a dark mark there, until John was whining and struggling to sit still.

His face burning, John pictured you under him, your arms wrapped around his middle, your lovely hands pressing into his back and keeping him close as you moaned into his mouth. He wanted to make you feel so good, just wanted to make you see how much he cared about you with his lips, his hands, his teeth and his tongue.

But it didn’t seem right. His very limited experience (and magazines he would rather die than you ever find out he read) were a guide, but those girls weren’t you. For some reason, John knew this wasn’t how it would go and something in the back of his head was telling him to flip the situation.

You, with your champagne smile and daggerish words. You weren’t going to let anyone push you around, especially not him, especially not when it came to sex. You’d back him up against the wall and push your knee between his thighs, your hands on his hips, squeezing tight as you whispered awful, naughty things against his lips that made his knees buckle.

John wriggled out of his trousers and pants, so desperate he didn’t even bother pushing them both all the way down. He raised his hand to his face, dragged his tongue across his palm, and immediately wrapped his hand around his cock again, squeezing and tugging desperately as he imagined you pushing him flat on his back and smiling down at him.

He moved his free hand so that it rested up by his head, just where he knew you’d place it, and tried to imagine your fingers wrapped tight around his wrist, your nails just beginning to sink into his skin.

“Fuck…” John hissed between his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Fuck- John…”

Your face flushed. You hadn’t meant for his name to slip out. But God, it felt good. It felt right. It felt perfect.

You drew your knee up then let it flop to the side, giving you better access, and all the while you thought about John’s lovely hands pushing your thighs apart so that he could bury his face between them.

“God, you’re so good, you’re so good…” you muttered to yourself, finding your own praises and moans turned you on even more as you rubbed at your clit.

Pictures flooded through your head. You couldn't settle on just one for very long. John’s tongue pressing inside you, his pretty mouth falling open as you slipped your hand around his throat and squeezed gently, the look in those clever grey eyes as he rocked his hips into yours. It was all so much, too much, and even though you felt a flash of guilt for thinking about John like that, it was soon drowned out by the soft little moans and grunts you knew he’d make as you sank down onto him and rode him within an inch of his life.

Sweat beaded John’s forehead as he twisted his wrist in just the right way, thumbing at the slit of his cock just to tease himself. His bottom lip clamped between his teeth, he fucked his hand, his eyes squeezing shut as warmth began to pool in the pit of his stomach.

It had been so long since he’d been able to get himself off. The stress of uni, coming home exhausted after gigs, never having much time on his own, it meant it had been weeks since he’d been able to touch himself like this. And now he had a million ideas he’d never allowed himself to entertain before, ideas about you.

Your knees pressing into his sides as you straddled him, the way you’d moan softly as you looked down at him, approving, studying him like you did your recipes, your lovely eyes switching back and forth across his face, his chest, his stomach - now much softer than when he started - and down and down and down.

John groaned, letting his wrist go limp as his hand slipped up and down his cock. He kept trying not to let his hips leave the bed, but it was too much, soon his back was arching like the girls in his magazines.

“Come on, sweet boy…” Your voice, so real he could almost believe you were murmuring by his ear, was soft and sweet and oh so in control. “Are you gonna cum for me, honey? Gonna cum just from being inside me at last?”

John bit his lip harder, trying not to make a sound, but the growing pressure pooling below his navel made it almost impossible. The hand he’d laid by his head made its way into his tangled hair, still damp with sweat from the gig. John wrapped his curls around his fingers and tugged, hard, a move that made him let out an embarrassingly reedy groan.

“That’s it, good boy. Good boy… You look so perfect like this, Johnny. Could cum just from watching you touch yourself. Come on, pretty boy, let me hear you…”

You were so wet, you could hear your fingers as they worked. It made your cheeks prickle. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had made you feel like this, so desperate and single-minded.

All you could think about was John, how he’d look beneath you, how he’d whine and gasp as you rode him, his hands up above his head, his pretty chest rising and falling raggedly as he tried to catch his breath, his whole body covered in a sheen of sweat.

You knew he’d let you do anything you wanted. You knew he’d beg you to touch him, to look at him, to take him to places he didn’t think were possible, and wouldn’t stop until you were finished with him. Such a smart, enthusiastic boy.

You could picture him sitting up against the headboard, his face pressed between your breasts as you rocked your hips, his hands gripping your hips, your arse, as he mouthed at your flushed skin, leaving trails of kisses and bites and saliva in his wake.

He’d turn up at rehearsals the next day, covered from head to toe in love bites and bite marks, a map of your lips, and he’d wear them all with pride.

John huffed sharply through his nose, his eyes rolling back as he fucked his hand.

Come on, come on, come on, so close, so close, so close…

He pulled at his hair again, just as something began to tighten in his lower belly, and John’s back arched off the bed again, his eyes rolling shut as he whispered to himself.

“Please, please, please… Fuck- Ah!”

He came moaning your name, his mouth hanging open as pleasure rolled through his body. He bent double, folded like a deckchair, the hardest he’d ever cum in his life. John’s hips jerked out of rhythm but he didn’t stop moving his hand, because he knew you wouldn’t. He didn’t stop until it started to ache.

John let his body flop back onto the bed, completely spent. He’d never made that much noise before. He just prayed his neighbours hadn’t heard him.

Across the city, your fingers were starting to cramp but, determined, you kept your pace.

Always so obedient. Always so eager to do well. And not for just anyone, for you. Oh, you’d seen the way John preened every time you paid him the littlest compliment, how he beamed with pride whenever you were sweet to him and how eager he seemed to reassure you that you could do anything you wanted to him.

“You’re in charge, Captain.”

Maybe you could learn to like the nickname.

And maybe it wouldn’t take much convincing to get John to let you have him, his lovely hair strewn across the pillow, his back back arching off the bed as you slipped inside him. God, how he’d bounce and roll his hips, his moans rising higher and higher as he begged you to fuck him harder.

“Fu- Johnnn…”

The band across your belly snapped, and you came moaning the delivery boy’s name.

Exhausted, you let your body sink into the bed. Already, you could feel sleep beginning to overwhelm you. You just about had the wherewithal to pull your hand from the front of your pants before you turned over and fell right asleep, your body still pulsing and your mind still buzzing with the thought of John’s whines of pleasure, and the way his hands had felt in yours as he walked you home.

The next morning, you danced around the bakery’s shop floor, wiggling your hips and kicking up your heels as you tugged tables and their accompanying chairs into place. It did occur to you why you might’ve been in such a good mood but you chose to ignore that.

Cold, morning sunshine flooded in as you placed some of the goods you’d baked that morning in the window, then the rest behind the display counter. All the while, you sang along with the radio, waggling your head to T-Rex and smiling to yourself.

The world seemed at ease, just for a moment.

“Well, she ain't no witch and I love the way she twitch, uh-huh. I'm her two-penny prince and I give her hot love, uh-huh…”

A sharp knock at the door made you look up. It was about quarter past five, the bakery wouldn’t be open for more than an hour, so you immediately went into defensive mode. Thankfully, you recognised the face pressed up against the glass.

“Roger?”

You opened the door.

John’s drummer almost fell into the shop but he caught himself well.

“Alright, Bakery Girl?”

Roger grinned, wide and youthful, and clearly unaffected by the early hour. He was bundled up in a warm jacket, his shoulders drawn right up to his ears as he glanced over your shoulder into the dark, empty bakery.

You had to smile. This boy was even easier to read than John.

“I’m good, I’m good, yeah. It’s a nice mornin’, innit?” You nodded over your shoulder. “D’you wanna cuppa to take to work with you?”

Roger accepted your offer so eagerly, he almost tripped over his own feet getting through the door.

“You’re in a good mood,” he said, perching on one of the tables you’d set out.

You realised you were still humming to yourself. Try as you might, you couldn’t force down your smile.

“Just- You know.” You shrugged, trying not to look too sheepish. “How’s the market?”

“It’s fun! Hard but… We’re surviving. Barely make enough money to eat but it’s a good laugh.”

He spoke with such brevity, the soft corners of his pretty mouth tugged back into a toothy smile. Still, his words struck you. Roger and Freddie seemed so happy, so at ease in themselves, that you’d hardly believe they were struggling. You made a conscious decision to add them to your list of scrawny, ridiculous boys who needed looking after.

“Well, that’s all that matters, I s’pose,” you said, forcing a smile.

If Roger noticed your worry, he didn’t show it. He was too busy eyeing up the cakes and pastries behind the glass display case.

“Fred’s got this mate in Chiswick says he’s got a ton of swimwear and things for us. It’ll be summer soon, people’ll want stuff like that. Then maybe we can rent a bigger patch in the market. Maybe start selling LPs as well.”

“That’s the dream then, eh?”

“Oh, no,” Roger raised his head, his pretty eyes wide and soft in the low light. “No, the dream is… Walking out of EMI with a contract and my best mates… The whole world and our whole lives out in front of us. That’s the dream. Me and my mates, working together and seeing the world. I want to make things, you know? Be useful. Help people. Help someone.”

He couldn’t know it, but Roger had single-handedly unwound all your worries about your future with John. The way he spoke about it, it seemed so easy, like he was talking about any other job, and the warmth in his voice… Roger really believed it would happen for them. They were going to make it. Maybe you didn’t have to focus your energy on a plan you’d devised years ago. Maybe you could afford to have the same faith Roger did.

“Well,” you said, smiling too now. “When you put it like that.”

Roger sighed with an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.

“It’s just a dream, Bakery Girl. But that’s all I’ve got.”

“What about John? What’s his dream?”

“Something a lot more pedestrian, I think.” Roger raised his eyebrows. “You probably factor in somewhere.”

Face burning, you turned away to make his tea.

“Shu’ up.”

“Ahh, you know I’m right. I reckon he still thinks he’s gonna end up working in some lab or drawing up blueprints, or somethin’. We’re working on an album, you know. But I think he still thinks it’s just a laugh.”

“But it’s not?”

Roger smiled but his bright eyes, blue as the sea he grew up by, were serious and certain.

“No.”

You twisted your mouth.

“Rockstar or genius scientist.”

“I know. Leave some for the rest of us.”

You both took a moment to marvel at John’s seemingly unlimited potential. Then Roger smiled.

“Has he asked you out yet? I’ve been coaching him. Trying to make him act for once in his bloody life. Grab the bull by the horns.” He waved a hand. “So to speak.”

It proved too difficult to hide your smile, so you gave up trying. Instead, you passed him two steaming paper cups and warned him that they were still too hot to drink from just yet.

While the tea steeped, you set about putting together his breakfast.

“I dunno,” you shrugged. “I could ask him out.”

“Oh, I’d love to watch that.” Roger laughed and shook his head. “He’s great, isn’t he. I really like him. Most people just…”

He made an ineffectual sound and waved his hand again. It seemed Roger too had had his fair share of people letting him down, sadly just by being fundamentally people.

You followed his hand as it came to rest by his thigh again. His fingertips were bandaged. John’s fingers had felt a little coarse the few rare, wonderful times he’d brushed them against your skin. These boys wounded themselves, altered themselves for what they loved. You thought of your own scarred, roughened hands. There was a kinship there you never could have imagined.

“But John’s great. Always there when you need him. Brian bores me half to death most of the time but John’s clever in a nice way. You don’t feel like you’re being quizzed ‘n’ tested when you’re with him. You’re just… With him.”

Roger had the faraway look of someone realising just how lucky he was. You knew he wasn’t just talking up his friend, he really believed every word. You’d never seen someone so proud or so fond of his friends.

“Anyway, he’s a pain in my arse too, don’t get me wrong. But he’s great.”

Beaming, you passed Roger a bag filled with pastries, and a carrier for his and Freddie’s morning cuppas.

“I think so too.”

“New Boy!”

The shout was so sudden, John almost fell off his bike. He gripped the handles tight, wobbling dangerously as he stuck out his heels and dragged himself to a slow and graceless stop.

It was late in the afternoon. John had just finished his last round of deliveries and was looking forward to spending the rest of his day with you, helping out in the kitchen, and trying not to think about kissing you - the usual day to day.

You were standing in the bakery’s doorway, smiling so broadly, orbiting astronauts could probably see it. You were keeping the door propped open with one hand, the other was outstretched towards him.

“Mickey’s ‘ere! And he brought the baby!”

Before he knew it, John had been ushered inside. Your lovely hands switched dizzyingly between his hips and the small of his back as you guided him to the kitchen, where Mickey was waiting with a tiny bundle of pink cloth gathered up in his enormous arms.

“Oh, Mick…” John couldn’t help beaming as he leaned in to take a closer look. “She’s lovely.”

There had been photos posted up by the phone for weeks now, of little Dot just a few hours old, waving one tiny hand at the camera. You’d put up a few more recent pictures of Mickey and his family just the other day, all of the Caines squashed together to fit in frame. Nothing compared to seeing something so small and beautiful in person for the first time.

“She’s a righ’ terror,” Mickey beamed down at his little girl. “Drives her mother insane. An’ her old dad. Reckon she’s gonna be singer with the way she goes on. Maybe she could front your band one day, Johnny Boy.”

“She’d give Freddie a run for his money, I bet.”

John held out one finger and brushed it delicately across the back of one of Dot’s tiny fists.

“So, who does she look like more, d’you reckon? You or Rita?” he asked.

You snorted.

“You’re ‘avin a laugh. She’s perfect. She’s all Rita.”

“Ahhh, she’s got my charm. And my devilish good looks.”

Mickey finally tore his gaze away from his little girl to smile at John.

“Do you wanna hold her?”

“Me? Are you sure? I’ve never really…”

“Don’t be daft. C’mon, you’re part of the family now.”

With careful instructions on how to position his arms, Mickey gently passed Dot over, settling her against John’s chest.

The baby made a soft sound of disapproval, she never liked being far from her father’s warm, broad chest, but she soon settled. Her eyes closed, Dot sighed softly and went right back to sleep.

“There. You see?” Mickey patted John’s shoulder with a hand the size of a bear’s paw. “You’re a natural, mate. Won’t be long till you’ve got a few of your own.”

It took all John’s strength not to glance at you.

“She’s amazing, Mickey.”

John smiled as he ever so gently began to sway from side to side, trying to remember how his parents had soothed his little sister when she was just a baby.

He only looked up when he felt your hand on his arm. You were looking down at Dot, smiling gently, but your warm touch, the way your fingers pressed into him, that was a secret, just for the two of you.

“She’s so perfect. Shame you didn’t name her after me but…” You grinned. “Hang on, I have to take a photo. Stay right there, don’t move.”

John watched you go. He didn’t tear his gaze away until the door up to your flat had clicked shut behind you.

It was strange, but he already missed you. Just being near you set his whole body at ease. He could think clearer, his heart kept a regular pace, at least, until you smiled at him, or touched him, or looked in his general direction. When you were gone, it all came rushing back, like the pressure in the room had changed. He’d never needed to be near someone before.

John caught Mickey smiling at him and turned his attention back to the baby in his arms, hoping he didn’t look as he felt, like a love struck idiot who couldn’t concentrate whenever you weren’t around, let alone when you were.

“So,” Mickey was grinning now, much to John’s chagrin. “How’s things with you and the Captain?”

“They’re good.” John kept his eyes down, hoping in vain that it would obscure how red his face was getting. “We’ve been seeing quite a lot of each other but… No official date yet.”

“So you’re not goin’ together?”

John grimaced.

“I haven’t really asked her properly. It’s my fault,” he said sheepishly.

Dot began to fuss in John’s arms. She raised one of her little fists in the air, as if she too disapproved of his cowardliness.

Mickey reached over. John thought he might want to take his little girl back but he just brushed one finger across her clenched fist and whispered to her sweetly. Dot settled again, a look of contentment on her angelic face.

“She’s like her dad. Never ‘appy unless she’s complainin’.” Mickey smiled fondly. “So what’s keeping you? Last time I saw you, seemed like things were movin’ along a bit.”

“They were. They have.”

John thought about the night before, how soft and open your eyes had been as you gazed up at him. He had held your face, your hands, practically admitted everything he felt for you, and you’d smiled and said you wanted him too. God, why hadn’t he kissed you?

Because, John thought, because he was afraid. Even after everything you’d said, everything you’d done together, he was terrified that you didn’t actually care about him, and this was all a roll of the dice that would end with him losing the first place he’d felt safe in years, and a second family he didn’t want to ever say goodbye to. And he could lose you too. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

“What if she doesn’t like me?” John said quietly. “Not like that?”

Mickey shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“She does.”

John huffed.

“She thinks I’m useless.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“She thinks I’m quiet and funny-looking-”

“She thinks the world of you, you muppet-”

“And too skinny.”

“She loves you!”

The words hung in the air, like dust after a building collapses, crawling and curling their way through the kitchen, until they had filled John’s eyes, his lungs, his mind.

He blinked, heart sore, begging Mickey not to make fun of him with just a look. But Mickey nodded earnestly as he tucked Dot’s blanket under her back, as if promising her, or perhaps on her, that he would never joke about something so serious.

“She adores you, mate,” he said, just before the door opened again and you came bounding through, camera in hand.

“Okay, hold still. Say cheese!”

John tried his best to lower his head so that he and Dot would be in frame together without disturbing her. He felt Mickey wrap an arm around his shoulders and realised he was smiling without having to be told.

The camera clicked, flashed, then whirred as it spat out the polaroid.

“That’s one for the album,” you said as you stared at the photo, waiting for it to develop. “Shame Glad isn’t here. Where is she?”

Mickey scoffed.

“She ‘avin’ lunch with his nibs.”

“Well then,” You placed your free hand on your hip. “I’d say that’s lunch then, boys.”

You didn’t flip back the sign on the door. John tried not to look too surprised, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen you pass off an opportunity to keep the bakery open. Money was tight, this place was your whole world, you had a lot invested in 64 Oslo Square.

Perhaps you’d simply grown tired of working yourself to exhaustion when Gladys couldn’t even be bothered to show up. Perhaps it didn’t feel right to work when there was such an important visitor. John didn’t care what had driven this decision. He was just pleased to see you take some time for yourself. You’d more than earned an afternoon in the sun with your family.

You took John’s hand and led him across the road to the chippy, where you handed over loaves of bread, sweet pastries, and cups of tea in return for three bags of chips, cod for Mickey and a battered sausage for you and John. Michael’s Fish Bar had been kicking about for almost as long as the bakery; this bartering system had existed for far longer than you’d worked at 64 Oslo Square.

After dishing everything out, you pressed a plate into John’s hands and led him out through the kitchen doorway to the alley. You sat down together, side by side on the top step, your knees touching, and happily tucked into salty, hot chips that burnt the tongue and soothed the soul.

“So what’re you reading at the moment?” John asked, after a few minutes of comfortable silence had passed.

Beside you, Dot gurgled in her pram. You hadn’t had much experience around children, especially babies as tiny as her, but you knew enough to gingerly push the buggy’s back wheel with the toe of your shoe, gently rocking her back into her dreams.

“Oh, nothing at the moment. Been too busy,” you said through a mouthful of chips. “You got any recommendations?”

“Uni is so intense right now, all my suggestions would be written by Seymour Hammond.”

“Right,” you said, bewildered. “No, yeah. He’s fab.”

John picked up another chip and stared at it. He was chewing on his bottom lip, tugging the skin between his incisors as he thought.

You watched, mesmerised.

“You know, when I first moved here, I hated London. The smell, the crowds…”

“The price of fish and chips.”

That made John smile. He stopped worrying his lip and finally popped the chip into his mouth.

“But when I’m here, I see it.”

“See what?”

“Home, I suppose. This place feels like home. Or it’s starting to, at least. Does that make sense?”

In the ocean of your heart, something was stirring. Towering waves of fondness, warmth, and something you were beginning to seriously suspect might be love, rose up, crested, then broke, washing over your heart again and again, gently but firmly, undeniably.

“I think you’re a bit mental but… Yeah, it makes sense.”

You glanced over your shoulder. Mickey was on the phone to his wife, letting her know he’d be home soon and asking if she needed him to pick up anything on his way. You and John were alone.

You shrugged.

“Maybe it’s Gladys’ tea.”

John snorted.

“Or the free food.”

“Or the good company.”

“You do tend to make things a bit brighter, I’ve found.”

John looked at you, really looked at you. Gone were the days when he could hardly hold your gaze. Long gone. He had the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen.

“I don’t fancy your drummer,” you said, cheeks beginning to burn at how abrupt you’d sounded.

John’s eyebrows pulled together, his nose wrinkling.

“I didn’t-”

“I know you think I do. He’s nice but he’s not my type.”

John didn’t look convinced but he was still smiling.

“I thought you liked pretty boys.”

“I do.” Heart pounding, you turned your body towards his. “Pretty boys with pretty hair and lovely eyes, cute noses and a funny mouth.”

“My mouth isn’t funny.”

“Then why are you smiling?” You grinned. “Very presumptuous of you, by the way, John.”

Pink dusted his cheeks. It was such a lovely sight, you could barely resist brushing your fingertips along the path laid out for you, across his cheek, down his neck, to his chest and beyond.

Then he moved, turning his body in towards yours, so now your knees were pressed against his upper leg. John was so tense, you could practically feel the muscles in his thigh jump at your touch.

He lowered his head, as if to whisper in your ear, but his eyes never left yours.

“Call it a theory,” John said. “One I’ve been mulling over for a while.”

You watched, hardly daring to breathe, as he leaned in closer. Your fingers itched to wrap around the collar of his shirt and pull him in, but the thought of moving right now seemed impossible.

“And have you managed to mull up a hypothesis?”

“Oh, definitely,” John’s eyes dropped to your mouth. “Trust me, I’ve had lots of thoughts about you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m having one right now, actually.”

You wanted to respond with something clever. You wanted to take the next step in this dance you’d fallen into. You wanted to see if you could make John’s ears go as red as his cheeks. But you couldn’t think of anything to say. You couldn’t think at all.

You felt your hand move without your say so. It slipped over his knee and found a home on John’s thigh, keeping him close, keeping yourself grounded.

He was looking at you so intently, you could hardly breathe. Sunbeams filtered into the alley, light particles that had travelled hundreds of thousands of miles, just to get tangled in John’s lovely hair. The shadow cast by his aquiline nose, the tiny smile at the corner of his brilliant mouth, the softness of his gaze. How could you resist?

“John…”

Your heart was aching in your chest, pressing against your ribs, pushing you forward towards him. You had to draw in a breath to try and ease the pressure in your chest, but it shuddered through, and there was no way John couldn’t have noticed.

He smiled, sweet and reassuring, as he bent his head, murmuring your name under his breath.

Footsteps behind you made you straighten up. You hadn’t even noticed that you’d closed your eyes.

“‘Scuse me, lovebirds,” Mickey barged between you carrying two enormous black rubbish bags. “Bin man comes at seven.”

You weren’t violent by nature, but suddenly the idea of knocking Mickey’s lights out and shoving him into a dustbin seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea.

John looked about as mortified as you felt. But he was still enticingly close. He hadn't moved away.

You were still squeezing his thigh. Part of your brain screamed at you to take your hand back, to apologise and pretend like it had never happened. But there was another voice, braver, softer, that told you it was alright, to just trust yourself, to trust John, and to never, ever let him go.

“John, I-”

The bakery door opened. You turned your head in the direction of the sound, frowning quizzically. That was odd, you thought, you’d definitely locked it.

Then you heard Gladys’ voice. She was calling out for you. Something twisted in your chest, though you couldn’t be sure why.

Squeezing John’s thigh reassuringly, you gave him a quick smile.

“Don’t move,” you said firmly, then scrambled to your feet before he could say any more.

You didn’t look back as you hurried through the kitchen. If you did, you feared you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from grabbing his face and having another go at kissing him senseless.

Heart still hammering, you made your way into the bakery where Gladys was standing in the centre of the shop floor. She looked pale, her usually lively eyes dull and almost unseeing.

For a moment, you worried that she was angry with you for shutting the shop. You tried to summon a smile, your hands automatically reaching out to make her a cup of tea.

“Gladys! I thought you were-” You cleared your throat, your mind still spinning from the dark, soft look in John’s eyes as he leaned in to kiss you. “Doesn’t matter. Mick’s here and he brought the little’un!”

“Where is everyone?”

Gladys’ voice was hollow. She was gripping a slip of paper in her hands so tightly, you could see it was beginning to tear.

“They’re outside having a fag. Well, Mickey’s having a fag and John’s got chips. We just stopped for a late lunch.”

When she didn’t say anything, you frowned.

“Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

“He’s taken it.”

“Taken..?” You shook your head, trying to ignore the sickening, churning dread in the pit of your belly. “Who, Glad? What’s going on?”

“Alastair,” she whispered the name like it was bad luck. And perhaps it was. “He’s taken the bakery.”

Time slowed, choked, before finally falling to its knees. An age passed. Civilisations came and went. Stars burned and died. And all you could do was stare. The bakery had never been so silent.

“What are you talking about?” you asked once you’d found your voice again, hoarse and reedy as it was.

Gladys’ face crumpled like the paper in her hands.

“I shouldn't have. I know I shouldn't have but he- The way he explained things, it… He had me change the names on the deeds. It felt like a good idea at the- It’s his. It’s all his.”

Tears filled Gladys’ eyes.

“It’s gone, love. It's gone. Alastair owns the bakery.

Master List

#john deacon #queen #john deacon x reader #john deacon reader #john deacon fic #john deacon smut #smut #john deacon x you

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