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eddieslunchbox · 4 months ago

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sweet child of mine

summary: it's 1988 and eddie takes you to a guns n' roses concert to see your favourite song live

18+ [boyfriend!eddie x female!reader]

contains: a lot of fluff, a lot of love, kissing, brief mention of alcohol, swearing, eddie takes care of you

word count: 4.7k

a/n: extremely cheesy concert vibes since eddie never got the chance to love guns n' roses. and as will always stand, my characters are adults and no longer in high school! please reblog/comment if you enjoy my writing, any feedback is extremely appreciated ❤

Spending half his paycheck to snag tickets for a band he heard play on the radio twice was never something Eddie thought he’d do.

At least not until you burst into his trailer one day with an Appetite for Destruction cassette tape in your hand, demanding that he let you use his boombox so you could play him the band your friend had just introduced you to that morning. The two of you then spent the night listening to the entire album.

Well… what he thought would’ve been the entire album.

When track 9 came on for the first time, he saw the ways your eyes lit up at the rich and memorable guitar riff combined with the first few words that rolled off of the tongue of Axl Rose through the speakers of his cassette player.

She’s got a smile that it seems to me

Reminds me of childhood memories

When everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky

Every time the song ended, you reached over and rewinded the tape to the beginning of the track, leaving Eddie having the lyrics memorized within half an hour, miming the guitar riff with his hands as the two of you laid on the floor in his bedroom.

Sweet Child of Mine quickly became your favourite song, Eddie throwing it on whenever you were in the passenger seat of his van just to see the joy on your face. He later sat you down in his room and played the entire song he learned for you on his guitar. You then proceeded to climb into his lap and kiss him until his face was red, mumbling against his lips that you loved him, which just happened to be the very first time you told him that.

So when Wayne mentioned to him that Guns N’ Roses were headlining a show in Indianapolis, he called in sick to work and drove down to the arena at the crack of dawn, standing in line for four hours to get a pair of tickets.

It was worth every second though, when he picked you up from work that afternoon, leaning against the side of his van with tickets in hand.

You slipped them out from between his fingers, a smile pulling at your lips.

“What’s this?” You asked, tilting your chin down to read what was printed on the cardstock before you looked back up at him with wide eyes. “Eddie- are you serious?”

“As a heart attack, sweetheart,” he murmured and was practically body slammed into his van when you lunged into his arms with an excited squeal, squeezing all of the air from his lungs.

He could still feel the tight hold you had on him that day if he closed his eyes and thought about it hard enough.

You were even more excited when he said it would just be the two of you, as his bandmates briefly mentioned wanting to see them if they ever came to the city. Eddie never had the privilege of taking you to a concert before and was taking advantage of it, eager to have you pressed against his side the entire evening listening to your new but now shared, favourite band.

The drive to the venue was filled with your eager ramblings about how much you were looking forward to the evening, and Eddie was already over the moon at your delight.

He had been to Market Square Arena once before when he saw Iron Maiden a few years back, but was in the nosebleeds with the only tickets his uncle could afford. This time though, you were on the floor, much to your surprise when you got scanned in with a bright yellow wristband being handed to you.

Eddie guides you onto the arena’s floor, hand tucked tightly in yours. There were no seats, the entire floor acting as one big mosh pit he’s sure would form sometime throughout the night. Hoards of people already crowding at the barricade, packed in like sardines despite the amount of empty space lingering behind them.

He glances down at you to ask if you want to be closer to the front, but your eyes are wide as they scan over the crowd filled with loud, burly men with cups of beer in their hand, uncaring when the liquid splashes over the rim and onto the sticky floor. Younger people are scattered amongst the crowd as well but Eddie knows that doesn’t matter when you unintentionally falter in your step beside him.

Wordlessly, he leads you towards the side of the room where the crowd is sparser and he can lean against the wall separating the crowd from the endless rows of seats slowly being filled behind him.

“Is this alright?” He asks, pulling you to face him as he rests his lower back against the lip of the wall.

You nod. “You didn’t tell me we were on the floor!” You exclaim, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he smiles, holding your hand to his chest and dipping his chin down to kiss your knuckles.

“You saw the tickets,” he teases and you roll your eyes, glancing towards the stage. “Do you want to go and grab any merch before the show starts?”

There was a little less than an hour left before the band took stage and you’d already stopped on your way in to grab a bottle of water that Eddie insisted you have, wanting to ensure you stay hydrated throughout the night.

“I don’t want anything,” you say and he lifts his brow at you, tugging on your hand and focusing your attention back on him.

“I call bullshit.”

“I don’t!” You insist, not wanting him to spend more money on you than he already has. You know that he will insist he pays for whatever you might want, but having him here with you is more than enough. “We’re already here anyways, I don’t want to fight through the crowds.”

He saw you eyeing a t-shirt on your way into the arena and has no doubt that you’ll be changing your mind later, hopefully before everything is sold out. He would run and grab you whatever you wanted but he doesn’t trust a single person around you, other than the minimal security guards stationed in different parts of the pit.

“You know I’ll buy you whatever you want, darling,” he says with a squeeze to your hand and you smile at the fact that you were right.

“I know you will, Eds. But I don’t want anything. Unless you do?”

He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, curls brushing the leather jacket he hardly ever takes off. And as per his request, you’re adorned in one of his denim jackets, the fabric soft with wear and draping over you with the subtle scent of him left behind.

There really is nothing he loves more than seeing you in his clothes, other than you of course, and when you lean forward to curl your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest, he feels his heart beat a little faster at the reminder that you chose him out of everyone you could’ve had. He feels like the luckiest person on planet earth, with you in his arms.

You’re relaxed in his hold, surrounded by the earthy smell of his leather jacket combined with the velvety musk of his favourite cologne. Your eyes fall shut for a few breaths and Eddie’s chin comes down to rest on the top of your head, one of his palms splaying over your back with the other dragging softly down the side of your thigh.

The touch is innocent but when you hear a sudden wolf-whistle from somewhere behind you, your eyes flutter open to see a man watching the interaction with a sleazy grin on his face that makes you grimace. You pull back in time to watch Eddie lift his middle finger in the air, muttering “dickhead” under his breath as the man ignores him in favour of dragging his eyes down your figure before turning back to converse with someone standing next to him.

You’re dressed in a pair of dark skinny jeans with Eddie’s oversized jacket hanging down to your thighs, but you briefly feel as though you’re wearing nothing as you pull your arms out from around him and move to stand at his side instead, partially hidden from the crowd.

Eddie wastes no time in curling his arm around your shoulders to keep you pressed into his side as he looks down at you. “Don’t even think about him. He’s a piece of shit, yeah?”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest as you eye the man’s back. “More like a heaping pile of shit,” you mutter and Eddie laughs, tilting his head down to press his lips to the side of your head.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbles and your chest warms with his praise, no matter that it was at the degradation of another.

You spend the next little while talking about whatever is on your mind and you eventually park yourself back in front of him, uncaring of the man from before now that a hundred more people have filled in the room behind him.

Eddie keeps one hand on you at all times, hooking a finger around one of your belt loops when you drift a little further away from him while you’re talking or dancing to the music filtering through the speakers around the room. He listens intently to everything you say but his eyes follow every man that walks past the two of you, particularly the ones that keep their gaze on you for a beat too long.

Those are the moments when he pulls you back into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and lacing his fingers together at your lower back. You don’t know why he keeps doing it but you can’t complain when he looks down at you with so much love in his eyes you feel like you could burst.

The crowd starts to get a little rowdy the closer it gets to showtime as there was no supporting act, and the next time he wraps his arms around you, he doesn’t let go. Your hands fiddle with the zipper on his jacket and his hands eventually fall to slide into the back pockets of your jeans, making your lips curl up into a smile as you speak.

“Do you think we can stop for food on the way home?” You ask and he lets out a quiet laugh.

“You’re already thinking about that?” He teases since you both ate your dinner on the drive to the city, evidenced in the paper bags littered on the floor of his van. “Of course we’ll stop somewhere. Wherever you want.”

“What a gentleman,” you quietly swoon and he smirks, enjoying the way you wrap your fingers around the ends of his hair, tugging softly on his scalp.

You part your lips to speak again but get cut off when someone yells something from the back of the room, your gaze flitting up towards the seats. You turn your head and squint slightly when a familiar voice yells again, clearer the second time.

“Eddie!”

There’s a small group of boys waving their arms above their head in the first row of balcony seating, trying desperately to get the attention of the boy wrapped around you. It’s hard to tell, but you think you recognize Gareth and a few of his other friends. Dustin is standing at the end of the row, clearly the one yelling.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters under his breath and you glance back at him with a giggle as he lifts his hand up in a brief wave, so as not to draw any more attention to the two of you. “Even when we’re alone, they’re still just… lingering in the shadows.”

The tiny smile curling at his lips tells you that he isn’t as annoyed as he’s making himself out to be and you look back up at the stands to see Dustin beaming at the fact that he was able to spot Eddie before the show.

“I think it’s sweet,” you say as he promptly tucks his fingers back into your pocket and turns his back to the boys who were briefly spying on him. “You know how much that boy looks up to you.”

You glance up over his shoulder and wave to Dustin to hopefully satisfy him enough to keep his lingering eyes on the stage for the entire evening.

“Now this is going to be all he talks about for the next week,” he says and you smile with the shake of your head, bringing your hand to rest on his cheek.

“Don’t be so grouchy about it, baby,” you say, your thumb tracing across his bottom lip when he juts it out in an exaggerated pout before pressing a kiss to your thumbprint. “You don’t always have to be so mean and scary when they’re around.”

Your comment isn’t malicious and you’re grateful he doesn’t take it that way when he gasps and pulls your thumb between his teeth. You tug your hand away from his mouth and rest it on his chest as his brows pull together.

“I’m not always mean and scary,” he mumbles and you purse your lips, giving him a sarcastic nod. “Just… sometimes. When they deserve it. Never with you, though,” he defends as your hand slides down his chest to sit against his waist, goosebumps rising up on his arms.

You can’t help but smile at his comment, leaning into him with your eyes never leaving his. “Never with me. You buy me concert tickets and tell me I’m pretty and kiss me-”

He squeezes your bum through your jeans and you let out a laugh as your forehead presses into his chest. “Damn right I do,” he mumbles.

You pull back to say something else but all of the lights suddenly cut out and your eyes widen as the entire arena erupts into ear piercing screams.

“You ready?” Eddie leans down to ask in your ear and you nod, an eager smile tugging at your lips as you spin around in time for the opening chords of You’re Crazy to bounce around the room.

It takes an hour and the band trailing into their second encore for them to play Sweet Child of Mine, making the crowd go wild.

You feel Eddie curl his arm around your shoulder, pressing softly into your chest to hold you against him. There’s a bright smile on your face when you turn to look up at him, his face illuminated every few seconds by the spotlight that passes over the crowd and the colourful lighting streaming into the audience from the stage.

His lips pull upward in a lopsided grin as you beam up at him, his chest filling with warmth when you press a kiss to his cheek. He doesn’t let you get far, lifting his hand to your jaw, keeping your head turned and capturing your lips completely.

He kisses you until your head is spinning and you pull away with a quiet gasp to catch your breath, poorly attempting to hide the coy smile that frames your face. When he nudges you back to watch the band sing out your favourite song, his cheek comes to rest on the side of your head and you can just barely hear his voice floating into your ear, singing the words that make your heart swell in your chest.

You’ve never been as happy as you are at this moment.

His breath fans softly over your cheek, the vibration of his vocal chords buzzing across your skin when he dips down and his lips brush over your ear. The feeling sends tingles down your spine, threatening to beat out the heavy bass line that’s shaking the floor and sending vibrations up your legs.

You close your eyes as he sways you to the music, your hands clutching tightly around his where it’s resting against your stomach, his rings icy against your hot and sweaty palms. You’re overwhelmed with joy and the amount of love you feel for the boy curled around you and you open your eyes when he says something that you can’t hear over the song.

Before you can look up at him, your eyes widen as he drops his arm from around your shoulder and uses your tangled hands to spin you away from him. A squeal leaves your lips when he twists and twirls you back into his chest, your head tipping back as a loud laugh spills out of your lungs.

Eddie’s eyes are filled with complete adoration as you stumble into him, pressing your hands against his chest and biting your lip to hide your giggles. His hands grab your wrists and tug your arms to wrap around his neck, your chest pressing into his and his foot sliding between yours.

He can’t find anything to complain about when you immediately stand on your toes to kiss him for a second time, sliding one of your hands into the back of his hair and curling your fingers around the strands. He has little care in the world for who might be watching the interaction, but is still a little surprised at your not-so-subtle display of affection, especially after someone whistled at the two of you earlier in the night.

You kiss him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do, tasting the lingering flavour of nicotine on his tongue, enjoying the way his bangs brush against your forehead and how he drags his hands down to squeeze the flesh of your bum over your jeans. His grip tightens when you moan into his lips and press your hips into his, letting yourself get lost in the moment as the song plays out like the perfect soundtrack to your love.

His lips are slightly chapped as they move over yours and you’re reluctant to pull back even when your lungs squeeze in your chest and he starts to smile against you.

Eddie is the one to pull away when you accidentally let a heavy breath escape from your lungs, and he knocks his forehead into yours, shutting his eyes as he catches his own breath.

You can’t really see him in the dark until he pulls away and catches the soft smile on your face as you sink back down onto your heels and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his chest. He smooths his hands over your back, sitting his chin on the top of your head and hugging you tightly as you listen to the crowd scream along to the lyrics that the band leans into, Axl peeling his microphone from the stand and pointing it towards the audience.

When the song eventually trails off into its inevitable close, you don’t move from your spot around Eddie, spending the rest of the encore cuddled against him and quietly singing along to the last one you know, sandwiched between two covers.

Eddie knows that your adrenaline and excitement is worn out when you turn your head up to meet his gaze, lip jutting into a small pout as soon as Guns N’ Roses announce their final song for the night.

Already dreading the amount of traffic he’ll have to fight through to get the two of you home, he leads you towards the exit but stays for the remainder of the song so that you don’t miss a single word. After a couple of minutes, you glance up at him and nod towards the hallway behind you, content to leave even despite the music still blasting through the room.

He steers you out of the arena before the major crowds of people could clobber you from the floor and the sudden shift in volume when you make your way further away from the music leaves you feeling a little like you’re in a dream as a wave of exhaustion hits you.

It’s still busy in the winding hallway of the arena and Eddie nudges you in front of him, keeping his hands secured around your shoulders to guide you through the crowd, practically beelining towards the front door.

He almost knocks you right onto the floor when you stop abruptly in your tracks near the stand of merchandise.

“I want a shirt.”

You turn to look at him and he glances at the slowly growing line of people and the piles of shirts getting sparse, sighing through his nose. He knows he shouldn’t have listened to you when you insisted that you wanted nothing, but he can’t be mad at the hopeful look in your tired eyes.

“Really?” He asks and you nod.

He flickers his gaze up to a small group of teenagers standing in the line, huddled in a circle and paying no mind to their surroundings. As soon as the man in front of the group steps ahead in line, Eddie pushes you forward to slide discreetly in front of the teenagers, making you gasp at the sudden movement.

“Eddie-”

“Shh, s’fine,” he mumbles, not bothering to glance at the group behind him, still chattering away in blissful ignorance. “We’d be here all night and leave with nothing otherwise.”

You curl around him again, resting your chin on his chest as you look up at him.

“Tired?” He asks, bringing his hand up to your cheek and brushing your hair back when you nod.

“My hearing is all fuzzy.”

Eddie slides both of his hands to the sides of your head, brushing his thumbs over your ears. “Should’ve let me bring those earplugs I offered,” he says but you shake your head, brows dipping together.

“I wouldn’t have worn them.”

He smiles, smoothing his thumb over the wrinkle in your brow. “If I take you to any more concerts, you’re wearing them, darling.”

You grumble something under your breath that makes him laugh and you rest your cheek back on his chest, letting him shuffle you backward every time the line inches forward at a snail’s pace.

The shirt you want isn’t sold out by the time you reach the table and Eddie buys you one, getting himself one to match. Before you can leave the building, you stop in a quiet corner to peel off your jacket and throw on the t-shirt over the one you’re already wearing.

“Happy?” He asks when you look down at the Guns N’ Roses logo covering your chest and you nod.

“Yes. Thank you, Eds,” you beam, hugging him tightly before he pulls away to drape his denim jacket back over your shoulders, the fabric draping down past your hands.

“You’re welcome. Need anything else before we leave?” He checks as he swiftly does up the buttons of his jacket to keep you warm, but he’s thankful when you shake your head and take the hand he holds out for you.

He glances at his watch to see it’s a little past 11:30pm and he silently wishes that he would’ve caved and got a hotel in the city for the night.

“Can we go home now?” You ask when you finally walk out of the building and the brisk night air prickles at your face.

“Yeah, baby, we’re going home,” he says, weaving through the parking lot to where his van is parked.

He helps you into the van with his hands on your hips before getting into the driver's seat and cranking the heat, tugging his seatbelt over his chest.

“That was so much fun,” you say through a happy sigh when he pulls out of the parking space to get into the line of cars waiting to get out of the lot.

“Yeah?” He glances at you and you nod, tucking your hands between your thighs. “What was your favourite part?”

“Being with you, I think,” you reply, voice quiet as you turn to look out the window.

Eddie feels his cheeks flush as he pulls his lips to the side to hide the smile that threatens to form on his face, his hand coming down to rest on your thigh with a tiny squeeze.

You stay awake long enough for Eddie to buy you McDonalds, and happily munch on the fries in your hand, feeding him a few every couple of minutes until the carton is empty. You keep quiet conversation when he finally gets onto the highway, an hour long drive back to Hawkins ahead of him, but it only takes about twenty minutes for your words to trail off into one-word replies as the rumble of his tires against the asphalt threatens to lull you to sleep.

It’s only when you haven’t said a word in ten minutes that he looks over to see you fast asleep, his jacket now acting as a cushion between your head and the door after you pulled it off to drape over the front of you like a blanket.

He opts to keep the radio off for the remainder of the drive, finishing off your Coke to keep him awake.

When he finally pulls into the trailer park, he winces and slows down the van as the gravel road crunches loudly under his tires until he pulls up onto the grass in front of his trailer. The light is on inside and he knows that Wayne is still up, despite Eddie’s insistence that he don’t wait up for them.

You’re still asleep when he rounds the front of the van to pull your door open, unclicking your seatbelt and setting the crumpled ball of his jacket in your lap. Not wanting to wake you just to get you inside, he curls his arms around your back and under your legs and lifts you off the seat, slamming the door shut with his elbow.

Your head lulls to rest on his shoulder, a deadweight in his arms as he makes his way towards the front door which opens before he can walk up the steps, Wayne appearing in the doorway, dressed in a pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt.

“Didn’t have to wait up,” Eddie says as he climbs the steps and Wayne rolls his eyes, holding the door open as he carries you inside.

“And how do you propose you would’ve gotten the door unlocked?”

Eddie mumbles something inaudible under his breath as he kicks off his shoes.

“How was the show?” Wayne offers as he locks up behind the two of you.

“Fucking amazing,” he replies quietly. “I had the time of my life.” He glances down at your sleeping figure before briefly flicking his eyes up to his uncle. “I’ll tell you more tomorrow… Night, Uncle Wayne.”

“Goodnight,” Wayne says with a tiny smile as Eddie spins on his heel to carry you into his bedroom.

You finally stir when Eddie is tugging your jeans down your legs to change you into something more comfortable and he glances up at you when you let out a quiet groan.

“Eddie?”

He smiles, leaning over you with his hands pressing into the bed as he presses a kiss to your cheekbone. “We’re home, sweets. I’m just getting y’out of your jeans.”

“Okay,” you mumble, mostly still asleep and not helping at all as he pulls the band shirt over your head, keeping you in the one you wore to the show.

You do eventually move so that he can get you under the covers and you peel your eyes open, squinting in the light as he gets himself ready for bed, tugging his shirt over his head and shoving his jeans to the floor to deal with tomorrow.

“Hey, Eds?” You murmur from your spot in his bed and he turns to you, raising an eyebrow as he slides his rings from his fingers to drop onto his nightstand. “Thank you for taking me tonight. It was the best night of my life.”

He smirks, softly shaking his head as he flicks off the light before climbing into bed beside you and pulling you into his chest.

“I’m glad that you had such a good time. Tell me all about it in the morning, yeah?”

You nod with a hum, burying your face into his chest. “Love you lots, Eddie.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

#writings #eddieslunchbox #eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie stranger things

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6ix9inewiturmom · 10 months ago

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She Ours- Christopher and Matthew Sturniolo

Summary: you’re at an LA party and both chris and matt find you attractive…

Warnings: SUMT, THREESOME(not the weird kind ya freaks), P in V, Unprotected (please don’t reproduce), Dom!Matt!Chris, Sub!Reader, Squirting, Oral (M and F Receiving), PARIS (iykyk)

A/N: THIS IS BASED OFF OF P POWER BY GUNNA FT DRAKE 😫😫 ENJOY

My friend Lina was one of the biggest party girls I knew, every weekend was some party she heard about through the grapevine, which typically because I don't get out much she insisted on dragging me out of my house.

“This party better be worth it” I snap walking down the staircase of my shared house with Lina. She let me borrow her outfit: A skintight black dress that barely covered my ass, her adorable red bottom heels, and my jewelry.

“Girl you have the possibility of getting LAID tonight, let's not complain,” she stops to gasp “Maybe if you get laid you'll stop being so bitchy” she jokes.

“Lina you realize you're like the female version of a player right?” I laugh as we walk out of the house together.

As she fastens her seatbelt and starts reversing the car out of the driveway, she responds with a gentle smile, "No, I'm not. I love everyone."

“That's the problem” I chuckle.

Driving on the highway we had our hype music blasting through the speakers of the car, Lina breaks the silence, “When is the last time you actually had a dick?”

I about choked on air when I heard her invasive question, we were best friends so TMI didn't exist in our relationship considering we've known each other since we were 2 years old in daycare, but I was more or less caught off guard. “um I’d have to say probably since I went off the rails and impulsively joined Tinder and had that horrible hookup with that guy. Um shit, what's his name? OH YES TYLER” I laughed reminiscing the times.

“BITCH” she jokingly yells stomping on the brakes at the red light sending my whole body jerking forward. “That was 2 years ago” she whispers

“Yeah but like that man was weird as fuck, so I just thought maybe a guy who wanted to fuck would just pop out of the blue somewhere I don't know, you're a lot better at this than I am” I shrug getting almost embarrassed.

“oh my god, bitch this isn't the 80s you need to catch a dick” We both laugh at her commentary “But let's not catch STDs” her voice trails off as i try to contain my laughter.

After a lengthy journey, we finally reached the venue. As we pull into the parking lot, we are greeted by the sound of vibrant and lively music reverberating through the air. As we stepped out of the car and made our way inside, we were immediately engulfed by the dim, flashing lights and vibrant colors illuminating the area, accompanied by the pulsating beats of loud music that reverberated through the space.

“BITCH I LOVE THIS SONG” Lina yells over the loud music and dragging me to the lit up squared boxes where the song Maneater by Nelly Furtato is playing.

My hips move around to the song, not a care in the world who sees me but alas I nervously look around and see two pairs of crystal blue eyes practically drooling over me. One with slightly longer hair than the other and the other with a tatted arm but they both look the same.

“Y/N” Lina yells over the loud music “YOUR LOOKING A LITTLE TOO HARD” she continues

“Those guys over there keep looking at me” I lower my tone a little trying not to make a scene “They’re kinda cute” I softly smile carefully taking my bottom lip between my teeth and watching them talk amongst each other.

“BOTH?” Lina's eyes widen

“I mean why not?” I shrug my shoulders laughing

“They look like brothers which I mean is kinda attractive” Lina Replies “Just not that weird threesome Shit I'm talking about that trip to Paris if you know what I mean” she smirks shimming her shoulders

“Oh shit” my eyes widen “fuck they're coming over here, WHAT DO I DO LINA”

“Just act normal and if shit gets weird to remember to text me ‘Lemon Jelly Belly’ and ill find a way to get you out of there” Lina smiles as she walks over to the bar to flirt with the bartender

My nerves were heightened to the max watching the boys walk towards me, one of them had this coxky aura about himself and the other seemed nervous but still confident.

“Hello beautiful” the longer-haired one walks towards me coming behind me.

The one with the tatted arm comes in front of me, his smile turns into a smirk as I find my bottom lip in my teeth again.

“I'm Matt, and this is Chris” Matt said smirking down at me.

“We just couldn't help ourselves when we saw the way your hips moved and danced to the music,” Chris says whispering in my ear smirking.

“Thanks for asking my name, I’m Y/N” I snap jokingly

“That's such a pretty name,” Matt says placing his hand on my face and caressing my cheek

My hips started moving to the song softly as Matts's hands made their way to my hips as Chris’ was planted on my ass.

“Can I?” Chris asks as he moved the hair on my neck and became closer to my neck.

“Mhm,” i mumble

“Use your words, sweetheart, Can he?” Matt smirks down at me.

“Y-Yes” i stutter.

“Good girl” Matt’s smirk remains on his face as Chris kisses my neck and immediately finds that sweet spot on my neck sending chills down my spine.

“Why don't we do this In a little less crowded area hm?” Chris suggests

“I don't mind” I softly giggle

“Chris, how are we doing this? We gonna flip a coin to see who gets her first or what?” I could tell Matt was a little antsy and irritated by his brother's greediness.

“She ours,” Chris tells his brother.

Matt’s smirk became more apparent as soon as Chris said those words. Chris grabs my hand as and he guides me up a set of stairs and Matts hands remains on my ass. My eyes meet Linas and to say the least I've never seen her more proud of me. Her eyes are wide and her smile is wider. She's holding up her thumbs nodding her head in approval.

the room was dark, but very warm and had lots of room, the bed had silk sheets, and a lot of posters. “Do you guys know whose room this is anyway?” I nervously chuckle out.

“Happens to be my room” Matt speaks with a laugh

Chris comes behind me moving my hair to kiss that sweet spot on my neck again this time leaving dark purple marks on my neck. Matts's gaze softens as his eyes darken with lust watching how my body reacts to Chris’ mouth against my neck. Matt comes closer to me looking at my eyes first then my lips and sending me a soft but seductive smile before he presses his lips against mine. A soft moan escaped my lips causing him to pull back and smirk.

“Fuck I wanna rip this dress off of you,” Chris says with a husk in his voice practically groaning.

Matt presses the pad of his thumb against my lip running it across my bottom lip. “I just wanna put this pretty mouth to good use” he smirks.

Before Matt could do anything Chris picked me up and threw me on the bed looking in Matt's direction with a smirk.

“Sorry ma I really couldn't help myself” he softly chuckles positioning himself between my legs and rubbing softly up and down “May I?” Chris questions while playing with the bottom of my dress

“Be my guest” I smile looking down at his blue eyes glaring down at my clothed pussy with a small wet patch from my neediness of getting dicked down.

Chris moves my dress up to my mid-thighs and slides my underwear to the side diving right in like it was his last meal on planet earth. Matt on the other hand was too impatient and hard to wait, he removed his belt and his pants and kneeled on the bed beside me stroking his throbbing hard cock beside my face and rubbing his tip along my bottom lip teasing my mouth, finally he grips my jaw signaling to open wider as he slides his cock in my mouth thrusting ever so slightly, watching me please him and get pleasured by his brother.

Chris’ tongue laps around my clit, as my moans r muffled by Matts's cock being shoved so far down my throat.

“Fuck” Matt groans “Prettiests of mouths do the sluttiests of things” he praises as he wipes the tears that started forming in my eyes from the overstimulation.

“You're clenching around my tongue ma, you close?” Chris sadistically chuckles around my pussy.

“Mhm,” I muffle out around Matts's cock desperately in need to release built-up tension.

“Why don't you be a good girl and cum for Chris yeah?” Matt coos as he's thrusting his hips in my throat while having my hair in a makeshift ponytail.

My legs tremble and shake around Chris’ head signaling to him how close I am. “That's it baby” Matt's voice becomes husked.

Chris groans around my clit as his tongue laps around it feeling my cervix spasm over the overstimulation and pleasure that he knows he's giving me. The pent-up knot in my abdomen snaps sending me in a wave of euphoria, my eyes roll back, and my legs shake. Matt trusts into my mouth a couple more times before finishing in my mouth, placing his hand on my throat to feel mg swallowing all of him.

“Such a good girl” matt coos at me with my lips still wrapped around his cock.

He gently pulls out and walks over to Chris who's smiling down at me wiping his mouth with his sleeve. The boys talk amongst each other talking about how they'll share me.

Matt walks over between my thighs biting his lip. “Sweetheart I don't have a condom,” he says almost nervously.

“I'm on the pill,” I smiled up at him as his eyes lit up at my response.

He brings his hand to my mouth “Spit” he demands and I obey.

He uses my spit to coat his dick as my eyes roam from Matt to Chris who moves to place himself behind me placing kisses on my neck.

Matt aligns himself at my entrance pushing slowly. “Oh fuck” I moan out as my back arches off of Chris and my hands grip his for support.

He pushes himself further, completely bottoming out letting a loud groan fall from his lips and his head throwing back “fuck baby, you feel so fucking good” he smiles devilishly as he watches my body react to His movements.

his thrusts become harder and rougher. “god damn” he groans out almost at a whimper. “fuck your pussy was fucking made for me” he looks down to watch himself thrust in and out of me as he notices a bulge in my stomach from him and he smirks and presses down.

“Fuck” I scream out.

Both Matt and Chris smirk and look up at each other “Someone likes that eh?” Chris whispers in my ear using his hand and pulling and twisting at my nipples.

Matt pressed harder on my stomach watching my face contort in pleasure. “Such a fucking whore” matt groans out.

“C-C-C-LOSE” I stammer out.

“I can feel you squeezing my dick so fucking good, let it out baby” he coos not switching up his pace or his movements one bit.

Chris’ hand snakes around my throat giving slight pressure to the sides making me see more than just stars. “Cum for Matt baby, come on you can do it ma” Chris praises in my ear.

A loud squeal escaped my lips as my orgasm hit me like a train and I squirted my juices all over Matt and his abdomen. “There she is” Matt lets a low chuckle out from him. “Hold on for a second sweetheart, you can take it”

His thrusts got sloppy as I became jello in Chris's arms, with one final thrust Matt painted my pink gummy walls white coating them with all of his cum.

“Fucking hell” matt breaths out.

“You did so good” Chris praises, “can you take one more ma?” he smirked up at matt.

My body was tired but alas I nodded with a tired smile. Matt moved to where Chris was but Chris had other ideas, he used my ankles to flip me up so my ass was in the air and my stomach lay flat on the mattress. Chris used his precum and spread it around his dick before aligning himself with my sensitive entrance and bottoming out quickly.

“Fuck chris” i moan out trying to move forward but Chris stopped me by placing his hands on my waist pinning me down to the mattress.

“Someone a little sensitive hm? Can't take me, can you?” he chuckled sadistically.

I bit my lip to muffle my own screams of pleasure. “I-I- I can take it-“I was cut off by Chris absolutely pounding into me like there was no tomorrow hitting spots I didn't know was even possible.

Skin slapping and moans were the only sounds bouncing off the walls. “I ain't gonna last long ma, you're clenching me so fucking good” he groans out forcing my head into the mattress.

“CLOSE” I scream out.

“Come on sweetheart, be the good girl you were for me and cum for Chris yeah?” Matt is positioning himself so he can brush some of the hair out of my face.

Matts's gentle words sent me over the edge and once again, I squirted all over Chris sending him into a state of euphoria and cumming on the spot inside of me filling me up with his seed.

I immediately collapse laying flat on the bed out of breath. Matt ran into his bathroom connected to his room and grabbed a warm cloth to clean up my legs as Chris whispered sweet nothings into my ear about how good I did for both of them.

“You doin’ okay love?” Matt says softly wiping my legs.

“Mhm,” I mumble out.

They chuckle as Matt throws a pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt for me to put on. In my attempt to stand up, my legs gave out.

“Don't tell me you can't walk?” Chris chuckles

“Try to be in my position and see how you feel” I joke making them chuckle.

“Okay okay Chris enough taunting,” Matt says guiding the shirt over my head and helping me get changed.

Chris helped me get my pants on while talking to me about random stuff like 7/11 Bring Your Own Slurpee Day that he didn't know existed and Matt rolled his eyes.

“We just took her ability to walk and change herself i doubt she wants to hear about Slurpee day Chris” matt says carrying me bridal style to sit down on his bed.

Suddenly someone barges into the room obviously drunk. “Wait this isn't the bathroom” it was Lina who immediately saw me and started winking and throwing her thumbs up seeing me curled into bed and in someone elses clothes.

“Who the fuck are you? Get out!” Chris yells “Bathrooms downstairs” he gently closes the door.

“That was Lina…” I shyly say covering my face.

“Who?” they say in unison

“Lina my best friend since we were two, she's the reason I came” I laughed softly.

“yo…you think she heard anything,” Chris says bluntly scratching the back of his head.

“She's weird but not that weird. She's obviously drunk so she'll forget it by morning if she did anyway” I brush it off, and I pat the empty side of the bed for Chris to join Matt and me on the bed where I'm in the middle of both of them.

“You wanna watch anything? I'll let you pick?” Matt says handing me the remote and smiling.

“Wha- bro you never let me pick anything when I’M in your room” Chris whines.

“Shut up” matt laughs in response.

“Yall ever seen gossip girl?” I smirk at both of them

“Nope,” they both say popping the ‘P’

“YAY okay so we gonna watch it and if you have any questions feel free to ask” I smirk getting cozy and comfy in the silk sheets pressing play on the the TV.

“Why am I scared?” Chris says leaning over and whispering at me.

“Shut up and watch” I snap playfully.

HI LOVERS!! im so sorry for not posting this!! ive had writers block and i’ve been on vacation with my family visiting my home town and i haven’t really had time to write or do anything on this fic!! but i hope you guys enjoy it and i love you and thank you for your patience!!

XOXO,

Gabs 🩷

Sjendje

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harmless-variety-of-garden-snake · 3 months ago

Text

BuckTommy Fluffebruary Day Eight: Surprise. Tommy's had a really, really bad shift (off-screen), and he shows up to the greatest surprise ever: his boyfriend, pasta, and comfort. Edit: I just realized Tumblr somehow lost my tag for @bucktommyfluffebruary and my AO3 link. Why, Tumblr. Why.

It’s been a terrible shift, and Tommy is ready for it to be over. He’s going to plaster a million posters around the Hollywood sign that say: “If you fall/slip trying to climb on or around this, LAFD will no longer rescue your dumb ass and you’ll have to live with the fucking consequences.”

Lucy, Braun, and Melton agree with him, Cap thinks it’s a bad idea. They’re spitballing less extreme alternatives to keep their minds off the calls that came before the Hollywood sign incident, because if Tommy thinks about a couple of them for too long he’ll probably start crying.

When he pours himself into his truck, he drives home on autopilot and parks in the driveway, because he has the Chevelle on the car lift at the moment. He blinks at his front door, because the three small square windows at the top have light filtering through. There’s no way he left the lights on when he left for work two days earlier, but he also might have. He can’t tell anymore.

He unlocks the door and goes inside, and the house smells like food. He can hear a podcast or something in the kitchen and follows the sound just in time to see Evan close the oven door.

“Oh!” Evan says when Tommy sets his bag down on the island. He whirls around and grins, tapping his phone on the counter and cutting off the man who was talking about something related to the Manhattan Project. “Hey, baby. I wanted to surprise you with dinner.”

And the sight of Evan in his kitchen making him what smells like something with sauce and cheese and herbs and who knew what else after one of the worst shifts Tommy’s had in years is what breaks him. He covers his hand with his mouth to muffle a sob, and Evan’s arms are around him so fast it’s like he teleported across the room.

“Hey,” Evan murmurs in his ear, rubbing his back. “Hey, I know. C’mere, you’re okay, you’re home, everything’s okay here.”

He’s kissing the side of Tommy’s head and his hair and his forehead and whispering reassurances that Tommy actually believes, because Evan knows. Even if he doesn’t know exactly what happened, he knows, and it’s worth everything.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but after a while they’re just hugging each other and Tommy has his cheek on Evan’s shoulder and his nose against the side of his neck. When he straightens up, Evan’s hands come up to his face and wipe away tears and brush over the scratch on his cheek. His eyes are so blue and clear and full of concern and love, and Tommy fights down everything inside him that wants to tell him he doesn’t deserve this.

“Are you hungry or do you want to go lay down?” Evan asks, pressing their foreheads together.

“I can eat,” Tommy says, and his voice sounds thick and nasally. He needs to blow his nose. “I should eat.”

“I’m making stuffed shells, and there’s some sprouts and stuff,” he says, massaging the back of Tommy’s neck with gentle squeezes of his hand. “And there’s cheesecake after. Or we can have it now.”

Tommy melts under Evan’s touch and smiles. “I can wait.”

He kisses the corner of Evan’s mouth and then gives him a soft kiss before stepping away. He really needs to blow his nose, but he’s back at Evan’s side as soon as he’s done. Evan’s putting a salad together, so Tommy doesn’t feel so bad about draping himself over him while he does it.

“Did you know?” he asks, his voice muffled against his stolen flannel that Evan’s wearing.

“I had a feeling,” Evan replies, pausing to reach up and hold Tommy’s hand where it’s resting over his heart. “You didn’t text back much, and I heard about last night before I left the station.”

Tommy shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, and Evan’s other hand comes up to also squeeze his forearm, and lips press against the inside of his bicep when Evan turns his head. Tommy will talk about some of it, probably, but it’ll be later. He needs to just not be immersed in horror for a little bit. He needs carbs and cheese and his boyfriend.

“This is ready, you wanna eat?” Evan asks, and Tommy nods. “Okay, let’s go, I’ll get your plate.”

They end up eating curled up on the couch so Tommy can turn on a movie. He’s been showing Evan some queer movies, because Evan’s actually been interested in those, and they watch Big Eden. Tommy needs something warm and fluffy, and it’s like the cinematic equivalent of a warm hug.

They pause about two thirds of the way through so Evan can grab them dessert, and he comes out with the entire cheesecake and two forks.

“We’re adults,” he says to Tommy’s raised eyebrows. “We could’ve had frosting for dinner if we wanted.”

He eats almost a quarter of the cheesecake—it’s a small cheesecake—and ends up stretched out on the couch with Evan on top of him until the movie’s over.

“I liked that one,” Evan says, rubbing his cheek against Tommy’s chest. “Tired?”

“No,” Tommy says, because he’s really not. He’s exhausted, but he doesn’t know when he’ll sleep next.

Evan looks up at him and reaches up to stroke his knuckles over Tommy’s jaw. “Want to watch another one?”

He leans into the touch and sighs. “Yeah.”

They make it through The Birdcage and halfway through Love, Simon before Tommy falls asleep. When he wakes up, Evan’s drooling on his chest and the Roku screensaver is on.

“Baby,” he whispers, kissing Evan’s curls and inhaling the smell of his shampoo.

Evan inhales sharply and slow blinks at him like a cat. “Mm. ‘Zit?”

Tommy looks at his watch. “It’s 3:30. We should go to bed.”

His boyfriend nods and sits up. They strip down to their underwear and crawl into bed, and Tommy pulls Evan’s sleep-warm body against his under the cool duvet.

“Love you,” he whispers.

“Love you so-o much,” Evan mumbles back, stroking Tommy’s side.

“Thank you. For everything.”

He can see Evan’s smile in the dim light filtering in through the window. “Anytime.”

#bucktommy #bucktommy fluffebruary #my fic #someone give Tommy Kinard a hug and some pasta #and some di--#also seriously go watch Big Eden it'll heal your soul

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fashionteahouse · 6 months ago

Note

Reader x Seth

Reader has always been sacred of wolves due to an incident that happened so when Seth shows her his wolf she’s so scared ran from him. He’s crushed so Leah comes over and reminds her Seth wouldn’t hurt a fly

oki doki ! hope you enjoy :)

save me - seth x reader

The small black square was safe in your hands. The view was worth it. Traveling to Alaska made you open your mind up to the nature and the wildlife.

Snaps of the camera flashed as the picture was captured. You looked at the captures as you walked back to the car that was close.

Another snap catches your attention. It wasn’t from a camera. It was from a tree branch. You slowly look over and see a wolf, locking its eye contact with you. Slowly growling, raising its lips to show off its powerful and sharp canines.

Your heart thuds almost out of your chest. You thought it was going to fall out and flop right in front of your feet.

You look away and you heard the gallops of their huge paws right on your trail. Locking its teeth on your backpack, you scream. Your body shakes in fear as you slide out of your backpack, letting the wolf to just keep it. You just wanted to stay alive.

The wolf slowed down as it looked at the backpack and back at you. You open your car door and somehow, you screech your car’s tires in the other direction. Your heavy breathing is filled in the small car as you drive away. You look to the passenger seat as you realized you never dropped your camera. That’s when the sigh of relief comes.

Coming back home to La Push, you were excited to see your boyfriend. It’s been a long week away but you were excited and as he.

The first person was him. That was the first person you’ve seen when you got back.

“So tell me, what did you see?” he asked as his arm was around your shoulders. He never let his hands leave yours as he guided you through his home.

“I saw a lot. I captured some things too. It’s beautiful out there.” you mused.

You and Seth sat on the couch as you handed him your camera. He clicks through the pictures that you have taken while you were away.

A smile is on his face as he is wowed.

“These are really good!” he exclaims and then he proceeds onto the next pictures.

The same picture that you have taken, right before the wolf made its debut. Your heart thumps at the thought, but Seth thought you were nervous because of the excitement of seeing him. He gives you a blinding smile.

That was the last time you seen him. For a while. Phone calls were going straight to voicemail, texts were being unread, and your heart was cracking.

You just didn’t understand it. Things were good. You were sure of it.

As you printed out your pictures, a knock on your front door surprised you. You weren’t expecting any company.

Opening the door, your entire body froze as you glanced at the boy who went M.I.A.

“Seth, what the hell?” you say and hug him tight.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” Seth says apologetically.

You take a step back. The boy has grown taller and looks bigger and stronger. You felt a blush float across your cheeks. He takes a hand in yours and you sigh in happiness at the warmth.

“You’re so warm.” you comment as you eyed him carefully.

“Sorry.” he says sheepishly but you shake your head, “No, it’s okay. I..like it.” you say with a small smile.

“I will tell you why….Ive been away.” Seth says as you both walk. You look at him, “You can tell me anything.” you reassure him. You squeeze his hand a bit for support.

You watch as his shoulders deflate due to relaxation.

“Okay.” he says with a soft smile.

In the woods, his hand leaves yours. You watch him as he takes steps forward.

“Is everything alright?” you ask him. He nods but gives you a look that doesn’t ease your worries.

“Just please don’t run. Okay?” he instructs.

You nod but slowly.

“Just close your eyes.” he says softly.

You slowly close your eyes. Hearing snaps and crackles, you breathe in a sharp breath.

You open them and see a wolf. Your body locks with fear as you examine it. You scream bloody murder, “Seth!”

Whipping around, you ran as fast as you could. Seth tried his best to phase back in time but you were already booking it home.

You sat on your bed with your door locked. Your knees were to your chest as you gently rocked back and forth. You couldn’t believe you were in the same situation twice. The strong heartbeat never leave your ears.

Seth called, Seth tried to visit, but was met with no answer.

Leah noticed the down side of her brother’s personality. He left the home speaking about how he was finally going to see you.

“What’s with the screwed face?” Leah asks as he barely touched his food that she prepared for both him and herself.

“Nothing.” he mutters.

“No, something’s wrong. Just tell me”. Leah says. To her, he was a horrible liar.

He sighs a bit, “I showed Y/N my wolf.”

“Okay? That’s good right?” Leah asks.

“No. It’s not good!” Seth says.

“Seth, what happened?” Leah asks.

He sighs again before revealing, “I showed her my wolf and…She ran. Now, she’s avoiding me..She probably thinks I’m a freak now. It’s over for us.” he finished with defeat.

“No. That’s not true.” Leah says but her brother wasn’t trying to hear it.

Seth feels frustrated and gets up from the table.

Leah stared at his empty seat and decides to take matter into her own hands.

She rapped at the door with her knuckles. She made sure the knocks were loud and clear. You slowly open the door and Leah pushes herself into your home.

“Y/N, what’s going on?” Leah asks.

You look down. You shrug.

“A wolf.” You just say with shakes.

“Yes, Seth is a wolf. And?” Leah concluded.

“And I was almost killed by one..” you say, tears start to form as you remembered the interactions you had. The wolf you seen in Alaska was much smaller than the one that Seth morphed into.

“Y/N, one thing about Seth is that he’s not going to hurt you. I promise. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Leah says.

You blink down at the floor.

“Y/N.” Leah calls your name to get you to look at her.

“That’s the last thing he would do. Hurt you.” Leah says.

You sigh as you started to feel bad. You follow her back to the home that her and Seth resides in.

Leah knocked on the bedroom door. It was locked and she knew for a fact that he was having a sulking session.

“Go away!”

“Come on, don’t be a girl. Y/N is here.” Leah says through the door.

Silence was met as you give Leah a nervous look but she just rubs your back.

The door slowly opens to reveal the face that belonged to your heart.

Without saying anything, you both move forward and embrace each other. Holding each other, Leah took it to be her cue to leave.

Seth swayed you in his arms.

“I missed you.” he finally whispers.

“I missed you too.” you whisper back and you both see eye to eye.

Sitting on his bed, he rest a hand on your knee.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. My intent wasn’t to scare you. I wanted to show you all of me.” he says.

You place a hand on his cheek as you shake your head, mostly due to shame.

“No. I’m sorry. You told me not to run. I ran…” you sigh before continuing, “When I saw your wolf it just brought back to when I encountered a wild wolf in Alaska.”

“I would never hurt you. I wish you would’ve told me.” he says with passion.

He slides a hand into yours and you close it, bringing both you two’s fingers together. A smile is matched on both of your faces as you both take in each other. You know that the meaning behind is words were true.

#seth clearwater #seth clearwater x reader #y/n #seth clearwater imagine #seth clearwater fluff #seth clearwater angst #seth clearwater x you #wolf pack #twilight wolfpack #twilight wolves #quileute #la push #y/n imagines #x y/n #fanfic #fanfiction #leah clearwater

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oddaesthetin · 5 months ago

Text

simping over him — lee jooyeon

fluff

—

jooyeon sits next to you on the couch, all long legs and that dumb grin that makes your brain short-circuit. you don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he’s wearing that particular hoodie you like on him or the way his neck is just there.

like, WHO gave him permission? his hair is still damp from the shower. he looks wrecked, judging by his toned down loudness. three days of nonstop performing would do that to anyone, but here he is, lounging like it’s no big deal.

“you good?” he asks, glancing at you from where he’s propped up against the couch. he’s tired, you can see it in the way his shoulders sag a little and how his usual energy is dialed down to a lazy grin. but there’s still something mischievous in his tone, like he knows you’re one heartbeat away from blowing up.

he’s right, by the way.

you’re trying to focus on literally anything else—the pile of laundry you’ve been ignoring, the weird stain on the carpet, the meaning of life—but no, your brain’s like jooyeon’s neck, jooyeon’s neck, jooyeon’s—

you shift uncomfortably, trying to focus on the TV instead of, well, him. the way his hoodie hangs loose around his collarbones is driving you insane. you’ve been doing so well all weekend, keeping your thoughts appropriate, but now? now, the universe has you cornered.

“could you please get your neck away from me?” you blurt out, crossing your arms and leaning as far away as the couch allows. “i’ve fought so hard to remove that image of your neck i saw from pinterest on my mind, and i don’t think i can go through that again.”

jooyeon blinks at you, caught off guard. he freezes. did you just say you’ve been thinking about his neck?

suddenly, the fatigue that had been weighing him down for days? gone. vanished. wiped from existence. he feels alive.

his eyebrows shoot up, and for a second, you think he didn’t hear you. then, he bursts out laughing, the kind of laugh that makes his voice high-pitched, shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle, and okay, now this is worse.

“my neck?” he wheezes, clutching his stomach like you’ve just delivered the punchline of the century.

“yes, your neck!” you glare at him, but it’s hard to stay mad when he’s laughing like that. “someone posted that stupid picture of yours looking all worked up with your head thrown back and your veins showing— and oh my god, describing it is so weird but now i can’t look at you without thinking about it. so move. away.”

instead of moving away, he leans in closer, his face way too close to yours. “you’re saying you’re obsessed with my neck?”

“jooyeon, i swear to god—”

“no, no, go on,” he says, grinning like the menace he is. “tell me more about how my neck haunts your dreams.”

he’s losing it inside—but the way you’re burying your face in your hands makes his chest feel lighter, like he could run another concert right now, fueled entirely by your flustered energy.

“this is why i don’t tell you things,” you mumble, voice muffled.

“but you did,” he teases, poking your arm. “and now i’m never gonna let you forget it.”

you peek at him through your fingers, narrowing your eyes. “you’re insufferable.”

“and you’re obsessed with my neck.”

“oh my god, shut up.”

he laughs again, softer this time, and when you finally pull your hands away from your face, he’s looking at you with that stupidly fond expression that makes your chest feel all warm and weird.

“don’t worry,” he says, tilting his head with a smirk that should be illegal. “my neck’s all yours. if you want, you can even mark it up.”

your brain short-circuits so hard you can barely process his words. he tries stifling a laugh after he see you pause and your jaw literally drop. this’ll be worth it, he thought.

“what—who says that?!” you choke, smacking his shoulder like it’ll erase the memory.

he shrugs, all casual, like his insides aren’t doing somersaults. “i’m just saying, if you’re this obsessed, we might as well make it official.”

you grab a pillow and smack him square in the face. he yelps, laughing as he tries to shield himself, but you’re relentless, fueled by sheer embarrassment and the need to wipe that smirk off his stupidly handsome face.

“ow—hey! violence?!” he yelps, laughing as he tries to shield himself. his cheeks hurt from smiling, and his heart’s doing that weird thing again, the one it always does around you.

when you finally stop, breathless and red-faced, he leans back on the couch, watching you with the kind of quiet confidence that makes your stomach flip.

“you know,” he says, voice soft and teasing, “you’re kind of cute when you’re flustered.”

you groan, flopping back against the couch and covering your face again. and your boyfriend?

he just grins like an idiot, feeling more energized than he has in days.

you can have his neck.

you already have the rest of him, anyway.

—

#xdinary heroes #xdh #jooyeon x y/n #lee jooyeon fic #lee jooyeon fluff #lee jooyeon x reader #jooyeon fluff #lee jooyeon #joo #jooyeon x reader #jooyeon #xdinarynet #xdinary heroes fluff #xdinary heroes x reader #xdiz #xdinary heroes jooyeon #xdh jooyeon #junhan

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mediocre-shark-tales · 6 months ago

Text

Autumn Break part 2

Masterlist

The first half of autumn break was already over, and Lando decided it was time for a little adventure. “We can’t spend all our time lounging around,” he declared over breakfast. “Let’s check out the local town. It’s quaint, full of history, and there’s this amazing pub I want to show you.”

Franco clapped his hands together. “A pub? Say no more. I’m in.”

Oscar nodded in agreement. “Might be nice to stretch our legs.”

Alex gave a noncommittal shrug but didn’t protest.

The drive to town was filled with chatter and laughter, Lando narrating every turn like a tour guide. When you arrived, the cobblestone streets and charming storefronts were exactly as picturesque as he’d promised.

“We’ll start with some sightseeing,” Lando said, leading the group toward an old church that towered over the town square.

As you wandered through the narrow streets, you found yourself walking beside Alex again. He seemed more relaxed than before, even pointing out a few interesting details about the buildings.

“This town reminds me of a place I visited in Thailand once,” he said.

“Do you visit Thailand often?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“Whenever I can,” he replied. “It’s home for me in a lot of ways.”

His tone was warm, and for the first time, you saw a softer side of him.

The pub was everything Lando had promised—a cozy corner spot with low wooden beams, a roaring fireplace, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air.

Franco immediately ordered a round of drinks, and the group settled into a booth by the window.

“Let’s toast to no car troubles in the next race,” Franco declared, raising his glass.

“I’ll drink to that,” you said, clinking your glass with his.

As the conversation flowed, a group of other patrons entered the pub, their voices loud and boisterous. Among them were a few familiar faces—drivers from other teams.

Lando noticed them immediately and raised an eyebrow. “Small world.”

One of the drivers, Pierre Gasly, spotted your group and gave a nod of acknowledgment. But instead of joining you, the group settled at a separate table, their laughter carrying across the room.

You couldn’t help but notice how none of them made an effort to come over, and a familiar pang of isolation settled in your chest.

“They’re not worth your energy,” Lando said quietly, catching your expression.

“Yeah,” Franco added. “If they don’t see how awesome you are, that’s their loss.”

Oscar, ever the diplomat, gave you a reassuring smile. “They’ll come around. Just give it time.”

Alex, however, surprised you the most. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “you’ve earned my respect. That’s not something I give easily.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and you felt a lump rise in your throat.

Later that evening, after everyone had returned to the estate, you found yourself restless. Deciding some fresh air might help, you stepped outside and started down the gravel path that wound around the property.

To your surprise, Alex was sitting on a bench near the edge of the garden, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” you asked, approaching cautiously.

He looked up and gestured for you to sit. “Too much on my mind.”

You sat down beside him, the crisp night air wrapping around you like a blanket.

“Is it about racing?” you asked.

“Partly,” he admitted. “But also... everything else. This sport can be brutal sometimes.”

“I know what you mean,” you said softly. “It’s like no matter how hard you work, someone’s always ready to tear you down.”

Alex nodded, his gaze distant. “I used to think I had to fight it all on my own. But now... I’m starting to see that having the right people around you makes a difference.”

You smiled. “It does.”

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

“You’re not what I expected,” Alex said suddenly.

“Neither are you,” you replied, your tone light but genuine.

The next morning, Lando had another surprise in store. “We’re going go-karting!” he announced at breakfast.

Franco groaned. “You’re just looking for an excuse to humiliate us, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Lando said with a grin.

The go-kart track was tucked away on the edge of town, a modest circuit with tight corners and plenty of opportunities for friendly competition.

“I’m calling it now,” Franco said as he strapped on his helmet. “I’m winning this.”

“In your dreams,” Oscar shot back.

As the race began, it quickly became clear that Lando was in his element, weaving through the corners with ease. Franco and Oscar were close behind, their competitive streaks on full display.

You found yourself in a heated battle with Alex, neither of you willing to back down.

“Not bad,” Alex called out as you overtook him on a straight.

“Thanks,” you replied, grinning as you sped ahead.

By the end of the race, Lando predictably came out on top, given this was one of his home tracks.

On the last night of the break, Lando organized a bonfire in the garden. The group gathered around the crackling flames, wrapped in blankets and sipping hot chocolate.

“This has been one of the best breaks I’ve had in a long time,” Lando said, his eyes reflecting the firelight.

“Agreed,” Franco added. “Good vibes all around.”

Oscar nodded. “It’s nice to just... relax for once.”

Alex was quieter, but when he finally spoke, his words carried weight. “I didn’t expect to enjoy this as much as I did. But I’m glad I came.”

You smiled, feeling a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the fire. “Me too.”

As the night wore on, the conversation turned to lighter topics—funny racing stories, embarrassing moments, and future plans. By the time the fire began to die down, you felt a sense of contentment that you hadn’t experienced in a long time. And as you looked around at the group, you realized that, despite everything, you were finally finding your place.

The second half of autumn break began with a quiet flight across the Atlantic. The laughter and warmth of the countryside getaway with my friends felt like a distant memory as I boarded the plane to the United States. It wasn’t a trip I’d planned on taking, but I knew I needed to go. My mother’s grave and my family back home were calling to me in ways I couldn’t ignore any longer. It had been half a year since she had passed.

The long flight gave me too much time to think. I replayed moments from the past year over and over—my mother’s smile, her laughter, the way she always seemed to know exactly what to say when I needed it most. The thought of standing in front of her grave filled me with equal parts dread and longing.

Touching down in the U.S., I rented a car and drove the familiar roads to my family’s home. The neighborhood hadn’t changed much; the same towering oak trees lined the streets, their leaves ablaze in shades of orange and red. Pulling into the driveway, I saw my father waiting on the porch, his hands in his pockets and a soft, sad smile on his face.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, wrapping me in a tight hug as soon as I stepped out of the car. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Dad,” I replied, though my voice trembled slightly.

Inside, the house felt both familiar and foreign. The scent of my father’s cooking lingered, but the emptiness left by my mother was impossible to ignore. We spent the evening catching up, sharing stories and memories. He asked about racing, and I did my best to keep the conversation light.

The next morning, I went to see her.

The cemetery was quiet, the autumn breeze rustling through the trees as I made my way to her grave. I carried a bouquet of white roses, her favorite, the petals trembling in my unsteady hands.

Her headstone came into view, simple but elegant, her name etched in bold letters alongside the words “Even in the darkest times, there is light.” I knelt down, placing the flowers at its base.

“Hi, Mom,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the wind. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come back.”

The words spilled out of me before I could stop them. I told her everything—about the races, the friends I’d made, the rumors, and the way I’d tried to stay strong. I told her how much I missed her, how much I wished she could be there to see everything I’d worked for.

Tears streamed down my face as I spoke, my chest heaving with the weight of everything I’d been carrying. The grief, the pressure, the loneliness—it all came tumbling out in the quiet stillness of that moment.

When I finally stood to leave, I touched her headstone gently. “I’ll keep making you proud,” I said softly. “I promise.”

The flight back to the UK was quieter, my heart still heavy but a little less burdened. When I got home, I dropped my bags in the corner of my apartment and collapsed onto the couch. The silence felt deafening, my thoughts swirling in the absence of distraction.

The next day, I stayed in bed, scrolling mindlessly through my phone, avoiding texts and calls. It wasn’t until a loud knock sounded at my door that I finally stirred.

When I opened the door, I was met with Franco’s grinning face and Lando holding up a bag of snacks like it was a golden trophy.

“Surprise!” Franco announced, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked, my voice tinged with both confusion and disbelief.

“We’re here to save you from yourself,” Lando replied, walking past me into the living room. “Snacks, movies, and bad jokes—you’re welcome.”

“I don’t—”

“No excuses,” Franco interrupted, plopping onto the couch and patting the seat beside him. “Now, come on. We’ve got a whole plan to cheer you up.”

For the next few hours, the two of them worked tirelessly to pull me out of my funk. Franco regaled me with exaggerated stories from his childhood, complete with dramatic reenactments, while Lando insisted on a Mario Kart rematch.

“You cheated last time,” Lando said, squinting at me as I crossed the finish line first.

“How do you cheat in Mario Kart?” I asked, laughing as Franco shouted at the screen after yet another crash.

“She’s just better than you,” Franco said with a smirk, earning a thrown pillow from Lando.

The room was filled with laughter, the weight on my chest easing with every joke and playful jab.

As the evening wore on, the three of us found ourselves sprawled out on the couch, empty snack wrappers and soda cans littering the coffee table.

“Thanks for this,” I said softly, glancing between the two of them. “I didn’t realize how much I needed it.”

Franco slung an arm around my shoulders. “That’s what we’re here for, Hermosa.”

Lando nodded, his expression surprisingly serious. “You’re not alone, you know. We’ve got your back.”

Their words, simple as they were, meant everything in that moment.

The week leading up to the Texas Grand Prix came quickly, leaving little time to dwell on lingering emotions. I threw myself into training, every ounce of focus channeled into being ready for the race ahead. Franco and Lando had returned to their routines, checking in occasionally with texts and funny videos, but for the most part, I was on my own.

Mornings began with early runs through the crisp autumn air, my breath visible in the cool light of dawn. My trainer, Marcus, met me at the gym for grueling sessions of strength and endurance training.

“You’re getting faster,” he commented one afternoon, timing my sprints on the treadmill. “But Texas isn’t just about speed. Those high-speed corners will push your endurance to the limit.”

“I know,” I replied, sweat dripping down my face. “That’s why I’m here.”

Evenings were reserved for simulator sessions, pouring over data and refining race strategies. The Circuit of the Americas was a demanding track—long straights, tight technical sections, and an elevation change that would punish anyone who wasn’t ready.

By the end of the week, my body ached, but I felt more prepared than I had in months. The exhaustion was a good kind, the kind that came from knowing you’d done everything possible to be ready.

Packing for the trip was oddly calming. I folded my team-issued shirts and boots with care, double-checking that every piece of gear was accounted for. The Texas race was a big one—not just because it was in the U.S., but because it marked the start of the season’s final stretch. Though technically being one of the home races for me was also pretty cool. Every point counted now, and every mistake would be magnified.

As I zipped up my suitcase, my phone buzzed on the bedside table. It was a message from Lando.

Lando: "Ready for BBQ and cowboy hats? 🤠" Me: "Ready to beat you on track, cowboy." Lando: "Bold talk. We’ll see. Safe flight!"

Franco chimed in shortly after, his text as dramatic as ever.

Franco: "Texas awaits, Hermosa. Don’t forget your boots!" Me: "Do you even own boots?" Franco: "No, but I’ll buy some just to show you up."

Their messages brought a smile to my face, easing the tension that had been building all week.

The flight to Austin felt different than the one I’d taken just days earlier. This time, I wasn’t traveling to mourn or reflect—I was heading back for battle. The familiar hum of the plane was oddly comforting, a reminder of how far I’d come.

When I landed, the Texas sun was already blazing, a stark contrast to the cool autumn air I’d left behind in the UK. My team had arranged for a car to pick me up, and as I was driven to the hotel, I caught glimpses of the city’s vibrant streets.

Austin was alive with energy, the anticipation for the race palpable even from a distance. Billboards advertising the Grand Prix lined the streets, fans in team gear crowded around restaurants and bars, and the hum of excitement was impossible to ignore.

After settling into the hotel, I joined my team for a quick debrief. The engineers ran through the car setup, data from the simulator sessions, and what to expect during the practice sessions.

“Your sector times are strong,” one of them said, flipping through a tablet. “We’ll focus on tire management during FP1. Texas can be brutal on the tires, especially with the heat.”

“Got it,” I replied, my mind already shifting into race mode.

That night, I sat by the window in my hotel room, looking out over the city. The skyline was a mix of modern skyscrapers and old-school charm, a fitting metaphor for the duality of the sport—glamorous on the surface but grueling underneath.

I thought about my mother, about how she’d always supported my dreams, even when they seemed impossible. Being back in the U.S. brought a strange mix of emotions, but I knew she’d want me to focus on the task ahead.

Pulling out my phone, I sent a quick text to Franco and Lando.

Me: "Made it to Austin. Don’t worry, I’ll save you some BBQ." Franco: "Please, you’re going to eat it all before we even get there." Lando: "Don’t forget to try the brisket. It’s life-changing."

Their quick replies brought a sense of normalcy, grounding me in the chaos of the race week ahead. Tomorrow, the real work would begin, but for now, I allowed myself a moment to breathe.

Texas awaited, and I was ready.

#x reader #driver!reader #f1 #f1 angst #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #max verstappen #charles leclerc #oscar piastri #lando norris #franco colapinto #lewis hamilton #carlos sainz #george russell #grill the grid #f1 grid x reader

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nevieeland · 3 months ago

Text

title: thought i was dead

pairing: bourgeoisie!m.yoongi x street rat!reader

synopsis: another day, another patrol. big black trucks roll down unused roads, sharply trained eyes moving over the battered streets in search of particular fugitives of the law. fugitives that are on the other side of the city, roaming streets where they 100% don't belong.

rating/warnings: mature (16+) ; action, violence (there’s a very brief fight scene), profanity. um... there's also implications as well as explicit mentions of police brutality and abuse of power in regards to the patrolmen and the citizens of the valley, gambling at a casino very briefly, talks of death, and reader is morally grey. not proofread.

last updated: 27.01.25

word count: 5.3k

there's the usual sounds of big wheels rolling down the gravel of the streets, heads popping out of old and broken windows to catch a glimpse of the big black trucks that seem to come down the block every other day, circling neighbourhoods like vultures looking for their next meal. mothers keep their children hidden behind them, and teens run out of the door to spew obscenities that the dark suited officials in the suvs won't be able to hear. everyone ushers whoever they can grab into the nearest building, hoping to escape their line of sight, and ultimately, the crossfire of whatever rebellious street rat had caught the attention of the inner circle today.

there were numerous repeat offenders within all corners of the sunken slums, gangs and squads who'd often draw too close to the fence or vandalise one of the many statues of the governor strewn about the village. it had gotten to the point that even the most generous of individuals had given up on hiding them, finding it not worth the trouble. if the patrol wanted to find someone, they would, and there was no two ways about it.

how many times had a child, barely a teen, ben forcefully dragged from the arms of their mother, simply for committing the crime of being curious? loitering was one of the more serious crimes frowned upon by the inner circle, guards stationed at every corner of the fence, guns in hands and eyes watching for any fool who'd gotten too inquisitive and wandered too close. one of the first things any inhabitant of the valley is taught are the three big laws.

all of those within the valley sect must remain at least ten metres from the circle fence at all times, law number one.

if the patrol felt kind, then the worst punishment someone would receive was five nights in the cage, cold and alone and given only scraps for food until their release. if not, then you'd be taken to the public square and beaten and lashed for the rest of the village to gaze upon; a cautionary tale to any upcoming ruffians or seemingly invincible rebels.

you usually hear the vans before you see them. but not today. today you watch the guards open one of the big metal gates and let the trucks drive in, an expression of determined resolution making it's way across the planes of your face. you're barely obscured by the pile of rubble and bricks beside the old hospice, another member of your ragtag crew hidden within the rotting wood of one of the crates.

"sure, okay, lets say we get to the gate. the trucks roll in, we're on the outskirts of town while they look for us inside," taehyung says from beside you, flicking the ash of his cigarette down onto the worn carpet beneath your bodies. "but what then? how are we supposed to actually get into the inner sect?"

there comes hums of agreeance from a few of the others, and you thread wiry fingers through the knots in your hair. the gates would only be open until all the trucks had come in, and after that they'd shut and the guards would be back on duty. entrance would be the same as it usually was; impossible.

you pause, and a silence blankets over the makeshift basement hideout. there's the heavy weight of expectant gazes on your back, and you huff in frustration as your mind comes up blank. taehyung was right, they could only wait by the gate for so long before they were spotted, and the bruises littered across their skin like paint on a canvas had yet to fade from their last encounter with the patrol.

two weeks in the cage was starting to seem less and less worth it.

a short huff escapes your lips, hands moving over taehyung's and snatching the cigarette from his fingers with a deft quickness as you bring it to your lips and take a deep drag. then, short and curt, "you know me, tae. i'll figure it out. i have to, don't i?"

the guards open the doors and exit the suv to check the back tire—a flat. as you hoped.

the rock you placed on the road was subtle, blending in with the rest of the gravel. the roads in the valley are rough, and no one here owns a car—patrols only come bi-weekly, so there’s no point in maintaining the roads. but it worked in your favor this time. the last of the suv’s wheels had rolled over the sharp edge of the stone, and now joining the patrolmen at their side were the guards, the gate left open and now only being watched by one instead of the usual three.

they'd need a new tire, you knew that for sure. and that gate would remain open until they had one.

there comes a hushed whisper from your side, and your eyes snap suddenly to the familiar figure on your left, his lips pulled into a boxy grin. "gate open," he affirms, gesturing with his head to the breakdown. "and bad guys distracted. that's act one. have we got an act two?"

you don’t answer right away. instead you tap taehyung on the back with an apologetic smile. "don't worry about it. just follow my lead."

a furrow of brows and a pursing of lips together in annoyance. taehyung's distaste with your ominous secrecy is evident. but he trusts you. "right. go when you say go. follow your step."

your fingers graze up the worn fabric of his jacket, a more genuine smile gracing your lips as the digits tangle into the hairs at the nape of his neck. "right. just do as i do, okay? and don't get mad at me."

there's a question on the tip of his tongue, his brows kissing the more they furrow, but whatever plagues his mind never has the chance to escape his thoughts, because suddenly there's even more of a commotion where the truck has broken down.

“hey, you!” one of the guards shouts, his gun raising. the other patrolmen follow suit, weapons drawn and pointed at the female figure drawing ever closer.

the woman doesn’t notice the threat. she stumbles forward, her eyes bleary and her hair a matted mess. her head swings around as if loose on a stick, laughing crazily. “you think you’re tough, huh? all of you scum—just ‘cause you’ve got money and cars?”

the guard behind the gate steps forward after her, and there's an opportunity offered in the slight venture. he's a little way out now; if you're careful you could graze past him and into the inner sect. the immediate choice is made. if you’re going, you need to go now.

your hand raises, fingers twisting in a signalling gesture. it's time.

but taehyung’s hand shoots out, grabbing at your wrist. “hey, isn’t that—” comes the start of a question, but your biting tone quickly cuts him off.

"we don't have time for this," you hiss, trying to tug him along. "we can talk once we're past the gate. come on."

and when taehyung realises that it's either come along or get left behind—and potentially caught—he moves with a frustrated grunt, slipping into place behind you as the others emerge from their hiding places.

and it's only once you're so close to the fence you pause, feeling a shiver running down the expanse of your spine. from a distance the gate in intimidating. it looms as tall as some of the buildings and is an ever present shadow over the valley. no one had ever doubted it's sheer size.

but now, next to it? it's like the wired skeleton of a giant looming over you, going on and on up into the sky to a point where it's almost dizzying to look at. it feels like you’re about to walk straight into the mouth of a beast. but you shouldn't hesitate, you need to break out of your stupor and go—

"see?" comes a slurred voice, and a sense of dread settles into your stomach once you see the intoxicated woman's finger pointing directly at you. "those kids think you ain't tough either. that's why there's so many of 'em."

shit.

your legs are moving all on their own, shooting up from their crouching position and propelling you forward, forward, forward. you hear a shout from behind, then the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked, and you don't need to look back to know that there's weapons pointing at the four of you.

shit, shit, shit, shit.

"hey you," comes the voice a guard, loud and angry. "stop right there!"

you can't stop. not now. stopping is accepting death, so you run. you don’t even look back, knowing the others are following behind you, mirroring your every step. you're almost there—just a few more meters to the gate. then you'll have done it, and this will all have been worth it.

a sharp crack rips through the air. a gunshot.

you don't look back to see if it's aimed at you or the woman. you just keep running. and you don't stop, even when you feel the overwhelming burn in your side where the bullet's barely grazed by you. you stumble but keep pushing forward. you're so close to the inner sect now.

right there—

and then, with one last push, you’re over the border.

but it’s not over yet.

the gunshots are still ringing, and the heavy footsteps behind you tell you that the chase has begun. you don’t stop running. you can’t. you allow yourself a quick moment to turn, to catch a final glimpse of home.

the last thing of the valley you see before you're bolting is the woman's crumpled body on the ground.

if there's one thing you're good for, it's athletics.

the adrenaline of crossing into the city keeps your legs moving even when your lungs begin to burn and your muscles begin to ache, long enough for you and the others to lose the group of men and stumble haphazardly into a small side alley between a restaurant and a small boutique.

venturing as far back into the shadows as you can, you collapse against the brick wall in a heap, breaths leaving your lungs in short, painful gasps. there's silence, for all but a moment, and then you're laughing. a bitter, frantic laugh that bursts from your throat, raw and desperate.

what the fuck was that? if they see us anywhere they're going to fucking kill us.

there's nothing funny about this at all. you've practically signed your death certificate and now you're fugitives in a city where you shouldn't be, law enforcement lurking at every corner, and yet you can't help your laughter.

it’s a burning feeling, tearing through your lungs and making liquid sting at the corners of your eyes, a sound almost desperate in it’s hysteria. if you don’t laugh, you know for sure you’ll start crying, head swimming with a myriad of emotions you don’t know how to even begin processing.

everything hurts really fucking bad. your muscles feel like they’re pulling each other in entirely opposite directions and there’s a migraine so sharp behind your eyes that you feel like you’re getting an astral lobotomy.

you feel almost high, everything in your body working at max.

“damn it,” taehyung growls from the corner, his anger cutting through your hysteria. “what the fuck was that?”

you purse your lips, kissing your teeth at the question. "what was what? the part where we got shot at or the part where we became possibly the most wanted people in valles?"

he’s having none of it.

“don’t act smart. what the fuck was she doing there?”

you really wish you had a cigarette. you'd need at least twenty and a pool full of alcohol to deal with taehyung and his moral compass.

at least with the rush of the chase you were granted a temporary moment’s reprieve from the fact that your actions had led to the death of a woman. a not very nice, nor a very well liked woman, but a member of the valley nonetheless. a neighbour. it had been three years since the last patrol–induced death. it was something that caused an excitement throughout the small town. a step forward is a step forward.

and now you’ve just forced a step back. you can only imagine the patrol’s fury, and the thought of picturing the result of their fury on the citizens of your sect makes you physically ill. so you don’t allow yourself to think about it.

instead, you try and think of an answer to tae’s question that doesn’t end with him absolutely blowing up on you.

“she was high,” you start, voice low and calculated. and you weren’t lying—that much was obvious to any person with a working eye. “she probably stumbled out on her own and wandered too far. it probably wouldn’t be the first time. you saw her, didn’t you?”

but the narrow of taehyung’s eyes tells it all. he doesn’t believe you.

“look, tae,” you murmur, “you’re worked up on an adrenaline rush, i get it. but don’t take it out on me, okay?”

“don’t—” an incredulous sputter cuts off his words, and you watch for a moment as he grapples to keep his temper under check. “don't take it out on you? what the fuck? she’s dead because of you—”

“—it’s not my fault she ratted us out!—”

“— yet you’re talking like it’s not your fault!”

“yeah?” you challenge with a raise of brows, “well the sect is better off without her anyway! all she ever did was get high and harass the kids and schmooze up to the patrols. she threw people into the cage for a fucking carrot from the higher-ups. yeah, maybe she’s dead. so. fucking. what.”

for a second, it looks like taehyung’s about to hit you, but then his rage boils over into a scream of frustration. before you know it, his hands are at your throat, squeezing hard. your nails dig into his skin, and you fight with all the energy you have left, kicking him in the stomach until he’s forced to step back, groaning when his head hits the wall behind him.

he's lunging at you again, but this time you're prepared and meet him with a sharp fist to the face. you can feel the warm trickle of a few stray drops of blood dripping from his nose, but it doesn't deter you from delivering another blow.

but taehyung’s not done. his eyes are wild, and you know he’s not going to stop until something breaks.

"stop!" gyuri sobs, covering her face so she doesn't have to see the two of you fighting. "just fucking stop! we can't fight like this when we're so far from home. you two are the only ones with a semblance of an idea of what the fuck we're doing, so just stop!"

the fourth of you, nobu, nods in agreement, his arms crossed and a contemplative shadow draped over his features. "she's right, you know. we've made it too far to start infighting. that's gonna get us killed. we need to figure out what we're doing next."

with a sigh, your hands fall to your side, gaze flicking to taehyung to watch as he wipes at his bleeding nose. with an apologetic smile, you extend an arm towards him, an offer of an olive branch.

it stings when he slaps it away.

"whatever," he murmurs, not once letting his eyes move to where you are. "nobu's right. we need a move."

there's a myriad of different thoughts in your head right now, body slinking further into the shadows as you finally allow yourself to collapse and focus on something other than the tense edge in all of your muscles.

like the sight of the woman's lifeless eyes. or taehyung's fury. or what the fuck you're supposed to do now. you can't go home for a while, patrol cars will be roaming the streets like guard dogs, and it's only a matter of time before the guards will start hunting every street in the inner sect in search of the four of you.

you sigh, exhaustion seeping into your bones.

"first thing's first," you murmur, closing your eyes and trying to quell your growing headache. "we need to ditch what we're wearing. that's the first thing they'll recognise."

there's different sounds of approval, and a begrudging grunt from taehyung, and the decision is unanimous.

your clothing raid had been successful, you and the others managing to grab some things from a box behind one of the more high end boutiques after you'd roamed around a few of the back allies.

it's only now you realise how different the inner sect is from the valley, after the fog's cleared and your hands are shoved into the pockets of your dress pants.

the buildings were massive, for one.

where the valley had crumbling old bungalows and a few basement houses, the inner circle was filled with skyscraper after skyscraper. looking at any building had you straining your neck, the the glassed windows were so reflective, the sun practically blaring into your eyes from every angle.

it's better if you keep your head down, anyway. your clothing was innocuous enough for you to blend in with the crowd so long as your face isn't fully visible.

that's another thing. the clothing.

you'd seen suits of course. the patrol governed your city adorned in the black textile from head to toe. but to see everyone dressed so formally, women in long dark coats and men with vests and cuffed shirts, makes your skin crawl with discomfort.

you'd wear the same pair of tatted jeans for weeks at a time, the only wardrobe rotation being the communal clothes you and your crew would share and swap.

at some point, the four of you had split up. you'd all find a place to stay for the night, and meet back up at the alley in the morning to debrief and decide what to do next. another unanimous agreement.

finding a place to sleep for one would be easier than finding a place for four.

you know that's what you should've been doing, but something about the casino's bright lights and loud music has you almost immediately gravitating towards it.

there's a bouncer at the door, and for a moment your heart drops, but as you approach he simply gives you a nod and allows you in.

for the first time since your arrival in the inner sect, you feel yourself relax.

almost instinctively, your hand drifts to the back pocket of your borrowed pants, fingers brushing the fabric in search of a cigarette. when they come up empty, you huff in quiet frustration, the realization striking a little harder than you’d like. right. those were left behind—along with just about everything else that tied you to the valley.

you’re still caught in the thought when a hand extends toward you out of nowhere. the sudden movement sends a cold surge of panic through your veins, and you whirl around with wide eyes. The crowd blurs for a moment as your gaze locks on the figure in front of you—a dark haired man standing far too close.

his expression holds no malice. if anything, there’s amusement dancing in his eyes, as though startling you was an intentional act of mischief. the corner of his mouth lifts into a casual smirk, and he tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re a puzzle worth solving. his hand remains outstretched, unwavering. he gives it a slight shake, and only then do you notice what he’s holding.

it’s a silver cigarette case, polished enough that the casino’s lights shimmer across its surface.

for a brief moment, you see your own reflection in it—wide eyed and slightly on edge, a sharp contrast to the man's easy demeanour. he tilts the case open with one hand, revealing a neatly arranged row of cigarettes nestled inside. the gesture is smooth, practiced, like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before.

“need one?” he asks, his voice low and rich, carrying just enough charm to make you wonder if this interaction is as accidental as it seems.

no, thanks, you almost decline, but your hand moves on its own and picks up one of the cancer sticks with a familiarity all too strange considering the stranger you're taking them from.

"have you got a—"

"lighter?" the man interjects, and he retrieves the small metal tool from his breast pocket, yet again holding it out to you.

you take it with a grateful skepticism.

the man chuckles at your sidewards glances, his smile all to warm and all too charming. it's uncanny, and the weight of his gaze makes your skin almost crawl.

with the cigarette lit and placed lazily between your lips, you pass him back the lighter, and he takes it, eyes shifting from your hand to your face. "i don't think i've seen you in here before," he muses with a short hum. "you not from around here?"

you don't respond, taking a long drag of your cigarette and rushing for an answer that won't land you in deep shit.

"i uh... i'm from the other side of the city. i don't usually come out this far," you bluff with an exhale of smoke, hoping your voice doesn't sound as shaky as you feel. "it kinda of just drew me in."

another hum from the stranger, and he plucks the cigarette from your fingers to place it between his own, and a shiver runs down your spine at the intimate contact.

"could tell you're not from here. your pockets are probably emptier than your purse, hm?" he inhales a cloud of smoke, and you watch as it pours from his nose when the cigarette is passed back. "have you ever even been to a casino, miss?"

you answer honestly. "no."

the man exhales slowly, his smoke mingling with the flashing lights and hum of conversation around you. he studies you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering just enough to make you feel uncomfortably exposed. then, without a word, he slips a hand into his coat pocket.

when it reemerges, he’s holding a neat stack of bills, bound with a thin band. your stomach tightens at the sight of it. he peels off two crisp hundred-dollar notes and presses them into your hand.

"here," he says, his tone easy, like this is the most normal thing in the world. "consider it a welcome gift."

you stare at the money, blinking in confusion. it feels heavy in your hand, heavier than it should, and for a moment, you consider handing it back. "i—why?"

you've never seen so much money in your life. in the valley, all exchanges were done with rusty coins older than the houses themselves. seeing bills for the first time is an almost out of body experience.

you try to school your shock into a more nonchalant expression.

his smirk deepens, and he nods toward the rows of slot machines lining the casino floor. "because watching you wander around clueless is almost painful," he teases, a glint of amusement in his eye. "come on. i'll show you how to use one of these."

before you can protest, he lightly grips your elbow and steers you toward one of the machines. the screen glows bright, its colors shifting in hypnotic patterns. coins and lights jingle in unison, the allure of chance pulling at your senses.

the man stops in front of a sleek black-and-gold machine and gestures for you to sit. hesitant, you lower yourself onto the cushioned stool, the leather creaking faintly under your weight. he leans against the machine beside you, his posture loose, the picture of confidence.

"alright," he begins, sliding one of the bills into the machine’s slot with practiced ease. The screen comes alive, displaying an absurd number of credits. "this one’s simple. all you have to do is press the button."

you glance at him skeptically. "that’s it?"

"that's it," he confirms with a grin. "but don’t let the simplicity fool you. these things will eat your money faster than you can blink if you’re not careful."

you hover your finger over the glowing button, hesitant. "and if I win?"

he chuckles, the sound low and rich, as though the idea itself amuses him. "then you might just owe me a drink."

you scoff at that. as fucking if.

but against your better judgment, you press the button. the machine whirs to life, its reels spinning in a blur of bright symbols. your heart skips as you watch them slow, each one ticking into place.

the man watches too, his expression unreadable, and for a fleeting moment, you can’t tell if he’s helping you—or setting you up for something you can’t quite see.

the reels slow one by one, their bright symbols clinking into place like tiny bursts of fate being decided. a lemon, a cherry, a golden bar—your breath catches as the last reel spins just a little longer, teasing you. finally, it lands on another golden bar.

lights explode from the machine in a dazzling display, and an obnoxiously cheerful chime erupts, signaling a small but thrilling win. the credits on the screen climb higher, and for a moment, you’re caught between disbelief and elation.

the man beside you laughs softly, leaning in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of smoke and cologne. "beginner’s luck," he says with a smirk, but the glint in his eye makes you wonder if luck had anything to do with it.

he pauses for a moment, and you feel his eyes rake over you in a way that hard your skin crawling. then another drag of the cigarette—your cigarette, that he never gave back—before he clears his throat.

"you said you're not from this part of town, right?"

shit, shit, shit. you're fucked.

still, you give a polite nod, keeping your face as even as you can.

he leans in closer still, and you can feel the almost burning touch of his hands keeping him held up on your shoulders, his breath coming out in hot puffs against your ear.

what. the fuck.

"those clothes..." he whispers, lips barely ghosting the skin of your earlobe as one of his hands pull at your dress shirt's collar. "they're from a boutique downtown, can't be bought anywhere else."

you scoff. "my clothes are none of your business," you snap, body tense and your eyes trained forward. don't look at him.

the man chuckles again, but instead of leaning closer he finally pulls away. "quite the opposite," he muses, tapping his cigarette against the back of your chair. "those clothes are from my business."

oh, you're mega fucked.

your legs almost push up on instinct, your body filling with an overwhelming urge to just fucking run.

but a hand on your shoulder stops you. "relax, little miss," he reassures, but his tone of voice is anything but kind. "i won't tell if you won't. call it our little secret, hm?"

your breath stutters, and you try to gauge if he's lying, your hands gripping the edge of the stool so tightly your knuckles ache. "why would you care?" you mutter, staring at the floor to avoid his gaze.

you've stolen from this man. and he knows. and now he's holding it over your head.

he doesn’t answer immediately, taking his time with the cigarette before flicking the ash to the ground like he owns the place. he probably does. when he finally speaks, his tone has shifted, smooth and cool but with an edge that feels like a warning. "because I make it my business to know everything that happens in prometheus."

his hand slides off your shoulder, and he steps back just enough to let you breathe, though the weight of his presence remains. then, extending the hand not occupied by the cigarette, he offers a slow, deliberate smile. "min yoongi," he says, as if it’s a name you’re supposed to recognize. "emissary of the prometheus region. and you are?"

the introduction is almost casual, but the title lingers in the air like a dagger above your head. you blink, trying to mask the churn of your thoughts, and push the stool back slightly, standing up. "i don’t have a name," you say flatly, though your voice wavers just enough to betray you.

yoongi arches an eyebrow, his smirk deepening as if your defiance is more entertaining than offensive. "mysterious," he murmurs. "i’ll take that as a ‘you don’t trust me yet.’ fair enough."

he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a sleek, black wallet. before you can say a word, he’s fished out another thick stack of bills, folding several into a neat pile. "here," he says, holding the money out to you. "enough to get you a room for the night. you look like you need it."

you stare at the money, blinking in confusion, and you stammer. "why?"

yoongi shrugs, already turning to leave. "let’s call it an investment," he says over his shoulder. "we’ll see if you pay it back someday."

the air feels heavier as yoongi's figure fades behind you, his casual farewell lingering like an aftertaste you can’t shake. the casino is alive with noise—coins clattering, glasses clinking, laughter rising above it all—but it’s muffled now, distant, as though you’re hearing it through water.

each step you take feels both too quick and agonizingly slow, your body moving on autopilot while your mind races.

you don’t look back. you can’t. you don’t need to confirm whether his eyes are still on you, though you can feel the weight of them, like an itch at the nape of your neck. were you too obvious? did you flinch? say too much? you replay the interaction in fragments, searching for cracks, for missteps, for anything that could have given you away.

the chill of his calm voice gnaws at you: “those clothes are from my business.”

how much did he notice? the question pounds in your head, over and over. what was he thinking?

the fluorescent lights of the restroom hit your face too suddenly, harsh and unforgiving. you stumble to the nearest sink, gripping the edge as if it might steady the turmoil inside you. you raise your eyes to the mirror but immediately regret it.

the reflection is foreign. your face looks ghostly, gaunt—like you’ve been pulled too tight and might snap at any second. you shake your head and lower your gaze. don’t think about that now. focus.

you’re fine. he didn’t do anything. if he knew, he would’ve said something.

but would he? he didn’t need to. the way he looked at you was enough to strip you bare, like he could see every secret, every stolen scrap.

you splash cold water on your face, letting the shock of it clear the static in your mind. the water drips down, leaving streaks across the stolen fabric you’re still wearing. you stare at it, swallowing hard.

you have to hold it together. you can’t afford to fall apart here.

forcing your breathing to slow, you take one last glance at the mirror. it’s not reassurance you’re looking for—it’s resolve. you’ve survived worse. you’ll survive this.

you turn, the tiled floor cold beneath your feet as you slink into a stall and lock the door. pulling down the seat, you collaps onto the closed toilet, letting out a shaky breath.

the money is still in your hand, crisp and alien, as though it belongs to another life entirely. you shove it into your pocket before leaning your head back against the wall, closing your eyes. for the first time since you entered the inner sect, the adrenaline begins to ebb, replaced by an exhaustion so deep it feels like it’s carved into your bones.

the distant hum of the casino fades as your body gives in, and before you know it, sleep pulls you under, the cold, hard memory of the day melting into a fitful, uneasy rest.

A/N: i have never been to a casino so i have no idea how the machines actually work, but i tried my best!! there's a lot of things that need to be expanded on but i just wanted to get some worldbuilding done first :)

taglist: simply send an ask or reply if you want to be part of the taglist!! @wobblewobble822

#𝗣𝗢𝗢𝗞𝗜𝗘’𝗦 𝗥𝗘𝗤𝗨𝗜𝗘𝗠 (n). TIWD !#nevie writes.#min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x y/n #bts au fanfic #bts x you #bts fanfiction #bts x reader #bts x fem!reader #bts fanfic

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astrolook · 1 month ago

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🚧When Synastry Shows One Person Holding the Other Back (and They Don’t Even Realize It) ⏳🚧

Note: These are my personal observations over the years and not facts. Take what resonates with you and leaves what doesn't. This post is ONLY about synastry overlays where one planet holds back the other. Lemme know in the comments whether if these resonates with you or not!

Sometimes, love feels like a slow-motion scene from a rom-com. Other times, it feels like you’re sprinting through wet cement while your partner lounges on the sidelines. If you’ve ever felt like your relationship is more of a pause button than a fast-forward, synastry might have the receipts.

Saturn conjunct Sun - Saturn is like a life coach to the Sun here, unsolicited. The Saturn person naturally takes on a "boss" or "mentor" role. The Sun person may start second-guessing their identity over time. Saturn makes the Sun feel restricted, judged, or not enough.

Saturn square Moon - Emotional repression. The Moon person would slowly shut down their natural emotional rhythms to accommodate Saturn’s expectations. Think about abused children or kids raised by strict parents, they know what to say and not to say. This is the kind of aspect that makes someone feel like they need permission to be sad.

South Node conjunct Venus - This connection would feel nostalgic, it's familiar and comfortable. But that's exactly the problem. South Node ties often feel like déjà vu relationships, where you just keep doing the same dance over and over again. The Venus person may find themselves stuck in outdated love patterns, and the South Node person may subconsciously resist actual relationship growth.

Neptune opposite Mercury - Confusion central. The Mercury person is trying to communicate logically, but Neptune keeps throwing mist over their words. Plans get forgotten, messages are misunderstood, and eventually, Mercury stops trusting their own thoughts in the relationship. It’s not even intentional deception, Neptune just blurs the details until Mercury loses clarity.

Chiron conjunct Ascendant - This is the relationship equivalent of having your deepest insecurities highlighted in neon lights. The Chiron person doesn’t mean to, but their very presence tends to poke at wounds the Ascendant person didn’t even realize were still open. It’s just a long, slow, painful mirror to past hurts.

Mercury square Saturn - The conversation killer. Mercury tries to express ideas, but Saturn immediately critiques, slows, or restricts them. The Mercury person might start holding back, thinking their thoughts aren’t good enough. Intellectual confidence slowly erodes, and before they know it, they’ve stopped speaking their mind entirely.

Saturn in 5th house - Saturn is here to put a gray cloud over it. The house person may feel like they can’t fully express themselves around Saturn, hesitating to embrace spontaneity or take creative risks. This can lead to a slow decline in self-expression and playfulness.

South Node in the 10th house - The South Node person may unintentionally keep the house person from growing in their career, public image, or long-term goals. This connection can feel comfortable but also stagnant like you’re revisiting an old chapter when you should be writing a new one.

Mars in the 12th house - Mars just got silenced here. The Mars person’s natural drive and passion feel muted or buried in this relationship. The house person might unknowingly suppress Mars’s energy, making them feel passive, lost, or even resentful over time. This is the kind of overlay where arguments don’t happen out loud and they simmer beneath the surface until someone erupts.

Neptune in the 2nd house - The Neptune person may unintentionally cloud the house person’s sense of stability. The house person might start making weird financial decisions, doubting their self-worth, or feeling like their personal resources are just…slipping away. At best, this is dreamy generosity. At worst? Someone’s draining someone else’s wallet and self-esteem.

Mars opposite Saturn - Frustration 100%. The Mars person might feel like they’re constantly being slowed down, restricted, or even punished for their natural instincts. This aspect can create a push-pull dynamic where Mars feels blocked at every turn, leading to bottled-up anger and resentment.

✨ Wanna know more about your birth chart or your relationship? DM me for a synastry or complete birth chart reading ✨ and check out my pinned post for pricing! 🌟💫

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brattyfics · 6 months ago

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Swampbound V

The rest of the day passed like a slow, heavy fog. Adla kept herself busy with chores, but her thoughts were spinning, caught up in the newly-discovered truths that had turned her world upside down overnight.

Terry had shifted from a wolf to a man right before her eyes, and despite his wildness, he hadn’t struck her as a monster until he squared off against Jesse. Jesse, who she wasn’t sure she could trust anymore. She didn’t know how long he’d been hiding the truth or how many secrets he held, but the sharp edge of his lies cut deep. And then there was that dark mask that had slipped over his face—twice.

It all made sense now: his fussing about her walking the woods alone. They’d grown up tearing through the thick brush and vines in her backyard, never fearing what lurked out there. The worst they encountered was the occasional snake, and that was enough to send them flying back to her daddy’s arms. Gators and wild hogs were around, but they kept their distance unless you gave ‘em reason.

"Live and let live," she'd always believed in—until now. Now, she was being pulled into a world she’d only heard about in old stories—shapeshifters and whatever Jesse truly was.

What else was hiding just beyond her sight? Had she been blind to the world around her all this time? She thought about the folks in town—faces she’d known all her life. Could any of them turn into monsters under the right moon? The idea that the world she knew was just a shadow of something far darker and deeper gnawed at her insides.

Adla ran a bath, sprinkling sea salt and lavender into the water, hoping it might settle her nerves. But no matter how long she soaked, the unease wouldn’t let go. Every few minutes, her eyes drifted toward the window, scanning the shadows outside. She didn’t even know why—whether it was instinct finally waking up, making her notice things she used to miss, or if, deep down, she was hoping to catch a glimpse of Terry.

Her mind churned with questions, pieces of old legends surfacing from the depths of her mind. Was he born like that or had it come upon him somehow? What brought him and his cousin to her little corner of the world? And Chief Burne—how had they gotten tangled up with him? But the question that weighed most heavily on her heart was personal—did Terry feel that same pull she did? Did he sense the charge in the air whenever they were close?

Was he out there right now, stalking Burne in the dark?

She couldn’t know for sure.

As the bathwater cooled around her, the image of Jesse’s limp body flashed through her mind like lightning. She could still see herself standing over Jesse, Terry’s lips brushing against her neck, grounding her in the chaos.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for bringin’ all this trouble to your door.”

She looked up at him then, really looked at him, memorizing every sharp feature, the way the sunlight filtered through the window and highlighted his face. She knew he’d find his cousin, finish whatever it was that needed finishing, and then he’d be gone—like a phantom fading back into the night.

The thought twisted something deep inside her.

“I need you to do something for me before you head out,” Her voice was soft, but there was a weight to it, something that carried more than simple words. Whatever she was about to ask would tether him here, one way or another, and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever find the will to leave.

She didn’t know what was driving her, what compelled her to say the words, but she stared up into his eyes, searching for assurance. Her earlier ire had dissipated just like that, and all she could focus on was Terry. "Promise me you'll be careful. Get your cousin, but keep yourself outta harm's way."

"I’ll watch my back. You just take care of yourself." Terry said, his tone firm yet reassuring as he placed a comforting hand on the small of her back.

Just then, Jesse’s finger twitched—once, then again—an involuntary movement that sent a jolt of panic through her. Adla’s heart raced, and she could almost hear the ticking clock in the back of her mind, each second tightening the noose of dread.

Adla knew she should be angry with Terry, using all her energy to push him out the front door and out of her life. But in that moment, her judgment blurred. All that mattered was keeping Terry and Jesse apart.

"We need to move him outside. Make it look like he fell and hit his head! Just hurry—he can’t wake up in here, not like this!” Her voice trembled with urgency, a tight knot of anxiety coiling in her stomach. The fear of Jesse waking up to see Terry loomed over her like a dark cloud, thick and suffocating.

Something whispered in her mind that crafting a story was the only way to hold back the coming storm.

Pulled by something she couldn’t explain, Adla snatched a mop and broom from the closet and dashed outside. Terry’s voice trailed after her, but she couldn’t make sense of his words; all she could think about was getting the place cleaned up. That one word—hurry!—echoed in her mind, pushing her hands to move faster, scrubbing away at whatever traces she could, as if she could sweep the whole mess out of memory.

As she scrubbed the porch with frantic strokes, her mind spiraled through the chaos of the morning—Terry, Burne, Jesse. The blood had dried, resisting her efforts, and she knew no amount of cleaning could erase what had happened. Still, it was the only thing she could control. Jesse would wake up and remember—he had to. Her hands moved in a desperate rhythm as dread gnawed at her.

What would she say when he came to? And what would Jesse do?

“Adla, what are you—?” Terry’s voice cut through her frantic thoughts, but she couldn’t focus on him right now. She heard him moving Jesse’s unconscious body, his strong hands lifting the other man with ease, as if he were a child. A strange mix of gratitude and anxiety washed over her. If they could just get Jesse outside, away from the traces of his fight with Terry, maybe she could finally breathe again.

Her gaze darted to the small gash at the back of Jesse’s head as Terry set his body down, and something in her stirred—a fierce need to erase what had happened. As she dabbed at the blood seeping from the wound, she whispered, “Please don’t remember... please don’t remember...” The words slipped from her lips like a prayer, soft yet insistent.

With every touch, she felt a strange sensation spark between them, her intentions weaving through the air like mist, settling in the fragile space between her and Jesse.

Now, as she reflected on that moment, doubt crept in. Jesse’s confusion struck her as odd. She’d staged a clumsy scene, but his memory should’ve helped him see through it.

He’d gotten riled up, insisting something was off, yet he hadn’t called her out on it. Was he pretending not to remember?

A chill ran down her spine. Had her whispered words done something? Maybe it had something to do with Terry’s supernatural abilities?

A flicker of realization tugged at her—a hint of something strange brewing beneath the surface. She didn’t understand it yet, but the fact that Jesse really seemed to have forgotten left her feeling unsettled.

With a heavy sigh, she slipped out of the bathtub, telling herself to stop chasing answers that weren’t coming. She prayed sleep would ease the steady stream of thoughts swirling in her head, but it didn’t come easily. Her eyes grew heavy as the drone of cicadas seeped through the window, growing louder until it overpowered her thoughts.

Moonlight crept in through the cracks in the curtains, casting soft, silver-blue ribbons across the room. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, stirring cool air over her skin. Adla turned onto her side, drifting somewhere between sleep and waking—until something sent a jolt through her senses.

"I’m gon’ need your help again."

Adla’s eyes flew open.

Terry sat on the edge of her bed, his presence too large, and too close for comfort.

Her face mirrored silent disbelief—mouth agape, hands pressed against her cheeks, as if she were trapped in a nightmare. It had been one thing to offer her help earlier. This? This was something else entirely.

What had she done by letting him in?

Instinct kicked in, and a rush of adrenaline surged through her veins. She moved fast, reaching for the nightstand, but then froze, her heart pounding as moonlight caught the glint of metal. Her pistol lay casually in his lap, as if it belonged there, held loosely—suggesting no immediate threat unless he decided differently.

Don’t freeze up now!

Her fingers twitched, searching under the pillow for her knife, only to find nothing but cool, empty sheets. Terry’s eyes followed her movements, a sly smile creeping across his face. “What you lookin’ for now, baby?” he murmured, his voice a smooth drawl that made her breath hitch, a mix of fear and something unnameable stirring in her gut.

He has some nerve callin’ me baby. I ain’t helpless, and I sure as hell ain’t no baby!

That thought sparked something deep in her chest. She moved fast, aiming to shove him off balance, but he was quicker. In an instant, his weight was on her, wrists pinned to the bed, his breath hot on her skin.

The ceiling fan hummed lazily above them, oblivious to the heavy tension that now filled the room. She could barely breathe beneath him. His scent wrapped around her—earthy, masculine, and something a little wild beneath it all. Anger surged through her. She was furious at him for barging in like he owned the place, but even more at herself for letting him get this close.

How had he slipped in without her hearing a thing?

“What do you want?” she snapped, struggling against his hold.

“You,” he answered, his voice soft and steady like restraining her was nothing, “and that sharp mind of yours.”

Adla’s brow furrowed.

Does he mean…in the literal sense? But before her thoughts could spin too far, he shifted, one hand gathering both of her wrists above her head, while the other reached over to flick on the bedside lamp. The soft glow cast shadows against their faces in the dark, making the moment feel far too intimate.

“Not literally,” he murmured, voice smooth as molasses. He lingered, closer than he should have, inhaling that sweet lavender on her skin. “Our deal still stands. Just curious about what you know 'bout the police chief and his boys.”

He’d promised not to bite unless she asked, but a small part of her wished he would. Let him sink his teeth in, drain her dry, and end it all. At least she'd see her father again and free from the troubles that had surfaced. The thought flickered in her mind, and she cursed herself for even considering it.

"Enough," she rasped, struggling to regain control—of her mind, her body, her will. “They’ve been shaking folks down for years. Make ‘em pay to live ‘round here. Starts small—maybe a busted window or slashed tire if you don’t pay up. But then it gets worse. Fires. People go missing. You pay, you’re safe. But not everybody’s got the money.”

"But you don’t pay, do you? Why’s that?"

Her pulse quickened.

So he had been snooping, listening with those sharp ears of his. Cold sweat gathered at the back of her neck. What else could he pick up on without her knowing? Could he sense her quickened pulse was more than fear? Could he smell the heat pooling between her thighs?

It was a bizarre sensation to feel while caught in her predicament, but there was no denying it was real.

“How do you know that?” she shot back, the tremor in her voice betraying her.

Terry’s eyes gleamed, a predator’s look—calm, controlled, but intense. His gaze swept over her like he could read every flicker of emotion, every tiny movement, as though she were a mystery he intended to unravel piece by piece. He echoed her words from earlier, voice smooth but firm, "I asked you a question.”

Anger flared hotter in her chest.

Adla swallowed hard, her jaw tightening. “My daddy and Burne had an understanding. He honors it with me. I stay outta his way, he stays outta mine. That’s how it’s always been.”

Terry’s expression shifted, contemplating her words.

“What do you know about that understanding?”

“Not much,” she replied, frustration tightening her throat. “I was just a kid back then. Burne came around a few times, and every time, Daddy sent me out back like he didn’t want me to see whatever ugly business they were discussing. Burne never lingered, though.”

Terry’s jaw clenched tightly, his voice low and intense. “Think harder. There’s got to be something more.”

Her nostrils flared as she wriggled in his grip, her body tense against his, struggling to break free. "I’d remember better if I wasn’t being held hostage by a man who broke into my house." His grip remained firm, but she caught a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, frustration crossing his face.

“What are you mixed up in, Terry Richmond?” she demanded, searching for a crack in his armor.

Finally, he released her.

She rubbed her wrists, sitting up with her eyes fixed on him, challenging him to explain himself.

“Did I hurt you?” Terry asked, his tone almost tender. He took her hands, fingers brushing over them slow and gentle, then pressed a quick kiss to each one, whispering sincere apologies against her perfumed skin.

She didn’t pull her wrists back, didn’t jerk away. Just held still, watching, waiting to see what he’d do next. One minute, he was charm personified; the next, red hot and demanding.

“I’m fine,” she lied, but the heat between her thighs refused to fade, steady and pulsing, intensifying with every passing moment. She couldn’t shake it off for anything and couldn’t help but wonder what kind of root he was working on her.

“Don’t you worry ’bout my troubles,” he said, the weight of pulling her into his mess heavy on his shoulders. The fate of his cousin loomed over him, driving him to the brink. His shoulders sagged, but he held her gaze. “I’m sorry for barging in on you like this. It won’t happen again. I promise you that.”

He stood to leave, moonlight casting faint shadows across his caramel skin. She had a wild notion to ask him to stay—the house felt too lonely some nights—but that’s when her gaze caught the ink on his arm once more.

A jolt of memory struck her.

“Hold up a minute! That necklace! Chief Burne took a necklace with some kinda strange mark on it—the same one you’ve got inked on your arm!”

Terry froze in the doorway, his whole body going rigid. “You sure 'bout that?”

“Yeah! I remember it clear as day. It was real strange.” Memories of the past rolled out before her like an old film, every moment flickering back to life. “I found it once—Daddy had it tucked away in that old dresser.” She nodded toward the corner of the room.

“When I found it, he fussed at me somethin’ fierce, told me to stay outta his things. Daddy never got mad like that, not with me. The next day, it was gone. Didn’t see it again ’til Chief Burne came by and Daddy handed it over. I can’t believe I forgot!” She could still picture it—the way she’d perched on a rickety milk crate, peeking through the window to catch a glimpse of their exchange. It hadn’t held her long, but she saw enough to remember that moment.

Adla had thought her daddy’s business—and everything tied to it—had been buried with him. But now, it felt like a ghost from his past was rising to the surface.

“What’s up with that necklace?”

Terry’s gaze shifted, a whirlwind of emotions churning just beneath the surface—hard to read but impossible to ignore. “Let’s just say it’s a piece of my family history.”

“What kinda history we talkin’ ‘bout?” Adla crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes as the shadows seemed to thicken around them. Having a man in her bedroom felt surreal. Jesse always avoided this room during his visits, claimin’ it was too strange to be her daddy's old space. It felt like she and Terry were sharing something sacred and intimate, bound together in a way she couldn’t quite grasp yet.

“You think you can handle the truth? Knowin’ ain’t always what you think it is.” Terry asked, his voice roughening as he took long, deliberate strides back toward her bed.

“I figure I’ve earned the right, considerin’ you keep breakin’ into my house.”

“You invited me in,” he said with a sly glint in his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.” There it was again— that same strange fixation on the idea of being invited, like it mattered more than it should. “It’s gonna change everything you think you know. You ready for that?”

She hadn’t anticipated any of the turmoil since he’d shown up, but there was no turning back now. “Just tell me,” she urged, her fingers tracing the patterns on the comforter. When he settled onto her bed this time, it felt like an invitation rather than an intrusion.

“You know I’m a shifter…” She remembered their earlier conversation and the massive black wolf that had shown up on her porch. “...but you don’t know how it all started. You believe in magic?”

She swallowed hard, nodding. "How could I not, especially with everything that happened today?"

“It all started with a pact that changed everything for us.”

Terry’s expression shifted, turning grave. “My grandfather was a maroon—one of them ‘unruly’ slaves who had the guts to run off from his plantation and into these swamps. He was one of the first to break free. Word got around, and more folks joined him; their strength grew by the night. They’d sneak back in the dark, helpin’ anyone brave enough to follow ’em to freedom.” His voice dropped to a steady murmur, thick with resolve. “Among those he led were healers, rootworkers, and conjurers—men and women who were deep-rooted in their traditions, carryin’ the power to shape reality, but always payin’ a hefty price for it.”

An image of Jesse's grandmother flickered through her mind.

“I don’t know everything about the witches—how they do what they do,” he continued, locking eyes with her. “But they can work wonders—things that’ll stop you dead in your tracks.”

She recalled the bright light shooting from Jesse’s hands earlier, and the hairs on her arms stood on end.

“The maroons carved out their own path, livin’ side by side with the native folks in these swamps. But as the number of enslaved people started to drop in this area, the enslavers took notice. They couldn’t afford to lose any more ‘property,’” he growled, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “So they began sendin’ out hunting parties.”

“At first, they didn’t know the lay of the land, so the maroons slipped right through their fingers. But when that didn’t work, they turned to our own people. They dangled promises of freedom, tryin’ to lure ’em outta the swamp with visions of homes with walls and their own land. It was a lie, but it had a way of workin' on folks. People had families to think about, I reckon.”

It was easy to judge when you didn’t know the daily struggles they faced—sneakin’ into town for scraps, navigatin’ a world rigged against ’em, riskin’ everything just to make it through the day. Freedom came with a heavy price.

“They twisted the law, huntin’ us down like we was nothin’ but animals. Meanwhile, white folks kept gettin’ rich off our backs.”

A thick silence hung between them, both lost in thoughts of their ancestors and the unspeakable horrors they’d endured.

Terry shook his head, tryin’ to shake off the weight of the past. “Needless to say, their tactics worked. By the end, nearly everyone was dead. A few ordinary but tough souls, like my grandfather and just a couple of the witches, managed to survive. Out in these very woods, they came up with a plan for payback. Those witches could give ’em the power to rise against their oppressors, but it came at a steep cost—tradin’ their humanity for the ability to transform.”

She could piece together the unspoken parts: The maroons were worn thin, workin’ twice as hard just to get by, while white men wielded their privilege—armed with better weapons, sheltered in comfort, and backed by all who supported the chains of slavery. They had no choice.

She reached out, her fingers skimming over his forearm, a soft touch she knew she probably shouldn’t be makin’. As if pulled by some unseen force, Terry’s hand glided down to rest on her leg, his warmth grounding them both in that delicate moment of connection.

“So they made a pact. Each full moon, the men would be trapped in the shape of a big ol’ wolf, their humanity swallowed by the beast inside. But for the rest of the month, they could shift at will—keepin’ themselves safe and protectin’ whatever was left of their kin.”

“That must’ve been downright terrifying, bein’ trapped outside their own skin,” Adla said, her mind wanderin’ to what she’d do if she had to make a choice like that.

“They weren’t about to go back to no chains or meet death without swingin’ back. That’s how I—how we came to be,” Terry said, layin’ bare the truth of his origin.

“And what about that necklace?” Adla asked, sensing the intricate puzzle was missing some key pieces. Terry’s touch and those piercing eyes were pulling her in, but her instincts remained razor-sharp. Everything he shared had begun to connect in her mind, but there was still more to uncover.

A look crossed his face, like he was digging up a memory of his own.

“That’s a whole other story. But if your daddy had it, he probably stashed away a book with a ledger too. You know where that might be?”

Chapter 6.

@nayaesworld

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@blowmymbackout

@kindofaintrovert

@avoidthings

@zillasvilla

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#AARON PIERRE #REBEL RIDGE #TERRY RICHMOND #TERRY RICHMOND X OC #TERRY RICHMOND X BLACK OC #TERRY RICHMOND X BLACK!OC

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strawwritesfic · 1 year ago

Text

Kelvin!Spock x Female!Human!Reader: Mr. Right

Summary: When one door closes, another opens—perhaps the door you were meant to enter all along.

Warnings/Tags: Starship Enterprise; post-Star Trek Beyond; friends to lovers; breakup; almost kiss; counselor!reader; Star Trek: The Original Series references; Star Trek: The Next Generation references

Relationships: Spock/Reader; Spock & Nyota Uhura; past!Spock/Nyota Uhura; past!Kevin Riley/Reader

Challenge: “160 Collective Drabbles” challenge by BobaPop on Lunaescence Archives.

Requester: @lovemesomeescapism

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Notes: For once, this is not a repost for this challenge…technically. I did write a response to the prompt "Mr. Right" ages ago, but when I was reposting, I decided that the Now You See Me one shot I wrote really wasn't worth keeping. Someone on Tumblr asked me for a Spock one shot, so I slipped him in as a replacement.

It's been a really long time since I finished something new. I realize that I am rusty. This is actually several drafts into attempts to write this one shot. For the first time ever, I actually cannibalized previous drafts while trying to get the meandering dialogue and point back on track. It still doesn't feel quite "right" to me, but it's probably going to take some time before I get back in the swing of things, and I'm ready to let this one go.

Mr. Right

Throughout Terra's history, human beings had sought the comfort of white noise. Quiet droning sounds proved beneficial for many aspects of mental health in the species. As a counselor on board the U.S.S. Enterprise, you'd recommended listening to white noise to dozens of fellow crewmates and patients alike. The best way to do this in the deep space you'd all been exploring for nearly five years was to turn everything in one's quarters down until the low hum of the ship's warp drive became audible. Many of those crewmates and patients reported back to you with decreased stress levels, improved mood, and a distinct uptick in ability to concentrate. Almost all of them said they got better sleep.

Now you learned that every single one of them had lied to you.

You'd spent the better part of the evening-adjacent hours lying face-down on your sofa, trying and failing to take a nap. The scratchy, standard-issue pillow beneath your face was soaked with tears. Your chest ached. Worst of all, any attempt on your part to get your mind off what upset you just ended with you crying harder. All the while, that awful rumble went on and on and on and on relentlessly, allowing you no respite long enough to drift off and forget your current predicament.

A chime cut through your misery. You paused without so much as lifting your head. As of three hours prior, you were officially off duty for the day. Nothing required you to answer the door unless an order came down from a superior officer, and they would call first. Probably it was only Uhura coming by to check on you. Having been through her own breakup during this voyage, surely she would understand when you didn't let her inside.

The chime sounded again, and with it came a surge of possibilities flooding your mind. What if your visitor was dealing with a crisis? Cases of PTSD had been on the rise since the events on Altamid. You could hardly ignore that in favor of your own small, personal crisis. Off duty or not, your role as a ship's counselor would not allow you to wallow in self-pity when someone might need your help.

As your boots hit the floor, you pressed one sleeve of your rumpled blue uniform to the corner of each eye. The gesture wouldn't do much to disguise what you'd been doing over the course of your time off, but you felt a little steadier afterward. Breathing deeply in and out helped too—until you hiccuped. But you could prepare yourself no more. Squaring your shoulders, you stood, walked over to the door leading to the corridor, and opened it.

Just outside stood the familiar, lanky figure of the ship's science officer. The second you spotted him, you wiped your sleeve across your face with greater urgency.

"You're not one of my patients," you said, "or Uhura."

"A very astute observation, Lieutenant [L Name]," Spock replied.

A long moment elapsed during which the two of you stared at one another. Several fellow crewmates in various uniform colors threw curious looks at his back as they passed by on their ways to wherever they were headed. Your friend, meanwhile, allowed a single dark eyebrow to drift toward his hairline. He clearly had no intention of moving on.

"What are you doing here?" you sighed at last.

The wayward eyebrow rejoined its brother. "Lieutenant Commander Uhura informed me that you left your office this afternoon in distress. I note that her assessment was an accurate one. If anything, you appear to be in more distress now than she described to me then."

You couldn't lie to Spock, not when you looked the way you looked after a crying jag like the one you'd just had. So you didn't bother to try. "Fine. I'm in distress. But really, Spock, it's not the kind of distress you can help with. I'm sure Captain Kirk will need you on a landing party any minute now, so if you'll excuse me—"

"Lieutenant Commander Uhura also informed me of the cause of your distress."

"Of course she did." Sometimes you wished your two friends were a little lighter on the "amicable" part of "amicable exes." "Let me guess: You came by to tell me that you told me so."

"As a Vulcan, I have no reason to rub my correct prediction in your face, if you will forgive the Terra colloquial."

You let out a wet laugh despite yourself. "You're pardoned."

"What I have done is stopped by the mess hall. If I am not much mistaken, ice cream is a traditional consolation food in these types of situations."

He produced from behind his back a number of different colored tapes. So startled were you that you found yourself unable to say anything. Never in a million years would you have imagined Spock of all people standing in front of you and offering you junk food of all things. Your silence went on for so long that he had to prompt you to speak:

"Was I incorrect in my understanding of how to handle Terran breakups?"

"No," you said, then, "I just didn't want you to find out about the breakup until I could pull myself together."

"I surmised as much, given that Lieutenant Commander Uhura found out about your circumstances before I did, although you and I are closer friends. It would have been more logical for you to contact me for assistance than her."

Vulcans as a whole were difficult to read. Even factoring in your education and training, as well as your friendship with Spock that had gone on for several years now, you could only guess his feelings the majority of the time. Not so then. Something about his tone made him sound hurt. Maybe you could chalk that up to projecting your own feelings onto him, but you couldn't risk that assumption.

"It's just that you warned me against dating Kevin," you explained. "As ship's counselor, I should have seen the end coming a kiloparsec away."

"Perhaps. But one might also say that your extensive proximity to the crew's emotions might cause some loss in objectivity on your part."

"So you're not here to make me feel worse?"

"I came for consolation purposes. That is all."

"Well, all right, then."

You stepped away from the doorway. Spock followed you in. He paused only long enough to press the button to close the door before he came to join you in your sitting room. A crate sat on the floor along his path, and he looked at you questioningly as he walked by it.

"Those are Kevin's things," you said.

"Expedient," he observed.

Normally, you might have tried to go for a little more decorum around him, but that day you didn't have the energy to do more than flop back onto your couch. At least you were upright. Spock, on the other hand, claimed a dignified perch at the end of your chair. The two of you certainly made an odd pair.

"He had so many hair products!" you burst out when the awkward silence turned unbearable. "I should have known we wouldn't work out. Who brings that much hair spray into deep space?"

"Humanity can hardly be expected to iron out all its flaws when you all cling so hard to your baser emotions."

"Do you mean Kevin's desire to look nice, or my need to be in a relationship?"

Spock blinked, then smoothly said, "In this case, I refer to your former beau's preoccupation with personal grooming."

"Right. Either way, I'm about ready to get rid of all my own baser emotions. Not feeling them would be a blessing." You got back to your feet and thrust one hand in Spock's direction. "Ice cream tape, please."

He offered one to you.

"Spock," you said warningly.

"I do not believe that heartbreak is an excuse to overeat. I only brought so many because I was unsure which flavor you would select."

The glare you leveled at him seemed to make him think better of lecturing you on the dangers of gluttony—as well it should have. This was the same glare that you gave Dr. McCoy when you were tired of listening to him. Unlike with Dr. McCoy, you smiled once Spock dropped the rest of the tapes into your outstretched hand.

"Thank you." You headed for your in-quarters food producer, then turned your head to ask over your shoulder, "What flavor do you want?"

"I do not require ice cream."

"Come on, Spock. If you're going to spend the evening commiserating with me, you have to have some ice cream, too. That's a critical part of the Terran breakup process."

One corner of his mouth twitched. "I'll have pistachio, then."

You fed the yellow-green tape into the slot. A quiet beeping noise covered the hum of the warp drive as the computer worked. While you waited, you flipped through the remainder of the flavors until you found the one you wanted.

"I don't think it would be a good idea for you to give up emotions," Spock said.

"Huh?" Frowning at him, you replaced his tape with yours. "Aren't you the guy that's been talking about doing the Kolinahr when we get back to Earth?"

"That's different. I am a Vulcan."

"Half Vulcan."

"Vulcan enough."

A shriller beep put an end to this potentially sticky subject. The ice creams were ready. You dumped the rest of the tapes in a basket next to the food producer, picked up the bowls, and brought them back to the living room. Spock took his with a grateful nod, though he waited until you sat down again before taking a bite.

"Maybe I'd be a better counselor if I didn't have emotions," you mused. "If I wasn't blinded by my own feelings, I could help the crew more with theirs. I shouldn't have the same problems as they do after all the studying I've done."

"While that may indeed make sense, it is hardly realistic. Besides, if you did not have your human emotions, you would no longer be the [Name] that I know, and I believe that I would miss her."

You couldn't help but smile around the spoon in your mouth. Popping that out, you said, "I bet you say that to all the Terrans you like."

"Hardly. In fact, that captain may benefit from an hour or two without his usual emotions."

"I appreciate you saying that, Spock."

"I am only speaking the truth. I have no intention of bolstering your ego artificially, even if doing so is a part of the Terran breakup process."

"I know." You slowly lowered your spoon back to the bowl, staring off into space. Something was dawning on you—something that might have dawned on you sooner had you not been so enthralled with your own feelings. "You know what else I appreciate? You coming here to help me today. Not every first officer would go out of their way for a ship's counselor like that."

Spock fixed you with an unblinking gaze as he said, "You mean a great deal more to me than most ship's counselors mean to their first officers."

"I don't care what Captain Kirk says. You sure know how to make a woman blush."

"I have had some practice with the activity."

"Remind me to thank Uhura later."

"Thank her for what?" Spock asked.

Maybe you were reading the signs wrong. Maybe you were just desperate. If he had to ask, you had to be wrong. But you took a deep breath anyway, and said, "Helping me realize that maybe the guy I've been looking for this whole time has been my best friend all along."

How could it have taken you this long to work it out? No one else spent as much time with you as Spock did, not outside of your office hours. It didn't matter if you were in the mess hall asking for a round of Fizzbin after dinner or you wanted a quiet night in your quarters. He always seemed to be there. You felt comfortable around him. Maybe you didn't always understand Spock; maybe Spock didn't always understand. But you didn't enjoy anyone's company the way you did his. And you had to wonder when your eyes met just then if he felt the same way, and if this coming-to-see-you-with-ice-cream thing was his way of showing you that.

"Well," he moistened his lips before going on, "I certainly feel that our relationship is founded more steadily upon mutual interests and desires than it is upon a passion for hair products."

You leaned forward. "You know, that sort of relationship sounds really appealing right about now."

"It does?" Spock shifted closer to you.

"I think it's about time that I dated someone whose first thought in the morning isn't beating me to the sonic shower, don't you?"

By that time, you both had come so close that it wouldn't have taken much more movement on either of your parts to touch lips. Your heart gave a painful leap inside your chest. Was this too much too fast? Even if you had just realized you'd had a thing for Spock for a while now, you had only just broken up with your last boyfriend that morning. Treating Spock as a rebound was the last thing you wanted to do. He didn't seem to mind, though. His mouth drew closer and closer to yours until you could feel his breath on your face.

The communicator in your room chirped. You jumped. Spock paused before sitting back up in his chair. Then you rose wordlessly, stepped over to the panel, cleared your throat, and pushed the button.

"[L Name]," you said.

"[Name]?" Uhura did not remark on how breathless you sounded, thankfully. "I need to talk to Spock."

"It's for you," you said unnecessarily. Spock had already reset his face into its typical blank mask and made his way to the communicator himself.

"Spock here. What is it, Lieutenant Commander?"

"Captain Kirk needs you on the bridge. We have a situation up here."

"What kind of a situation?"

"There's a former United States President floating outside the ship. He says he needs our help."

"I will be there right away."

A second chirp signaled that communications between your room and the bridge had ceased. Spock turned back to you.

"My presence is needed on the bridge," he said.

"So I heard."

"I apologize. I believe we were in the middle of something."

"It's all right."

He didn't move.

"Spock, go. Don't you want to know why a deceased historical figure has asked for the Enterprise's help?"

"I'd prefer to stay here," Spock said. "But you are correct. I must leave. Will you still be here later tonight?"

"Yeah." You surprised yourself with the eagerness of your answer. "Yeah, I will. I promise I won't run off with any other lieutenants while you're away. I'll save the rest of the ice cream. We can share it when you get back."

There it was: The slight curl to Spock's mouth that told you that you weren't making up the mutual attraction between you both after all. "To use another Terran phrase, it's a date."

He hesitated another moment longer before he quickly exited your quarter. You grinned as the door slid shut behind him and the white noise returned full force. As you sunk into your couch and pillow this time, you found you didn't mind the hum as much. In fact, the sound did exactly what it was supposed to do: Relax you. Kevin and his excuses from that morning felt farther away than your own home planet. Maybe you owed him a thank you, too, because if you were still with him, you wouldn't have slept as well as you did that night knowing that Spock would be back soon.

#fan fic #straw writes #reader insert #second person pov #star trek #star trek beyond #challenge response #request #spock #spock x reader #spock x you #spock x y/n #star trek x reader #star trek x y/n #star trek you #kelvin universe

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scary-grace · 25 days ago

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Off-Script (Act 4) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Tomura's been Dabi's stunt double for almost a decade, and he's not easily impressed, but when he squares up with you for a fight scene, he finds himself caught off-guard in more ways than one. As the shoot progresses and sparks fly between the two of you, Tomura has to decide if you're worth the risk -- or if the best sparring partner he's ever had is all you'll ever be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Act 1 Act 2 Act 3

Act 4

You can drive stick-shift. You’re sort of out of practice, but you get better fast. Faster than Spinner and Tomura sober up, anyway. Spinner texts Dabi from the passenger seat to tell him that help’s on the way, while Tomura looks up directions in the back. He’s not sure why he wound up in the backseat, and he’s not happy about it. The only times you’ve talked to him so far are to ask for directions.

“Thanks for doing this,” Spinner says to you for probably the fiftieth time. “I don’t know if you know this, but Dabi’s had kind of a tough time –”

“I heard rumors,” you say. Tomura tells you to turn left, and you put on your turn signal. “I heard he got help, though.”

Getting help is the nice way to put it. 180-day inpatient treatment is a lot more than getting help, in Tomura’s opinion. For the first four months nobody was even allowed to visit. “Yeah,” Spinner says. “He wasn’t supposed to go back to work this early, but his dad – you know his dad –”

“He produced a show I was in one time. Kind of a hard-ass.”

“He’s an asshole,” Tomura corrects.

“Dabi wouldn’t go unless he could change stuff about his contract,” Spinner adds. “That’s why no swordfights.”

“Oh.” You start to say something else, but Tomura has to cut you off to give directions, and after he’s done talking, you change the subject. “Ask Dabi where he is in the hotel. I’m guessing we want to get as close to him as possible so the press doesn’t see.”

Spinner texts Dabi. Tomura checks Dabi’s Twitter mentions. Nothing so far, except some photos of him hanging out with Hawks at the party. Like they told him to do. What the hell happened? Tomura doesn’t want to know. whatever it is, it’s probably going to end up with Dabi sending Tomura to parties in his place and never showing up to another one himself.

“He says he’s in the closet,” Spinner reports. “Uh – on the second floor, left side.”

“Tell him to get to a first-floor hotel room,” you say. “Housekeeping goes through empty ones at night to save time in the morning. Find one that’s open and go out the window.”

Spinner conveys that, and he and Tomura both get a response at the same time. “He says that’s some escape artist bullshit,” Spinner reports. “And he wants to know whose stupid idea it was.”

“Mine.” Tomura sends that, then adds a follow-up. if you can’t do this shit I never want to hear another word about how you can totally do your own stunts

Tomura’s phone rings a second later. Dabi’s contact. Tomura declines the call.

Dabi calls back again. Tomura declines it again, and this time Dabi texts. pick up the phone you fucking coward

why, so you can bitch me out? you can do that after you climb out the fucking window

Dabi calls Tomura a third time, and Tomura hangs up on him. “Guys,” Spinner complains. “This isn’t helping.”

“Should you let him know there’s somebody else with you?” you ask as you pull into the hotel’s back parking lot. “It sounds like he might be pissed about it.”

“He’s going to be pissed about everything,” Tomura says. He texts Dabi as you pull alongside the building: we’re here. get out. “You get used to it.”

It occurs to Tomura as the three of you wait for Dabi to make an appearance that he’s got no idea what Dabi did this time around. Paparazzi trouble would have shown up on Twitter already. If he’d relapsed – or lapsed, or whatever Tomura’s supposed to call it – he probably wouldn’t have texted for help. And even if he did text, he’d have been incoherent, because seven and a half months off of everything has probably wrecked his tolerance. Maybe he just thought he might relapse and decided to bail before he could do it. That’s really responsible of him. It’s really shitty of Tomura to be angry with him about it.

Tomura’s not immune to being shitty. Being shitty is his default mode, as evidenced by everything that’s happened with you. Up until tonight when you agreed to dance with him, and it seemed like it was going somewhere, and Tomura got to feel that again – while you were dancing with him this time, not just when you’re trying to kill him in an improvised swordfight. Maybe he was imagining it, seeing what he wanted to see, but he was still going to get a kiss in. And now he can’t, because he’s pretty sure it was temporary insanity on your part. Dancing with Tomura might have been hot to you, but Tomura’s still an asshole. No way are you getting into it with him again.

A window opens a few meters ahead of the car and Dabi spills out of it into a heap onto the concrete. He doesn’t get up right away, and Tomura gets out to help him, only for Dabi to slap his hands aside. “Fuck you. Get back in the car. Spinner, if you don’t start the stupid thing right now –”

He breaks off when he realizes Spinner’s not in the driver’s seat. “Hi,” you say. “The car’s still on. I just put the lights off so nobody would see us.”

Dabi stops trying to stand up in favor of just staring at you. To hell with it. Tomura grabs him, hauls him upright, and tows him into the backseat of the car.

By the time Tomura shuts the door behind himself, Spinner’s already midway through explaining why you’re there. “Since it wasn’t safe for us to drive, she offered to help. She hasn’t asked why or anything.”

“Don’t ask,” Dabi grunts. You give him a thumbs-up. “Why do you give a shit?”

“I was there and I heard.”

“So you were eavesdropping.”

“She was with Shigaraki when I went to get him,” Spinner says. “He brought her over, too. Are you, like – good? Are you going to throw up or something?”

“It’s not that. Fuck off.” Dabi hunches in on himself and pries his phone out of his pocket. Tomura spots a couple of text notifications from Hawks on the home screen before Dabi clears them away. He goes straight for Spotify and starts blasting the same song he was playing in his trailer this afternoon. “Nobody talk right now.”

There’s nothing Dabi can do that won’t piss Tomura off right now, but listening to this dumb song more than once would be annoying under normal circumstances – and Dabi’s got it on repeat. “Is this your new theme song? The old one was better.”

Dabi hunches in on himself further. “Shut up.”

You must know the song, because you’re humming along. Dabi doesn’t tell you to shut up, not even when you start singing quietly under your breath. With you singing along, Tomura cares a little more about the lyrics, enough to figure out that it’s about some girl whose best friend with benefits won’t come out of the closet. It’s a girl song. Why the hell is Dabi listening to this? Why would he listen to it so many times? Whatever the reason, it’s going to be stuck in Tomura’s head for the rest of the night.

“Where are we going?” Spinner asks after a little while. “Back to our party?”

“We have to be in town for the night soon anyway,” you say. “I was thinking I’d just drive around until the party breaks up and the press are gone. What do you think?”

Dabi gives a thumbs-up. You turn off the main road.

The song repeats through nine times – Tomura counted – before Dabi turns the volume down. Once he does, Spinner pounces. “What happened back there?”

“Got tired of it. Fuck off.”

“That text wasn’t ‘I’m tired of it’. You told us to get you out of there,” Tomura says. “What the hell happened?”

“Not your business. Fuck off.”

“You made it our business when you put us in your damn relapse prevention plan –”

“Hey,” you say from the driver’s seat. “It’s one hundred percent not my place to get involved in this, but it’s probably my fault that he doesn’t want to talk right now. He doesn’t know me from the next extra. It might be a good idea to hold off until after I’m out of the picture.”

It’s quiet for a second. Tomura thinks you’re probably right, except he doesn’t want you to get out of the picture. There’s stuff he needs to explain. He needs to set the record straight with you, and he needs to find out if you were really looking for him to kiss you while the two of you were dancing. “What she said,” Dabi mumbles. “Leave me alone.”

Works for Tomura. He leans back in his seat while Dabi turns up the volume on his stupid song. He’s going to wind up with it stuck in his head for sure, but since you’ve been singing along, he can hear it as your song, your voice. Which isn’t that great for him, either, because the song has a bunch of lines about having to stop the world just to stop having feelings and Tomura doesn’t want that to be the case. He already has a thing for someone who probably doesn’t like him back. The last thing he needs is for that feeling to stick around.

It’s quiet in the car other than Dabi’s song, until it’s past midnight and you park the car in front of the actors’ hotel. The press are gone, and so is everybody else. Spinner twists around in the front seat to stare at Dabi. “Hey, are you good for tonight? Do you want us to stick around?”

Dabi shakes his head, then answers the other way. “Yeah.”

“Which one of us?” Tomura asks.

“Both.”

Fuck. The last thing Tomura wants to do is spend all night in Dabi’s hotel room talking about whatever went sideways tonight. He was gearing up to apologize for being an asshole, but that’s as far as he was willing to go. Spinner is already getting out of the car, and a moment later, Dabi does the same. Spinner says goodnight to you. Dabi mutters a thank-you, which is more than he’s ever given anybody else who tried to help him. And then it’s just you and Tomura left in the car.

You glance at him in the rearview mirror. “You should probably go.”

“Yeah,” Tomura says. Dabi and Spinner are already inside, but he’s not ready to leave. He has to say something, and he doesn’t know what it should be. “Look, about earlier –”

“I know how beer goggling works,” you say. You smile. “It’s all good. I’ll see you at work.”

Beer goggling? “That’s not it,” Tomura says. He reaches out, touches your shoulder, and you flinch. Great. “I get it. Fine. See you at work.”

It’s not until he’s actually inside the hotel lobby that Tomura remembers which body part you injured during the fight rehearsal: Your shoulder. Specifically the shoulder he touched. You didn’t flinch because he was touching you, you flinched because it hurt, and Tomura’s a moron. He turns halfway around before he can think about how pathetic it is to even consider chasing after you. But he doesn’t have to. You’re already walking towards him.

Tomura still doesn’t know what to say. “Uh –”

“Dabi lefts his phone,” you say, and you hold it out. “I’m guessing neither of you will play Good Luck, Babe for him again.”

“That’s the song?” Tomura asks. You nod. “How’d you know it?”

“That artist is popular with theatre types,” you say. Your gaze shifts away from Tomura’s, and Tomura gets a weird feeling – like there’s something you know that he doesn’t, something you wouldn’t tell him even if he asked. “Anyway. Have a good night.”

That’s likely. “Wait a second,” Tomura says, and you turn back to face him. “About earlier. You, uh –”

You look expectantly at him. You still look too much like a normal person to be an actress, but you’re pretty in a way Tomura likes. The same way you’ll look every time he sees you, wherever he runs into you, and Tomura promptly runs out of things to say. What does he even mean when he says earlier? Earlier like tonight? Earlier like earlier today? Earlier like the day he met you, when he got stuck on the back foot and never found his feet again? “It’s not beer goggling,” he says, like an asshole. “Just so you know.”

Your expression doesn’t shift. “See you tomorrow.”

You leave without looking back, and Tomura stands in the lobby for way too long, wishing he’d said something different. Having no idea what it would be. Hoping you’ll come back so he can try again anyway, and knowing he’d screw it up exactly the same way that time, too.

<- Act 3

taglist: @lvtuss @lacrimae-lotos @xeveryxstarfallx @dance-with-me-in-hell @deadhands69 @shigarakislaughter @koohii @issaortiz @f3r4lfr0gg3r @evilcookie5 @cheeseonatower @agente707 @warxhammer @boogiemansbitch @baking-ghoul @stardustdreamersisi @minniessskii @handumb @shikiblessed @atspiss @aslutforfictionalmen

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #x reader #reader insert #stuntman au #man door hand hook car door

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hollyethecurious · 4 months ago

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CS AU: Sleeps Ten, My Ass (1/2)

Summary: It's become tradition for Emma Swan to spend the holidays with her brother, their cousins, and their families. This Christmas was no different. The group booked a four night stay at a cozy mountain cabin to celebrate. The listing said it sleeps ten, but upon arrival they discover a small issue. The listing was wrong and now Emma and Killian Jones, the only two single people within their group, have to spend the next four nights sharing a bed. Fortunately... they've shared a bed before.

A/N: @eastwesthomeisbest it is I, your CS Secret Santa! Thank you for being so patient and understanding! I'm sorry I couldn't post this sooner, but between the normal busyness of the holidays and my entire family coming down with Covid, finding time to write was a struggle. I hope you find this worth the wait. It was lovely hearing about your traditions and I hope you had a fantastic holiday!

Thanks to @kmomof4 for looking this over for me and to the @cssecretsanta2020 for once again hosting a fantastic event. Side note, this fic also completes my Only One Bed: Holiday Edition CS Winter Bingo square!

Rated eventual E / Also available on ao3 / add to tag list / Curious? Come Ask Me!

Part One

She was late. Super late. Incredibly late. Late enough that she was certain her brother had already called the cops to report her missing. Late enough that it was already pitch black on the back mountain road, forcing her to drive at a creeping speed so she didn’t careen off the side of a cliff, which was making her even more late.

In her defense, they should all have expected that she’d be late. She was always late. Every dinner, every holiday get together, every vacation, every celebration, Emma Swan was always notoriously late.

Not because she didn’t want to spend time with her family. Far from. She just… wasn’t always in control over her own schedule. Bail bonds and bounty hunting wasn’t exactly a 9 to 5 gig, and when a mark finally crawled out of whatever hole in which he (it was more often than not a he) had hid himself away through some dumbass attempt to avoid the consequences of his own dumbass actions, well… many times it meant a change in her plans.

Was it annoying? Yes.

Did she make sure to take out that frustration on the perp? Also, yes.

Was it even worse for the offender when he made her late for the Christmas get-together her cousin Elsa had planned for them all - a four night stay at a picturesque mountain cabin big enough to sleep three married couples and two singles with amenities that would keep them cozy and content over the holiday? Oh, yes.

Big. Fat. Yes.

To go with the big fat payout she needed in order to pay her portion of said holiday getaway.

Rounding another winding corner, the soft glow of the illuminated cabin stirred a strange mix of sensations in her chest; a swirl of relief at nearly being there and panic over what was awaiting her inside. Parking her bug next to the vehicles that signalled she was indeed the last to arrive, Emma fortified herself for a moment before exiting the vehicle, grabbing her bag, and marching up to the cabin as though she were about to face a firing squad.

David, her brother, and Liam, Elsa’s husband, would likely scold her with their hands firmly planted on their hips or their arms crossed tightly over their chests. The rebukes would be drowned out by David’s wife, Mary Margaret, and Elsa’ sister, Anna, who would both rush at Emma and force her into claustrophobic hugs while they expressed their worry and relief, offering Emma a blanket, a place by the fire, a plate of food, a cup of tea, all without taking a breath between them as Anna’s husband, Kristoff, tried to tell the women to let Emma breathe and get settled.

The only one who would not be making a fuss would likely already have a drink ready for her, a knowing smirk teasing his lips as he tried to stifle an eye roll at the group’s overreaction.

Killian Jones. Liam’s brother and the only other single member of their group.

Hand on the doorknob, Emma took a deep breath and opened the door to the expected chaos. And chaos there was, but… none of it seemed to be about her and her tardiness.

Elsa and David were in the kitchen. One of their phones, clearly on speaker, was held between them as they argued with whoever was on the other end of the line. Liam and Kristoff were seated at the dining table with a laptop open, the elder Jones frantically typing and clicking as Kristoff scrolled on his phone with a furrowed brow.

“There’s nothing up here that could be used as an extra one,” Anna called out from the top of the stairs. “Mary Margaret and I have looked through all the closets and checked all the furniture.”

None of them had noticed her presence yet, and she was about to say something when heavy boot falls sounded from the porch behind her.

“Ah, Swan. You arrived in one piece then?” Killian said cheekily with an arm full of firewood.

“Uh, yeah,” she replied, setting her bag down so she could help with the load he was carrying. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No worries,” he assured her, making his way to the fireplace and stacking their logs beside the hearth. “You missed the initial excitement, but you’ve made it in time to witness the spiral everyone has since descended into.” Emma glanced around the cabin at the said spiral, wondering what had set everyone off as Killian added a couple of logs to the fire, then grabbed the poker so he could stoke it. “I told them I’d make do on the couch, or even a pallet on the floor, but--”

“Sleeps ten, my ass!” Elsa shouted as she angrily hung up the call. “They swapped out the couch and forgot to update the listing!”

“What?” Emma said, but no one other than Killian seemed to have heard her, or even realized she was there.

“That’s ridiculous!” Liam bellowed. “What do they plan to do about it?”

“Can they bring an air mattress or cot?” Kristoff asked, still scrolling through his phone. “Because none of the local stores seem to have one, and even if they did, they’d be closed by the time we got back to town.”

Killian stepped away from the fire he’d coaxed back to life and into the metaphorical one building at the kitchen island where the rest of their group - save for Emma - had gathered.

“I already told you, the couch will be fine.”

“Don’t be silly, Killian,” Anna replied. “Have you seen that couch? It’s far too narrow and your feet are gonna dangle off the end.”

“Then the floor will suit me--”

“For the amount of money we spent renting this place, you are not sleeping on the floor,” Elsa declared. “I cannot believe this! How could they make a mistake like that?”

“What did the owner say?” Mary Margaret asked, setting out a platter of food she’d removed from the fridge and encouraging everyone to eat something… as though snacking would somehow fix the issue. An issue Emma still wasn’t sure was the cause of everyone’s upset.

“He won’t do anything,” Elsa snapped. “He said they had to replace the couch, which had been a sleeper, and apparently forgot to update the listing, but didn’t see the problem since we only have eight people, not ten, and there are four king size beds.”

“Didn’t you explain that there weren’t four couples, though?”

“Oh, she did,” David interjected. “But the man didn’t seem to care about anything other than getting back to his tropical Christmas vacation.”

“So what do we do?” Anna asked. “Where is Killian gonna sleep?”

“He and I can just share the bed.”

Seven heads collectively snapped in her direction, a mixture of shock and surprise being directed her way as her family, for the first time, realized she was there and then computed her words.

Words she would later blame on the fact that although no one seemed bothered by the fact she was late, she still felt the need to make up for it and therefore was compelled to offer a solution to the problem, even if said solution meant sharing a bed with a man she absolutely did not have feelings for and no one would convince her otherwise, not even her own treacherous heart, and thereby torturing herself for the next several days.

“Are you sure, love?” Killian asked, his eyes scrutinizing her, looking for any hint that she might be regretting the offer and wished to back out. “I wouldn’t want you to do anything you weren’t completely comfortable with.”

“Are you planning to make it uncomfortable for her?” David asked in his overly protective, brotherly tone. “Because I’m warning you--”

“Warning him?” Liam braced his hands against the top of the island and leaned over it, staring David down as he asked, “Are you insinuating my brother is some sort of cad who would take advantage of--”

“We all know Killian’s reputation.”

“Okay,” Emma interjected before things could escalate further. “I think you’re all forgetting that I have a reputation, too. Of being able to take care of myself. Besides, I trust Killian. We’re both adults. There’s no reason for either of us to sleep on a couch or the floor when there is a perfectly good bed, big enough for us to share. So…” She marched back over to where she’d dropped her bag and collected it as she continued on, “If you don’t mind. I’ve had a long day and all I want right now is a shower and some sleep.” Directing her gaze to Killian she asked, “Where’s your stuff?”

“It’s uh…” he began, scratching behind his ear as he furtively cast a glance towards David. “It’s on the landing.”

“Great,” she said, turning towards the stairs. “Grab it on your way up so you can settle in while I shower.”

“Emma,” Mary Margaret called out. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat or--”

“I’m fine,” Emma answered back halfway up the stairs. “I’ll see you all in the morning.” Looking over her shoulder, she saw Killian hesitate at the bottom step. “Are you coming?”

“Aye,” he answered, following after her two steps at a time and grabbing his duffle before slipping into the room behind her.

Tossing his bag onto the bed, he glanced around the room and inquired one last time, “You’re certain you’re okay with this, Swan?”

“Yes, Jones,” Emma replied in an exasperated tone she hoped masked the nerves currently coursing through her. After gathering up her toiletry items, she straightened and faced him, a thought suddenly occurring to her. “Unless… You are uncomfortable with it and would rather--”

“No, no,” he insisted, his shoulders relaxing and his usual cocky demeanor coming forward. “It’s not that,” he said in a cheeky and slightly taunting tone.

“What is it then?” Emma asked, trying hard to not be taken in by his charm as he swaggered towards her.

“Well, I seem to remember you saying something about it being a one time thing the last time we shared a bed,” he crooned, twisting a section of her hair around his finger. “Seems you’ll have to eat those words now.”

Emma wet her lips and tried to squash the delighted feeling surging through her at the way his eyes dropped to follow the motion. “Bad form bringing up our… what did you call it?” she asked in a mocking tone as she cocked her head to one side. “Our dalliance?” He winced at her terrible attempt to mimic his accent and they both chortled as she reminded him, “I thought we agreed to never speak of that night again.”

“You’re right, Swan. Bad form indeed,” he conceded in a soft timbre. “My apologies, love.”

He backed away and retreated to the other side of the room where he made himself busy unpacking his duffle. “Go ahead and shower, Swan,” he said. “I’ll hop in after you.”

“Thanks,” she threw out over her shoulder as she shut herself in the bathroom, suddenly very eager to have a bit of separation from him. From him and the memory of that night. The night they had shared a bed - and a whole lot more - with one another after copious amounts of alcohol and hours on a dance floor somewhere in the Caribbean during the cruise they’d all taken together earlier that year to celebrate Liam and Elsa’s wedding.

A memory that stubbornly refused to be cast aside, making for a very long shower - a fitful, highly inappropriate shower - especially considering the man she’d been fixated on was in the next room, waiting on her to finish so he could get naked and wet and…

Dear God, Emma. Get a grip!

Emerging from the bathroom, adorned in her pajamas with her wet hair wrapped in a towel, Emma hoped the red in her cheeks would be chalked up to the heat of the shower and not because her fantasies had gotten away from her.

“All yours,” she said, pulling her hair dryer out of her bag and plugging it into the wall at the makeshift vanity.

She combed through the wet strands as Killian hovered at the doorway to the bathroom. Pausing her actions, she stared up at him expectantly, trying not to remember what he looked like shirtless.

“About before,” he said, his voice deep with an edge of concern. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable by bringing up that night, I just…” He left out a heavy breath and ran his hand through his hair. “I was just trying to bring a bit of levity to an otherwise tense situa--”

“Killian,” she said, waving him off. “It’s fine. Really. You didn’t upset me by bringing it up.” Shrugging, she tried to give off a sense of nonchalance about the whole thing. “It happened. We’ve both moved on from it. No big deal.”

“Right,” he said with a bit of a drawl. “Well… I’ll try not to take too long, so as to not keep you up.” Glancing towards the bed, he said, “I hope it’s okay that I took that side. I didn’t know if you had one you preferred.”

Emma turned to see which side he’d taken. Not that it mattered.

“Honestly,” she answered, “I don’t really have one. It’s not like I share my bed often enough with anyone to develop a preference.”

“Aye. Same,” he replied with that adorable lopsided smile of his.

Emma’s heart fluttered for several seconds after he disappeared into the bathroom. He didn’t often share his bed? Really? Like David had said earlier, Killian had a bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man. It was one of the reasons she’d pulled back after their night together; she’d hated being just another notch on his bedpost.

How many notches had he added since her, she wondered.

She had plenty of time to contemplate that question. It wasn’t until well after she’d dried her hair, set her alarm, and settled under the covers that Killian emerged from the bathroom. The last drowsy thought Emma had was whether he’d taken advantage of the memory of them together to help let off some steam whilst he was in the shower like she had. She didn’t get a chance to dwell on the thought, though. The tiring day had caught up to her and sleep took over the moment she felt the bed dip beside her.

~/~

“Morning, Emma! Sleep well?”

Anna’s voice was far too perky for the current early morning hour, causing Emma to grimace as she shuffled past the red headed woman on her way to the kitchen.

“Oh, sorry,” Anna whispered, tiptoeing behind her. “Coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.”

“Please,” Emma grumbled, slumping down onto one of the barstools at the island. “A fresh pot? How early did you get up?”

“Mary Margaret and I got up with the guys,” she said, pouring Emma a cup, then placing it and a tray of fixings on the counter top in front of her. “We wanted to make sure they got a good meal and some coffee before they headed out.”

Emma nodded her understanding, adding enough sugar to her cup that it would have earned her a disgusted look from Killian had he been there and not out traipsing through the woods with an axe. It was an annual tradition at this point. For the past five years - ever since the Jones brothers had entered their lives through Liam and Elsa’s courtship - the guys went out on Christmas Eve morning and cut down a tree for them to decorate. While they were out finding the perfect specimen, Mary Margaret would lead - or in Emma’s case, berate - the girls in making the decorations. The guys would join in once they got back and set up the tree, and the day would be spent stringing popcorn or dried oranges or cranberries for garland as well as attempting to avoid tiny cuts from the origami-esque construction of paper or cardboard ornaments.

There were also snacks and cocktails, the occasional break from crafting to watch a Christmas movie or play a game. Of course, every year, Emma and Killian would insist they watch Die Hard, which Mary Margaret would dismiss as not being a Christmas movie and an argument would ensue - mostly because it gave both Emma and Killian a perverse sense of pleasure to rile up Mary Margaret. Not that they didn’t love the movie or wholeheartedly believe that it was, in fact, a Christmas movie.

“Oh, Emma! You’re up!” Mary Margaret set down a stack of boxes on the island, the contents of which held various crafting supplies no doubt. “Did you get some breakfast?”

Emma shook her head and waved off the woman’s attempt to feed her. “Not yet,” she said. “I’ll get something after I’m sufficiently caffeinated.”

“Well drink up,” Mary Margaret ordered as she began to retreat back into the room she and David were using. “We need to get going on these decorations.”

A moment later she returned with several sacks and with Anna’s help, began organizing the supplies. Emma took that as her cue to find another place to enjoy her coffee.

Glancing out the French doors that led to the back deck she caught sight of a platinum blonde braid. Emma grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders before joining Elsa in the peace and quiet of the mountain morning.

“Hey,” she said, pulling Elsa’s attention away from the view. “Mind if I join you?”

“Please do,” Elsa replied, making room on the bench. “Do you want me to turn on the heater?”

It shouldn’t have surprised Emma that her cousin hadn’t already started the propane heater. The cold had never seemed to bother her like it did Emma.

“No, I’ve got it.” Emma cranked up the heat then sat down, snuggling into the blanket she’d brought out with her.

“Sleep okay?” Elsa asked. “Any problems with the room?”

“No,” Emma answered, taking a sip of her coffee before adding, “The room’s great. Very comfortable.”

“Good,” Elsa said, turning her attention back towards the snowy mountain view. “And sharing with Killian? That, uh… Did that go okay?”

Emma rolled her eyes and hid her knowing smirk behind her mug. “It was fine,” she replied.

“I mean, I’m sure Killian was a gentleman, I just hate that the two of you have to endure this awkwardness when I did my best to--”

“Elsa,” Emma interrupted. “It isn’t your fault, and we will make do. It’s fine. Really.”

The icy blonde’s shoulders relaxed and a puff of exhaled air lingered at her lips for a moment before she said, “Good. I’m glad.” With a furtive glance in Emma’s direction she muttered, “Let’s just hope David thinks it's all fine.”

“I’m a big girl,” Emma reminded her cousin. “David will get over it.”

“I don’t know,” Elsa replied in a sing-song tone. “He was looking pretty hostile this morning when Killian sauntered down the stairs with a whistle on his lips. I’m pretty sure Liam made sure to be the one who took the axe when they left.”

The two women shared a chuckle, both of them knowing full well there was no danger of the men resorting to violence, even if they did bluster a bit.

“I’m sure Killian is reveling in the opportunity to needle David, but I trust Liam to make sure cooler heads prevail.”

“And his needling wouldn’t have any elements of truth in it, right?” Elsa inquired, not so subtly.

Emma sighed exasperatedly. “No,” she stated adamantly. “Nothing happened, and nothing is going to happen.”

She shifted uncomfortably under Elsa’s scrutiny, her piercing blue eyes cutting through her assertions as she hummed a dubious sound.

“If you say so.”

Emma was about to double down on her words, but was cut off by Anna’s sudden appearance.

“Everything is ready! Come make decorations with us!”

Emma and Elsa shared a resigned look then followed Anna back into the cabin, after shutting off the heater, of course. The ladies then spent the next hour or so making handmade decorations whilst also prepping food items for the upcoming meals.

When the guys returned, Emma stayed out of the way. She’d learned from years past to just let David, Liam, Mary Margaret, and Elsa duke it out on the best way to set up the tree. While the four of them conferenced in the living room, she joined Anna in the kitchen, who was busy making everyone a hot cocoa.

“Need a hand?”

“Yes, please!”

The two women filled and garnished mugs of hot cocoa while every so often peeking outside to watch Kristoff and Killian clean up the tree. Once it was suitable for indoors - and they’d gotten the final word of where to set it up - the men brought it inside and secured it in the stand. Everyone stood back to admire the magnificent find as Emma and Anna handed out the beverages.

“Jones,” Emma said, offering him a hot cup as she came to stand beside him.

“Thank you, love,” he replied, slightly out of breath. A half-smile pulled at his lips and crinkled at the corner of his eyes when he noticed she’d adorned his in the same manner as hers - with whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon. It was how she’d always taken her cocoa and slowly but surely she was converting the rest of their group to do the same.

“It’s a great looking tree,” she commented, sipping her hot chocolate nonchalantly so he wouldn’t read too much into her compliment.

“Aye,” he said, taking another long look at the fruit of his and the other men’s labor. A fruit that was quickly filling the living room with a pungent pine scent that tickled Emma’s sinuses. “And what of your efforts?” he asked, turning his attention onto her. “Care to show me what you lasses have been working on and how I might assist?”

Emma rolled her eyes and led him to the dining table where he prompted her to give him a demonstration of the crafting. Soon, the others joined them and the day went on just as Emma knew it would: completing the decorations, stringing lights and garlands, decorating the tree, gorging themselves on a big meal, partaking in snacks, then some drinks, then some more drinks, and arguing over then watching several Christmas themed movies and shows. Unfortunately, no Die Hard.

“You know, Swan,” Killian whispered in her ear as everyone began to disperse from the living room to turn in for the night. “We have a TV with streaming services in our room…”

The feel of his breath against the shell of her ear, as well as the way he said ‘our room’ sent a thrill up her spine.

Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice.

Was it fortunate?

“Your point?” she said, her voice a little too breathy, but maybe he’d think it was because they’d just climbed the steep steps to the second floor.

“My point,” he continued, following her into their - THE - room, “is once we’ve showered and readied ourselves, we can watch Die Hard in bed and celebrate the season properly.”

“Sounds like a plan, Jones,” she replied, even as her heart skipped a few beats at the reminder they’d both be taking turns getting naked and wet with only a flimsy door that did not lock between them.

Ever the gentleman, Killian let her go first. While he took his turn, she busied herself with getting ready for bed, queuing up the movie, and adding an extra blanket to the stack of covers. In no time, they were settled on their respective sides of the bed, enjoying watching John McClane run around Nakatomi Plaza barefoot whilst being a ‘fly in the ointment’ to Hans Gruber.

They both barely remained conscious, but somehow got to the credits before crashing. The constant recitation of dialogue probably helped.

At some point in the night, a rustling sound in the corner of the room stirred Emma. Instinctively, she reached over to feel for Killian, only to find his side of the bed empty.

“Killian?” she croaked out, his name heavy on her tongue from sleep. “What are you--”

“The heat went out,” he told her, making her aware of her own shivering and the frigid air of the room. “Elsa is having kittens over it,” he went on to explain. “Giving the owner a right earful as we speak.”

A low hum and soft glow began to fill the room. Killian stood and visibly shook himself before heading back to bed.

“What’s that?” Emma asked, shifting in bed and moving closer to the middle.

“Space heater,” Killian answered, still shivering from the cold. “The owner relented and gave us the code to the storage closet. There were a few of these in there.”

Emma hummed in response, her mind weighing whether to bring up the idea of--

“Swan?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind if we… that is,” he hedged, clearing his throat. “Until the heater manages to raise the temperature, would you be okay if we…”

“Sure,” she said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically as she scooted closer to him.

“Thank you, love,” he murmured, his chest already plastered against her back and his face buried in the crook of her neck.

Emma moaned in relief, the heat of his body already warming her and staying the chills that had made her tense. In an effort to find a comfortable position for her legs - without entangling them with his - she rocked her hips back into his and felt…

“Bloody hell,” Killian grumbled in an embarrassed tone as he pulled away. “Apologies, Swan. I didn’t intend--”

“Killian,” she laughed, rolling over to face him. “It’s fine. It happens. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“I just don’t want you to think I have ulterior motives for suggesting--”

“I don’t,” she assured him. “I know guys can’t always control… that.”

“Well, I am usually much more in control of such things, I assure you.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said in an appeasing tone, earning her a side-eyed glare. “Seriously, though,” she continued, trying to coax him back to her. “Your morning wood doesn’t offend me, so will you please come back here.”

He relented after some not so gentle tugging, and a moment later they were once again entwined in the other’s arms.

“Mmmm,” Emma hummed, nestling a bit further into his chest. “How are you always so warm? I feel like I’m always cold.”

As Emma drifted off to sleep she was certain she heard him say, “I know, love. But I’ll always be here for you when you need to keep warm.”

Part Two

#cs ff #csff #cs fic #csfic #cs au #captain swan #csss2024 #cs holiday #words by hollye

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tj-dragonblade · 9 months ago

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[Fic] With Every Nerve Alive

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 4623 Tags: Human AU, Mechanic Hob, Rich Guy Dream, brief appearance by Matthew, Dream of the Endless is a Horny Little Weasel, class dynamics, as a kink perhaps, sweat is sexy, so is automotive grease apparently, scent kink, detailed sexual fantasies, Dream of the Endless is intense and unhinged, questionable lube choices, within a fantasy don't worry, no one's really getting fingered with engine grease, sugar daddy-sugar baby fantasies, glass sex toys

Notes: Prequel/bookend to Customer Service. I realized that Hot Mechanic Hob needed Dream's pov to get the full effect, so this happened. Also fills my @dreamlingbingo square C1, 'Sugar Baby', a couple thousand words in. Title taken from Turbo Lover by Judas Priest

Summary: Dream Atelíotes is merely seeking car repairs from a reputable shop; he was not expecting to get punched in the libido by the most beautiful mechanic he could have imagined.

On AO3

~ "Alright, and what're we lookin' at her for?"

"The clutch. Is not operating as expected; I fear I may have damaged it. Somehow."

Dream is grateful that the stout American behind the counter at Matthew's Motor Repairs does not pass any obvious judgement on this damning statement.

"Well, that definitely needs checking, then," he says instead, punching in notes on his computer terminal. "Hob'll be runnin' things for the next couple of weeks, lemme see when he can fit your girl in." He turns toward the half-open door that leads to the garage and yells.

"Hey Hob!"

"Yeah! Just a tic—"

"He'll definitely be able to find the problem and fix you up," the American is saying, but Dream pays him little mind, thinking ahead to schedules and obligations; the Porsche is not his primary means of transportation regardless. It had been a gift from Alex that he'd kept after the breakup, primarily out of spite. He will say, when asked, that he drives it for fun, but truthfully the manual transmission does not come easily to him and the car suffers for it. He is considering selling it, perhaps once the satisfaction of knowing how Alex seethes to see him with it has worn down—

"What's up?"

Dream spares a glance for the man who's just entered through the doorway to the garage, and promptly loses his breath.

—Exquisite—

The man is beautiful, average height and slim sturdy build, dressed in grimy coveralls that are split just enough at the zip to glimpse the collar of a plain white tee beneath. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead and when he wipes at it, still with a wrench in hand, he leaves a faint smudge of black grease behind. His hair is dark, longish, tied up in a messy bun on the back of his head with wisps straying loose about his face attractively. His eyes and his smile are warm, strong nose and chin, a few days' worth of beard growth giving him a wonderfully soft-rugged cast that sets Dream's mouth to watering.

The coverall sleeves are rolled and twisted up to his elbows; the forearms exposed are liberally covered with dark hair, skin a warm sunkissed golden brown beneath, shapely and corded with the strength that comes of manual labor, of hefting tires and torquing wrenches. Dream considers, quite despite himself, how those hands might fit around his waist, his hips; how easily this man might lift or manhandle him about in bed, and the heat that has risen in his loins stirs approvingly.

"Mr. Atelíotes here's got clutch troubles with his Porsche," the American is saying. "Think you'll have time to check it out?"

"Not right away, I'm afraid. How soon would you be needing her back?" the mechanic asks, directly to Dream, and oh, the full focus of that gaze is divine.

"I am in no hurry," he manages to reply, voice only marginally dipping down toward sultry. He is here to see about car repairs, not to flirt with the hot mechanic in front of an audience. He is an adult. He is well-versed in exercising all manner of self control.

The mechanic smiles, like a ray of sunshine, and Dream's self-control is tested.

"Okay then, I can probably get you looked at and fixed up toward the end of next week, if that works for you? Thursday or Friday, let's say." He slips the wrench that he's still holding into a pocket on his coveralls, drawing Dream's attention to the lower half of his body, how the zipper on the coveralls goes all the way down underneath, and he firmly corrals and muzzles the thoughts that arise. Later. Let him finish his business here before he embarrasses himself.

"Next week is just fine," he agrees.

"Excellent," the mechanic says, beaming brightly, and Dream's mouth goes dry.

He is so unfairly beautiful.

The mechanic is talking now to the American who is entering Dream's work order and Dream drinks in the sight of him greedily, committing every detail to memory—the brush of silver at his temples, the crows' feet blooming at the corners of his eyes with every smile, the dimple in his chin just visible as a darkening of the scruff that adorns his jaw so beautifully. His arm flexes prettily as he points to the screen with a black-stained fingertip and his voice is strong yet soft and warm like honey; Dream sneaks a glance at his backside when he turns to the printer and finds the suggestion of shapeliness beneath the loose fit of the coveralls. Dream imagines, helplessly, buttocks and strong thighs covered in hair to match those exposed forearms, and barely stifles a whimper.

This man is absolutely exquisite, and Dream wants him.

Badly.

"Alright, Mr. Atelíotes, let me get your signature here," the mechanic says cheerfully, oblivious to the tempest he has stirred within Dream as he hands him the printed work order and a pen.

Dream makes certain that their fingers brush as he takes it, noting the smudge of fingerprints left on the paper by the other.

He glances at the mechanic's name on the form as he signs. Hob Gadling. He tucks the name safely into the vault of his mind, hoarding it for later use.

"Give me a call on Thursday next week, we'll see where we're at," Hob Gadling is saying, handing him a business card and leaving another grey-black thumbprint on the corner of the white cardstock. Dream immediately thinks of such fingerprints against the pristine paleness of his own skin and swallows thickly.

"Thursday," he repeats. "I will call then, thank you." It is Monday, currently; a week and a half is quite reasonable for routine car repairs in a reputable shop, he is given to understand, and Matthew's Motor Repairs is consistently rated with four and five stars online. He is confident that he has chosen well, especially when Hob Gadling smiles brightly while bidding him good day.

It is a good day indeed, for having met such a stunningly beautiful man.

He takes a cab home to Kensington, trying very hard to put his thoughts in order and focus on the week ahead, on his business meetings and the client proposal he's expecting on Friday. But his mind is full of brown eyes and warm smiles, hairy forearms and grease-stained hands, and his entire body finds these thoughts far more appealing than those of his day-to-day mundanities.

Hob Gadling lingers in his mind persistently, a siren call warming his blood and distracting him at the slightest provocation. Late afternoon finds him abandoning his office and retreating to his rooms, surrendering to the thoughts that have plagued him since his visit to Matthew's Motor Repairs this morning.

Hob Gadling—

He imagines how the smell of the shop might cling to the man, oils and gasoline and the sweat of his labor, intoxicating and inviting should Dream nuzzle in close. He imagines those hands with their black-stained fingertips, their work-roughened texture, sliding over his body. How might they feel against his skin, his chest, his thighs? On his tongue? He imagines the hungry light that might fill Hob Gadling's eyes, if Dream were to take those skilled fingers into his mouth and hold his gaze while sucking on them, tonguing lovingly at every crack and callous. He imagines those fingers dark all over with a thick layer of fresh grease, the mechanic holding them up with a smirk like a promise, turning Dream to lay on the bonnet of his car—or perhaps bending him over a stack of tires there in the garage, yes—and pushing those fingers inside him, deep and insistent and perfect while his other hand holds Dream down at the small of his back. Automotive lubricant is perhaps not sanitary or otherwise suitable for sexual use, but the heat-of-the-moment urgency of the idea appeals all the same.

He groans aloud at the thought of being fingered with the thick warm grease, the slide and drag and the way Hob Gadling's fingers would curve and press exactly right until Dream was shaking apart with pleasure, scrabbling at the rubber tread of the tires he's bent over. He imagines Hob Gadling murmuring complimentary filth above him—"You look so pretty with my fingers up your arse; bet you'd look even prettier speared on my prick"—as he comes and comes and comes.

Of course he wishes to have the mechanic's cock as well. He is certain it is full and glorious, a beautiful specimen that would fill him perfectly, touch every sweet spot within him and set him alight. He wants it in his hands, in his mouth, in his arse; he wants it any way he can have it.

He desperately wants to get fucked by Hob Gadling in his garage amongst his work, by Hob Gadling strong and sweaty and dirty in his element, vigorous and virile.

The car would perhaps be most comfortable for lying on his back, the better to see Hob Gadling's gorgeous face while taking his cock. He himself would be stark naked and the mechanic still in his coveralls, unzipped all the way to let his prick out. Dream imagines him naked beneath the grimy clothing; Dream envisions chest hair to match what was seen on his gorgeous arms. Dream imagines those arms sliding up along the bonnet beside him, bringing his legs with them until Dream is nearly folded double and breathless with the sweet pressure of the mechanic's dick inside him, pistoning deep and perfect.

Would Hob Gadling pick him up, like so much inventory to be moved about the shop? Would Hob Gadling fuck him standing upright, holding him as if he weighed nothing? He fantasizes about the strength in those forearms and biceps, of the way they would flex and hold, Dream's knees hooked in his elbows and those broad hands gripping his hips as the mechanic would bounce Dream up and down on his prick, Dream clinging around his neck and jack-knifed beautifully in his powerful arms.

He comes at the thought, face down on his knees in his bed with a toy vibrating steadily against his prostate as he strokes himself over the edge, and the orgasm is so intense that he loses all sense of space and time for a moment. The toy is still buzzing merrily when he comes back to himself and he fumbles for the remote beside him, turning it off without yet removing it. He rolls over, brings his messy hand to his face and licks. He wonders what difference he might taste between Hob Gadling and himself, imagines that he is licking Hob Gadling's spend from his hand instead of his own, imagines how those dark eyes and that lovely mouth would smile to see him do so, slow and lascivious.

He turns the toy back on.

His fantasies continue as the days progress. He imagines taking Hob Gadling into his mouth, tasting the sweat and the musk of him after working all day in the garage; he imagines lavishing his tongue all over the length of him, sucking and swallowing and milking him dry. He imagines Hob Gadling's work-roughened hands in his hair, combing through it, clenching tight as he spends into Dream's eager mouth.

He imagines Hob Gadling on his back on the low wheeled board that mechanics use for sliding beneath cars—he does not know its proper name, but he imagines opening Hob Gadling's coveralls while he is laid out on this board and riding him like a prize stallion there on the shop floor with the scent of his work and his sweat all around. He imagines the blackened smears Hob Gadling's hands might leave on him, on his hips, his waist, his arse.

He imagines Hob Gadling bending him over the bonnet of his Porsche, fucking him hard and fast and absolutely without mercy until he is screaming his pleasure, until he is so loud that the mechanic will cover his mouth to muffle the noise and simply fuck him harder still. He wants it, aches for it, imagines Hob Gadling's hands planted firm on his arse, squeezing, spreading him open for his pounding cock, leaving dirty smudges on both cheeks as they careen into orgasm together—

Dream comes under the warm cascade of his own rainfall shower, one hand braced against the sleek tiles while the other grips his pulsing cock tightly. He draws great gasping breaths of the humid air, mind barreling on even as his climax peaks and begins to subside. His mechanic in the shower with him after all of that, sudsy and slippery-wet beneath the spray, shedding the grease and grime of his workplace; his mechanic, pulling him in for a kiss, smelling now of soap more than sweat. The idea appeals, on more than one level, and will not be dislodged even as he dries and dresses for bed. He falls asleep at last to the thought of a scrubbed-clean Hob Gadling on his knees beneath the gently-pouring water, freshly-shampooed hair swept sleek and dripping back from his face and his smiling mouth wrapped around Dream's cock.

He wakes to the sun streaming in his window and lies alone in his spacious bed with drowsy thoughts of being kissed awake, of Hob Gadling's stubbled face and warm lips nuzzling against his cheek, of calloused hands with black-stained nailbeds petting down his sides and grasping his hips. Of Hob Gadling's strong shapely arms pulling him close, Hob Gadling's chest hair tickling his nose, Hob Gadling's heartbeat strong and steady beneath his ear.

He thinks of Hob Gadling following him about the kitchen as he fixes breakfast, imagines his mechanic in a borrowed robe that hits him mid-thigh and doesn't quite close over his chest. He does not currently own such a robe, but that does not matter to the fantasy. He imagines Hob Gadling draped warmly over his back in this too-small robe while he cooks, nuzzling kisses into the nape of his neck, purring about how he wants Dream for breakfast while dragging his calloused fingertips up the insides of Dream's bare thighs. Because of course Dream has merely thrown on a long shirt to cook for his lover, and of course his mechanic cannot keep his hands to himself, and of course Dream would like to be fucked over the kitchen worktop before breakfast.

It is a daring fantasy, this stranger in his home, infusing sex and affection into his daily routines, and Dream wants it with an intensity that is frightening.

He spins himself broader fantasies as the days become a week, of showing up to his mother's summer gala with Hob Gadling on his arm, a mere mechanic brought to an Atelíotes event. He dreams of engaging in increasingly indecent public displays with him where all the high society patrons would see, embarassing Mummy Dearest and igniting gossip that would haunt her for years. He would reward Hob Gadling handsomely for his part in the scandal, sexually, financially, both if he should like. Or perhaps he might offer Hob Gadling gifts and incentives without petty family business mixed in, lavish rewards simply for his affections and sexual attentions. The term 'sugar baby' is very much in line with his thoughts, if not entirely accurate; he is only forty himself and his mechanic had appeared to be in his mid-thirties at least. But that feeds into his story; Hob Gadling is well into adulthood and working in trade labor. Perhaps he never had the chance to go to university; perhaps he had grown up poor. Perhaps he might like to undertake a course of study now, if Dream were to offer to pay for such a thing, in thanks for how well-fucked his mechanic would keep him?

Perhaps he might gift Hob Gadling a luxury car like his Porsche, in return for the sexual services he should like to be provided. Perhaps he might buy him tailored suits, expensive clothes in the latest fashions. He is undeniably drawn to the grimy working-class vision that had been branded on his memory when dropping off his car, sweaty and grease-smeared and glowing with life, but he also imagines how stunning his mechanic might look cleaned up and dressed to the nines. Dream would like to wine and dine him at the finest restaurants in London, put him into a limousine after, open his perfectly-tailored trousers and sample his cock on the drive home. To Dream's home, of course, where he would take Hob Gadling to bed and offer up his body for his mechanic's use—which would be delightfully merciless, given how Dream had primed and teased and denied him with his mouth in the car.

Perhaps he might take Hob Gadling away with him on holiday, show him all manner of foreign destinations he would never have seen on his own; at each of them Hob Gadling would fuck him, in sumptuous hotel beds or private beach cabanas or the gleaming toilet stalls of michelin-starred restaurants, with every bit of skill and enthusiasm at his disposal—delighted to be Dream's kept man and eager to show his gratitude for all that Dream could provide.

Dream groans, dragging one hand down across his mouth and arched throat while the other works swiftly over his cock, writhing on his bed with his shirt undone and his trousers open. He is achingly hard, leaking steadily into every rapid stroke; he hasn't even bothered undressing, so caught up in the feverish fantasies of the money and favors he might lavish on this man who consumes his thoughts, of how thoroughly he could expect to be railed and ravished and seen to in return—

Orgasm overtakes him quite suddenly, leaves him gasping and breathless and wrecked, and still he craves more. His fantasies are delectable, but his appetite is insatiable.

He desperately wants the real thing.

It is Thursday of the next week at last and Dream, fueled by his fading ability to recall the precise brown of Hob Gadling's eyes or the way his cheeks crease up when he smiles, does not call Matthew's Motor Repairs to check on the status of his Porsche as instructed. Instead, he drives out, excusing the trip to himself by visiting a local bookseller first and picking up several selections to add to his personal library. He does not linger overlong among the shelves, however; today he is consumed with much more pressing distractions.

He must see Hob Gadling again, if only for a moment.

When he enters the shop, there is no one at the counter up front and the door to the garage is ajar, raucous music drifting faintly through. "Hello?" he calls, but receives no reply.

It is a warm day outside and quite warm inside as well; Dream imagines how sweaty Hob Gadling must be, to be performing physical labor under these conditions. Such thoughts do nothing to calm or cool him.

After only a moment's hesitation, he rounds the counter and passes through the doorway, at which point he can hear Hob Gadling's voice singing along—"You don't have a clue/If you did you'd find yourself/Doin' the same thing too!"—beneath the music, passably on-key no less.

Yet another appealing feature to this man; it is simply unfair. Dream draws himself up, heart beating harder, and ventures around the large sink and cleanup station until he can see his Porsche, up on ramps, and—

And legs sticking out from beneath the side of it on one of those rolling boards, Hob Gadling's legs no doubt, spread wide like an invitation.

Dream stops abruptly, heat pouring into his belly; he takes a deep breath of the warm stuffy air, the machine-and-metal smell of the garage doing nothing to calm his libido. He stares, helplessly, at the work boots and coveralls, at where they stretch across Hob Gadling's crotch, affording frustratingly little suggestion of what lies beneath. And just above that, he can see that the coveralls are unzipped, not quite far enough to expose underwear but enough that Dream is treated to a glimpse of warm golden-brown belly and the dip of his navel, the dark sweep of hair above and below it.

—Mouthwatering—

It is with tremendous effort that Dream corrals his thoughts, steps forward again, closes the space between them and clears his throat to announce his presence. He nudges one booted foot with his own, not entirely meaning to do so but somehow unable to resist.

"Bloody—" The mechanic scoots out from beneath the car and Dream's knees go weak; he is grateful they do not give out altogether.

Hob Gadling is indeed shirtless beneath his open coveralls, displaying a chest far more gloriously hairy than Dream had imagined, a pelt thick and dark and alluring. He wants to touch, to comb his fingers through and rub his face against it, to lick the trail of hair that leads down to where the parted zipper comes back together. There is a visible sheen of sweat on his skin and Dream would lick that off as well; Hob is smudged with grease in various smears across his torso and forearms and Dream can hardly think for the rushing of blood in his ears, the swelling of want in the pit of his stomach. He drags his eyes back up to Hob's face, trying to school the ravenous hunger from his own gaze; he does not think he is overly successful in that regard but there is discernible heat in the warm brown eyes that meet him, and it is difficult to care about dignity, propriety, with reality unfolding so near to the fantasies that have carried him through the last ten days.

He stutters through some explanation for his presence, barely aware of his own words, barely registering the rundown he is given in return, watching hungrily as Hob climbs to his feet. His car will be finished tomorrow. He will have reason to see Hob again tomorrow. But right now he is unraveling, his self control a tenuous and threadbare thing barely within his grasp. He is watching Hob's mouth as he speaks, captivated, obsessed with the warm color of it flashing among the dark scruff of Hob's beard, and Dream wants to taste. His mouth, his skin, his cock, which is surely as magnificent as the rest of him—Dream cannot bear the thought of leaving without confirming his certainties, but it is one thing to revel in fantasy alone in his bed and quite another to actually act on it when faced with the man before him—

"Is there something else I can do for you today, Mr. Atelíotes?"

Hob Gadling is looking at him, hip cocked and coveralls alluringly open, smile just this side of invitational; there is the strong suggestion of interest and an implied offer in that warm tone and Dream's resolve, such as it is, crumbles.

He reaches. He touches. He speaks his want and follows with a flirtatious tease to mitigate his intensity, is met by teasing agreement in return, but when his mechanic mentions cleaning up first he absolutely cannot agree.

"No. As you are now, please." He steps closer, directly into Hob's space, a week and a half of fantasies clamoring in his mind as the scent of the man wafts into his nose—oil and grease, warm metal, sweat and a faint trace of citrus and a hint of some pleasantly masculine deodorant; Dream's mouth waters, and his prick throbs.

His mechanic hesitates. "I'm kind of filthy though?"

There is a tinge of shame beneath the words, and Dream. Will not have it.

"I am aware, yes," he purrs, seizing the open lapels of the grimy coveralls, and kisses Hob Gadling with ten days' worth of anticipation and want.

Dream is coasting on an adrenaline and endorphin high as he drives home, afterwards. He acted. He spoke directly of what he wanted. And he got it. He had spent ten days nursing fantasy and now he has experienced a delightful sliver of the reality of Hob Gadling.

And tomorrow, he will experience more.

Sleep does not come easily that night, keyed up and aroused as he is, but he manages at last. He wakes later than usual the next morning; he eats a light brunch, the excitement in his stomach counterproductive to the task, and makes sure to drink more water than usual. Thoughts of Hob fill his mind, arousing, distracting, enticing; he recalls with a sharp thrill the taste of Hob's pleasure on his tongue, and he is eager to be on his way to their appointment.

But there are things he must do to prepare, first.

He takes an enema, then shaves and showers, lathering everywhere with his sweetest-smelling soap, determined to be the polar opposite of what he lusts for in Hob. He strives for the cleanest prettiest and freshest he can get, the better to be taken and sullied and dirtied by his mechanic; Hob had seemed quite pleased with that dynamic yesterday and Dream is eager to repeat it with Hob's cock in his arse this time.

To that end, he employs a favorite dildo once he is clean and dry, lubing himself carefully and working himself open on the toy, mind blazing with thoughts of Hob all the while. He knows, now, the size and the shape (and the taste!) of Hob's prick, and he is giddy with the anticipation of having it inside him. He is salivating over how Hob compares to the dildo, how Hob will fill him just that much better, what filthy things Hob might say while taking his time over long slow thrusts, how good it will feel when Hob finally rails him without mercy—

He must force himself to stop, hard and panting as he withdraws the toy from his body. He sorts through his glass plugs quickly, finding the one he wants and fitting it carefully inside himself. It's broad enough to stretch him just a little more, perfectly flared to fit just right inside and out, short enough that he can bend and sit without discomfort. It's a beautiful tease, as a matter of fact, keeping him keyed up and aroused as he dresses himself, making him squirm just a little with every step as he gathers his condoms and his pocket-sized bottle of lube and his phone wallet and water, and leaves the house.

He composes himself over the two blocks he walks to the busier streets where he can hail a cab, steeling himself to normalcy in both movement and appearance while pleasure sings in his veins with every subtle shift of the toy within him. He is half-hard, hidden well enough by the loose cut of his slacks, and works to keep his thoughts from heating any further until he has reached his destination.

The cab drops him outside of Matthew's Motor Repairs and he pays, distracted and breathless with anticipation. Hob is there, inside, and Dream is certain that Hob is just as eager as he is for their rendezvous.

He hopes that Hob is just as eager.

Closed for walk-ins due to special circumstances, reads the hand-written sign taped to the glass of the shop door. Ring if you have an appointment.

Dream's heart plummets for half a second, until he remembers their parting conversation yesterday about appointments and showing up and fitting in. This sign is for him, surely, a blatant invitation.

He takes a breath to calm the excited pounding of his heart, squirms surreptitiously on the toy inside him, and rings the bell.

= Started: 5/15/24 Drafted: 7/27/24 Posted: 7/29/24

#Dreamling #Sandman #TJs Fics #wip: turbo lover

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