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meguwumibear · 2 years

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you knew who i was (every step that i ran to you)

pairing: megumi fushiguro x female reader

word count: 4,937

warnings: angst, pining, explicit language, non-sorcerer au, miscommunication and misunderstandings, references to Plato’s Symposium

It’s cold out the day he meets you, not bitterly so, but in a pleasant way that reminds you that spring is just around the corner. Megumi’s sitting on the bleachers warming his chilled hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt with Nobara and Maki at one of Yuji’s games when he sees you at the concession stand, a couple of crumpled up dollar bills in your outstretched hand. Ordinarily, the act of purchasing a salty concession would not capture Megumi’s attention, however you manage to catch his eye. Not because of your mannerism or what you order—he’s too far away to see what you look like or hear what cheap delicacy you crave—but because you’re wearing Yuuji’s souvenir jacket. That he’d recognize anywhere no matter the distance.

The sight of you in his best friend’s sukajan sparks something primitive in Megumi, something akin to…jealousy? Curiosity? Greif?

And he knows it’s the sight of you in Yuuji’s jacket that ignites this unnamable feeling inside him, a feeling that tosses and turns and sours in the very pit of his stomach. He knows this to be true, because he didn’t feel it the moment before he had stolen his first of many glances at you, only after. Only now.

Just who are you, and why are you wearing Yuuji’s clothes?

When he can no longer stand his racing thoughts, he turns to Nobara and finally asks, “who is she?” He gestures at you, letting his pointer finger linger over your distant frame longer than necessary to get his point across. It’s rude, but he kind of means for it to be. He wants you to wonder about him the way he’s being forced to wonder about you.

“Oh, her?” Nobara responds, though she’s barely bothered to glance your way. “That’s Yuuji’s new friend. They have a gen ed together or something. Practice for professional life, maybe.”

“She’s wearing his jacket,” he says.

“I have eyes,” she responds.

He’s no longer paying attention to the game. All he can focus on is you and the way your fingers curl around the soft pretzel the concession stand worker hands to you. It’s just cold enough out that little tuffs of steam blanket the snack like a thousand tiny phantoms. You sink your teeth into the treat and chew.

Instead of making your way to the bleachers with everyone else, you pick your way to the edge of the field, where the flimsy chain link fence separates the players from the spectators. Several of the cheerleaders wave at you when they see you approach. You wave back politely before focusing your sights on the field.

During halftime Yuji races to where you stand and throws his arms around your neck. When the two of you part, he rests his hands on your shoulders, and Megumi’s own begin to ache.

Then Yuuji’s turning you around and pointing to the exact section of the stands where he and Nobara and Maki are sitting. When Yuuji’s certain he has the attention of at least one of the three, he waves. It’s Nobara who waves back first.

You say your farewells to Yuuji and join them on the bleachers. Megumi doesn’t miss the way Yuiji’s eyes linger on you as you saunter away from him. It irritates him, the way Yuuji is looking at you all doe eyed and moony. Yeah, you’re cute enough, and Yuuji deserves someone that will make him happy, whatever, that’s not the problem: the problem is Yuuji is his friend and you, well, you’re a nobody.

Winded slightly from the climb, you introduce yourself to the trio, a shy smile pulling hesitantly at your lips. Nobara and Maki are quick to gift you their names, though all the chatter slips into one of Megumi’s ears and directly out the other. His head feels as though it’s been stuffed full of millions of meandering bees. Buzzing and buzzing and buzzing.

The three of you are staring at him, he realizes. He hasn’t introduced himself. Megumi feels his cheeks grow pink from the attention. He tells himself it’s just the wind.

“Fushiguro, Megumi.”

You break into a wide grin, “Of course! Yuuji speaks so highly of you. The two of you must care terribly for one another.”

Something deep within his gut twists because yeah, they do.

“What do you study?” he asks both to be polite and change the subject. If his tone is clipped, you don’t seem to notice.

“I’m in the school’s literature program,” you say plopping down next to him. His eyes immediately find the brown stain on the collar of Yuuji’s otherwise unmarred jacket: miso broth.

(After the first game of the season they had snuck off to a local noodle shop for a peaceful post-game meal. Just the two of them. Yuuji had laughed ridiculously hard at something Megumi had said, spoon in mouth, and the liquid sputtered out. Megumi hadn’t even cracked a joke. His manner of speaking is always dry and direct. Yuuji simply found humor in his seriousness. Yuuji was always finding hidden treasures in Megumi. Sometimes it was if Yuuji knew Megumi better than Megumi knew himself. It’s hard for Megumi not to be the best version of himself around him.)

The three of you slink off to the same ramen shop that evening. Maki and Nobara excuse themselves after congratulating Yuuji for a game well played. The three of you are sitting at the back of the shop, your back is pressed against the too hard booth, straw of your favorite soft drink tucked delicately between your teeth. You’re sitting next to Yuuji who talks enough for the three of you and often with his mouth full of sprouts and egg and pork.

What few details you manage to sneak in—typically as Yuuji takes a break from entertaining you both to swallow—have little to no effect on whatever it is Megumi suddenly feels because Megumi cannot for the life of him understand how or why Yuuji had kept you a secret from him for so long.

Megumi feels so sick he can barely swallow his own meal. He food sits solid and uneasy inside him. It’s as if every system in his body is beginning to shut down. Every system, that is but his cardiovascular system. His heart he can feel beating and beating and beating…

“Right, Megs,” Yuuji is asking, and suddenly Megumi realizes how disconnected from the conversation he’s become.

The two of you are looking at him with impish grins and sparkles in your eyes as he grounds himself. The grip he has on his utensils tightens. “Uh, could you repeat your question? I zoned out for a moment.”

Yuuji’s rolling his eyes, “see? What did I tell you? An absolute menace. I didn’t know him before high school, but Gojo says he threw hands with like at least ten different kids per day. Real antisocial type.”

“Gojo?”

“Yuuji,” Megumi warns.

“His father,” Yuuji supplies anyway.

Megumi has never actually called Gojo that, but there isn’t really a word for what Gojo is to him. It felt like a betrayal to refer to Gojo simply as his father; it felt like settling. Gojo was barely grown himself when he had taken Megumi in. In many ways, Gojo was more mentor than patriarch. Megumi often wondered what made someone a father. Based on his experience, he reasoned that fatherhood is forged neither by blood nor birth. Some fathers are appetites; their children become food. Other fathers are food; they satiate their child’s hunger. Gojo was both starving man and feast. Both so empty and so full.

“He’s a good man,” Megumi offers. “And those are hard to find these days.”

“Hm,” you hum, “goodness and badness are manmade constructs, but for arguments sake, I’d say that I find that most people are more good than bad. Or, rather, on average, the typical person will make more good decisions than bad ones.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Well,” you add, “my friend drove me to the grocery store the other day so I could restock my fridge. While we were there, looming over the fruits, I noticed a man standing by the apples, turning them over in his hand. The apples with bruises, he’d add to his cart. The ones without blemish he’d put back. When he noticed me watching him, he told me that he always takes the damaged produce, since he knows there are people out there who will snub their noses at damaged goods. So, you see, you need not look far to find good men. They’re often found lingering by apple stands.”

He sees why Yuuji likes you so much; the two of you are cut from the same cloth. Both kind and decent and good. Good for goodness’ sake.

Megumi’s always envied Yuuji for his innate kindness, or rather Megumi’s always admired it. It was a character trait worthy of protection. Life snuffs light out of even the brightest of places. That’s why he fought so much when he was younger. It wasn’t for fun…not really. Which isn’t to say he didn’t enjoy the thrill of a fight. There was something cathartic about the flesh of his knuckle kissing the cheek of another. To stop the darkness of the world from spreading he had to beat it out of others.

It's impossible to preserve what’s good in the world without a little violence, and Megumi’s suddenly more than willing to get his knuckles bloody for you.

But, you aren’t his; you’re Yuuji’s, and, as such you’ve become permanent fixture in both of their lives. You’re at their dorm more often than your own. Sometimes you and Yuuji study together. Sometimes not. Movie nights become a weekly, if not bi-weekly occurrence. Megumi is always invited. Your favorite movie candy is Sno-Caps, so Megumi makes sure there’s always a box or two in the dorm for you when you come over.

It's humiliating how much he likes you. Your interests are so similar, and despite your literature major you’re well versed in his own: philosophy. You carry your own in conversations about Foucault and even Plato’s Symposium. Is love the intrinsic desire to find our other half, as Aristophanes argued. Can love be wise or beautiful, or is love the pursuit of those two things, as Socrates argued on behalf of Diotima.

It's shameful the way he comes to desire you. He finds himself thinking of you often as he drifts to sleep. You never spend the night with Yuuji, likely out of respect for him. Megumi both loves and hates you for it. He wants to know what side of the bed is easiest for you to fall asleep on. He wants to listen to the deep, rhythmic sound of your breath as you slumber.

The two of you always include him in your weekend plans, and the masochist in him always agrees to tag along. The three of you go to the mall, the park, the movies. Sometimes the three of you just drive around, nursing drinks from the nearest convenience store. One weekend Yuuji convinces the two of you to drive over an hour to the nearest zoo so that he can see the otters. Yuuji tells you that otters hold hands at night so they don’t drift apart when they sleep. Megumi pictures threading his fingers through yours.

The night before midterms are due, he asks about your plans for the break. You tell him that you’re staying on campus. Alone. The school’s facilities, including the cafeteria close during the week. He wonders how you plan to take care of yourself.

“I’m staying too,” he decides in that moment, already mentally unpacking the trunk at the foot of his bed. Some shirts. A few pairs of pants. Nothing that he couldn’t easily transfer back into his dresser.

“Don’t you want to see Gojo?”

“He’s away on business.” It’s the truth. Gojo’s always away on business. He’s the best at what he does, which means that—despite his personality flaws—his skill set is always in high demand. His trips have gotten longer and longer of late. The more time that passes, the more Megumi worries that Gojo may not come back.

“I wouldn’t want to go home to an empty house either.”

Yuuji snores quietly, slumped over his desk, a generous amount of drool pooling around his lips. His only family, his grandfather, passed when he was still in high school. Gifted with borderline unnatural athletic abilities, he paved his way to university life with early mornings and turf fields. He’ll stay on campus too.

“I got an A on my paper about the Symposium.”

“Oh,” you say, doodling along the margins of your notebook. “And, which of the dialogues did you argue was most beautifully delivered?”

“All of them,” he says. “None of them. It’s like you said when we first met, there is no goodness or badness, which means there is no such thing as the beautiful or the ugly; it’s all about outcomes and action. The highest encomium one could give to Eros would be to choose over and over again to be with and do things for another. Speech alone is not sufficient.”

Eros is the morsels of milk chocolate he keeps in his desk drawer because he knows you like them.

His love is inside you because you eat those morsels again and again and again.

You’re smiling at him. He loves the way you smile, all lip, no teeth, cheeks dimpling. “Love is a series of decisions,” you say. “I think I’d have to agree.”

He realizes suddenly that he wrote the final draft of his essay, not with his professor, but with you in mind. His thesis was entirely shaped by all of the time he’d spent with and thinking about you, his conclusion an echo of your lives together. Part of him wishes to confess this to you; another, much louder part begs him to remain silent, forces him to gobble up his words and swallow them down, down, down into his tummy where his stomach acid will melt them away.

“We should get ice cream tomorrow,” you say. “To celebrate.”

“Milkshakes at Mission Impopsicle?” He knows it’s your favorite ice cream shop. He knows exactly what you’ll order too. A large mint chip milkshake with extra whipped cream. Somedays you pretend you’re going to branch out and try something new, but by the time you reach the register you always order your usual sweet treat. He supposes there’s comfort in the familiar.

You’re smiling at him again, “you read my mind!”

Of course he has. He’s become fluent in you.

Or maybe he hasn’t because he’s surprised the next day when you express an interest in getting ice cream sans Yuuji. Apparently the three of you aren’t the only poor souls stuck on campus during spring break. A sophomore named Junpei also remains, and apparently Yuuji has agreed to tutor him in biology.

“We can go another time,” Megumi shrugs.

“No, no, you two go on without me. Bring me back something with lots and lots of sprinkles! Grab something for Junpei too! The kid could use the moral boost. I’ll text you his order once we’re settled.”

It’s…odd hanging with you without Yuuji as a buffer. It feels wrong, like a poorly kept secret or like walking in shoes that aren’t his own. He’s lived most of his life letting whatever is going to happen to him, well, happen. Whatever will be will be, and all that. He’s never felt this gnawing sense of guilt before. Not even after his high school principal berated him for beating on yet another shitty senior.

Back then he could rely on Gojo in a pinch.

Now he must rely solely on himself, and, to be honest, he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself once he’s alone with you. Rationally, he understands Yuuji gave him permission to go on the ice cream run without him, but the action still feels like a betrayal, especially now, especially when you look at him with those dazzling, beseeching eyes of yours. He hasn’t been able to meet them once since the two of you left campus. He hasn’t spoken a single word to you either.

He can feel your gaze on him as you pull into the parking lot. He feels uncomfortably warm all over, like he’s been standing in the beating sun.

You’re out of the car before he’s even let go of the steering wheel. When he takes too long to open his door, you open it for him. He lets you wrap yourself around his arm and guide him to the window of the shop. He’s rocked by a sudden pang of loneliness. There’s a hunger in the pit of his belly that not even his vanilla ice cream can satiate. Some people live their lives as empty husks, never knowing what it’s like to be fed.

He's thinking suddenly of his father, not Gojo, but his late birth father, the one who had severed a part of himself to have Megumi. He doesn’t think of his birth parents often. They died long ago. But he’s thinking about them now and about how a parents’ love is the first love a person feels, or rather how it’s the first love someone is supposed to feel. His parents’ love had marred him, and the marring had followed him his whole life, a dull, ever-present pain.

You’re beaming at him between sips of your milkshake, your smile blistering like a burn.

He fears your fire; cowers before your heat. He’s drawn to you, a hopeless moth chasing a scorching flame, but Megumi’s so so scared of getting burned. Or burning Yuuji. Or dampening your light. He thinks it’s better this way, him standing in your cast shadow. That’s where he’s always thrived after all, in darkness rather than light. But you’re so warm, and your light is so resplendent, and he thinks maybe getting marred one last time may be worth it. He thinks, maybe, he’d risk it all to get close to you just once.

By the time you make it back to Yuuji, his ice cream is more soup than custard. He smiles when you present it to him nonetheless, his eyes soft and warm, golden from the last few rays of the setting sun poking in from the window.

Megumi feels out of place watching the two of you. Perverted, a voyeur.

But the two of you don’t ask him to leave. The two of you never ever ask him to leave, so he keeps watching, an arm’s length away from you both, observing the way you two nurture your budding romance from a safe distance. He wonders how the two of you manage to spend any alone time together because whenever the two of you offer to include him, he selfishly agrees.

All the third wheeling is starting to take a toll on him. The more time he spends with you, the more you seem to grow on him. At night, he thinks about cutting you out of his life. He lulls himself to sleep with the thought. By morning, in his post sleep clarity, he always realizes your presence isn’t malignant; it’s benign. It’d do more harm than good to cut you out of him.

You’re offered a spot in the university’s literature honor society. You offer the knowledge to him in passing, as if you’re ashamed you were offered the spot. The school is hosting an induction ceremony for the new members during one of Yuuji’s playoff games. You offer to skip the ceremony to watch him play, but Yuuji, selfless, selfless Yuuji, insists you attend.

“Fushiguro will accompany you,” he says, and how could Megumi refuse?

It’s shameful, really, that he doesn’t even pretend to put up a fight, doesn’t even pretend that he’s interested in attending Yuuji’s game. He feels bad about how quickly he folds, of course; he understands he’s being selfish choosing you over his best friend. He’s horrible. He’s the worst. He’s miserable.

It’s just, he hasn’t had you to himself since the night you got ice cream together, and Megumi wants. He wants with an aching fever. He wants so badly it’s making him sick.

You’re beautiful, even more so the night of your ceremony, though Megumi’s certain you’d look the most beautiful wearing nothing at all. The night of your induction, you’re clad in one of your best dresses. The garment hugs you in all the right places, around your chest, around your hips. Megumi pictures himself helping you out of it, imagines himself holding you in his arms as you drift to sleep.

He takes you to dinner after. The place is nice, intimate. You’re bubblier than usual, full of energy and life. Yuuji usually talks enough for the three of you. In his absence, you’ve become the chatty one. You tell him about your parents and your childhood home. You prattle on and on about how much they used to read to you when you were younger. His parents never read him bedtime stories. He feels nostalgic for a life he never had.

It occurs to him between bites of his food that he’s smothered with ginger, that you’re nervous. What you’re doing, the way you’re bouncing around from one topic to the next, is classifiable nervous chatter. He wonders then if you feel guilty about your one-on-one time too, wonders if a small part of you is thinking about reaching for him.

He gets his answer on the drive back to your dorm when you bump one of your arms against the one he has resting on the center console. At first, he thinks the action is done unintentionally, but you don’t move it, and then your fingers begin to twitch like they’re itching to house themselves between his; they graze lazily against the flesh of his open palm.

The sensation flusters him, has the tips of his ear flushing a rosy pink. He’s grateful it’s so dark out, grateful that you can’t see the effect that you have on him.

He jerks away so suddenly he nearly veers the car off the road.

He drives the rest of the way with both hands on the wheel.

You don’t stop by their dorm the next day, or the day after that. Megumi wonders if maybe you told Yuuji about the other night, about the way your arm had flirtatiously grazed his in the car. He hopes you did. He hopes you didn’t. He hopes, desperately that Yuuji doesn’t know how he feels about you because he knows Yuuji, and he’s certain that if Yuuji caught a whiff of his feelings for you he’d let you go because that’s just the kind of person Yuuji is. So kind. So unselfish. So fucking fair and good. He doesn’t want to ruin what you two have. He doesn’t want to ruin you.

By the end of the week, he asks about you. He has to. All of the speculating is eating him alive, his questions making him their food. He thinks if he knows for certain that the two of you have ended things that maybe he could get some sleep for once, even if that means he’ll never see you again. He needs to know.

Yuuji scrunches up his nose when he asks how you are. “She’s fine. She’s just…she’s trying to give you some space. Honestly,” he pauses to rub at the back of his neck, his fingers skimming the bits of hair that aren’t dyed pink, “I’ve been feeling pretty bad about the whole thing. I really thought you two would like each other.”

Megumi blinks dumbfounded as he digests Yuuji’s words, “you…you thought…”

Yuuji holds his hands up in surrender, “I know, I know, it was rude of me to play matchmaker. I guess I owe you both an apology. I just…I don’t know I guess I misread you. You seemed so into her.”

“I thought you two were dating,” Megumi manages.

And then Yuuji’s laughing, a loud, authentic, obnoxious laugh. The sound is music to Megumi’s ears, “you thought…you thought…no, we’re not dating. We had a class together and really hit it off. When she told me what motivates her is leaving the world a more just place than she found it, I thought she’d be a good match for you.” Another pause, “don’t be too mad at her for humoring me. She didn’t know I was trying to set the two of you up until after I introduced you.”

Relief rolls through Megumi like a cresting ocean wave calming against the shoreline. Despite it, he still can’t breathe, “so she she was just humoring you, then? She really doesn’t like me?”

Yuuji shoots him an incredulous look, “are you crazy? She adores you. And you’re both idiots. She has it in her head that it’s you that doesn’t like her! Apparently when she tried to hold your hand the other night, you’d acted like she was radioactive.” Amusement dances across the creases of Yuuji’s face, “which, I mean, makes sense if you thought we were together. Aw, Fushiguro, you’re so loyal!”

“Then, she…” Megumi still can’t believe it. The past few months feel like such a waste of his time. He could have had you. He could already be yours.

“Yeah, man, she likes you. Or, she did, anyway. I’d explain myself to her, though, before it’s too late.”

He sits on a bench outside your dorm building for hours waiting for your last class of the night to wrap up. It’s one of those pesky night courses that continues long after the sun has set and the stars have come out. An autobiography course, if he wasn’t mistaken.

You return sometime around midnight with your roommate who’s name Megumi never bothered to learn. The two of you weren’t particularly close, but you liked each other well enough to share a mutual living space. It occurs to Megumi he’s never been inside your dorm.

Though he’s had hours to rehearse what he wants to say to you, the sight of you leaves him mute.

He calls your name before you can swipe into the building. Beneath the dim light of the waxing moon, he sees your eyes widen in surprise. You whisper something indiscernible to your roommate and part from her to greet him.

You call out him. The name you use is his matronymic. You’ve never called him that before. He was always, always Megumi to you. He wants to be that again. “Fushiguro, hey,” you say, flashing him a sad little smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to reach out, I just wasn’t sure-”

“You like stories,” he says, interrupting you midsentence. “You like stories, and you want to write stories of your own someday, about real people, stories with happy endings. I’ve bought every book you’ve discuss with me these past few months; I plan to read them all someday so I can talk about them with you, passionate and omniscient, the way you do. I don’t know if I’ll ever enjoy literature the way you enjoy it, but,” he pauses, to suck in a breath, “you like stories.” Another pause. “You like stories, and I like you, and there’s an infinite number of stories out there, which means we’ll never run out of things to talk about.”

You like stories, and I love you. He doesn’t say that part out loud, but he knows you hear it anyway.

“Oh,” you say, and you look so startled. “Oh,” you say again, softer. “I thought-”

He’s interrupting you again. He’s being rude, he knows, but he just can’t help himself. “I thought you were dating Itadori,” he admits. He feels embarrassed, feels like a fool, humiliated by his own baseless assumption. “I just assumed-”

It’s your turn to interrupt him, not with words, but with a sweet, little laugh, “you thought I was dating Yuuji? No wonder the signals you sent me were so mixed.”

His cheeks are warm. The tips of his ears have gone pink. Then, you’re saying, “I like you too, you know,” and he feels the heat spread across his entire body. If it were any brighter out you would probably see his fresh coloring, skin red all over like a full body sunburn.

“I like you a lot, actually,” you confess. You turn to look back at your dorm; your roommate must still be awake because there’s a faint yellow light glowing from within. “My roommate’s home, but,” you shift a little from toe to toe, nervous, despite everything, “I’ve just finished a piece for one of my creative writing courses. I can email you a copy.”

“Please,” he manages, and it sounds like a prayer. “Maybe we can discuss it over dinner?” Please, please, please.

You’re smiling at him, “let me know when you finish it.”

He’s stays up all night reading it. Your story is about choosing and love. It’s about people who could never be strangers because they met lifetimes ago only to cross paths again now. It’s about a stack of unread books tucked safely beneath a bed and about a dresser drawer filled with boxes of candy intend for another and memorizing someone’s favorite ice cream flavor and sitting together in silence. It’s about him, he realizes with a start. Your story is about him.

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daryldamnson · 2 years

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Surprise, Surprise Part 5

part i - part ii - part iii - part iv - part v

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!Reader

Summary: Eddie has to reckon with the fact that the rich cheerleader he thought he could brush off as another basic conformist has a few surprises up her sleeve.

Follows the basic plot of S4 (kind of), sarcasm, soft!kinda-touchstarved!eddie, soft(for eddie)!reader, wayne and reader bonding, pure fluff really

Reader: has she/her pronouns and in a previous chapter is referred to as wearing a bra

Word count: 3.3k (aka as long as parts 1-4 combined - wayne's fault)

ao3 link

Roughly two weeks after Eddie gets out of the hospital and four weeks after the last chapter:

“Hi, Wayne!” You call out towards the figure sat in the armchair, an open newspaper obscuring the lower half of his face.

“Hiya, sweetheart,” is his soft response, accented voice warm with affection.

You’d spent a good amount of time with Wayne while you were both anxiously waiting for Eddie to wake up.

It’s amazing how much bonding can be done in sharing the space of his nephew’s hospital room; doing coffee runs one at a time so you wouldn’t have to leave him alone, packing late lunches and dinners for two, passing books and newspapers back and forth, finishing each other’s crossword puzzles, and cheekily playing some of Eddie’s mixtapes quietly even after the nurses had scolded you for it.

Wayne had smiled sadly, full of pain and love - two sides of the same coin, really - as he murmured about how much Eddie would enjoy the rule-breaking. It was the first time you’d truly connected with him as he watched you stare at his nephew’s obliviously sleeping face, the fondest of sad smiles - almost an exact mirror of his own - growing on your lips as you call him a “goddamn troublemaker”.

If it had come from almost anyone else in town he knows it would’ve been said scornfully, words sharp and full of hate. There’s nothing sharp about the way you say it - like it’s a compliment, like it’s a prayer.

Wayne isn’t a stupid man; he knows what the look on your face means, just the same as he knows what the look on his nephew’s face means when he sees you together after he’s received the best phone call of his life.

“Eddie’s awake,” you’d told him in place of answering his sleepy “hello?”, voice giddy and almost breathless with it. His sleep-addled brain takes a beat too long to realise what you’ve said, and when it does he feels his knees buckle beneath him. “The nurses have checked him out and everything looks about as positive as it can do. Steve, Rob, and Dustin are in with him now, but the doctor should be coming by to look him over anytime now. Do you need me to pick you up or have you had enough sleep?”

The fact that you know his schedule is old news now, but he still feels a thud of warmth at your worrying - you were a sweet kid. Work had been generous with giving him time off. For about a week. Then he’d had to get himself back in if he wanted to keep his job.

It was late morning and you knew that meant he’d likely only had a couple of hours to sleep off the night shift before the shrill ring of the phone had woken him up.

You were a good egg, and he was glad Eddie had you in any capacity - even if he were to find out that his nephew didn’t reciprocate the feelings that were written over your face every time you looked at him.

If you showered the boy with the same care and attention you had Wayne, and the kids, and the older kids - which he knew you did as he’d watched you swap out the uncomfortable hospital blankets for fluffy and comfortable ones, watched you sneak in a cassette player with tapes that seemed entirely too metal to belong to you, watched you brush his nephew’s wild and untamable hair with careful, gentle brushstrokes - then he was pretty sure you probably had his boy wrapped right around the same little finger that tapped out the beats of Eddie’s favourite songs.

“I can drive,” he’d managed to get out before he practically threw himself out of the trailer.

It’s two days later when his nephew’s animated voice - still brightening a room even after he’d almost died (how anybody could look at Eddie and see anything but sunshine would always confound Wayne) - suddenly trails off, eyes drawn to the opening door, that he sees Eddie’s expression morph into something he’s never seen before.

“Hi…” The word fell breathlessly from Eddie’s mouth and he looked almost stunned for a moment before the brightest smile Wayne had ever seen grew on his face.

It was an important smile.

The same kind he’d seen the first time he’d called Eddie ‘son’, when he’d surprised him with half the cost of that damned electric guitar he’d been saving up for, when he’d remembered his birthday after years of living with a father who’d never bothered to. It was a smile full of joy. A smile reserved for the important moments in life.

“Hey,” you smile back, smaller but still infinitely soft.

There’s a beat where you linger in the doorway, eyes locked with Eddie’s.

Wayne remembers what it’s like to be young and crazy about somebody, so he lets the time tick by without commenting.

You finally notice him as you step further into the room.

“Hi, Wayne,” is your greeting, same as always. This time, however, you’re brighter; face and tone lacking the worried tension he’s used to.

“Hiya, sweetheart,” is his answer, same as always. He grins, knowing he’s equally light-hearted. His eyes slide over to his nephew’s lovesick expression and he tries not to huff out a chuckle at how accurately he’d predicted his feelings for you.

Wrapped around her little finger indeed.

All of this is why half an hour after your arrival at the Munson’s four weeks later, you find yourself sat on the armrest of Wayne’s comfortably worn recliner, heads both bent over his paper as you exchange potential crossword answers.

Eddie comes ambling out of his room on a quest for water, movements still slow and twinges of pain still common, and neither of you hear his approach over your shared laughter.

Hearing his uncle’s low chuckle always brings a smile to Eddie’s face - it’s a rare sound these days - and he can’t help the way his smile widens when he hears your laugh in tandem with Wayne’s.

It’s not the first time he’s caught you palling it up with his uncle and, though he complains that you’re supposed to be here visiting him, he loves how well you get along with the most important person in his life. The only real father he’s ever had.

But because he’s Eddie, he still has to put on a theatrical show of protest.

“Oh, come on. How long have you been here this time?”

You don’t even flinch at his interruption, instead turning your head to beam over your shoulder at him. Eddie tries not to visibly melt. Based on the amused look in his uncle’s eyes, he’s failed.

“Hey,” your voice is heavy with affection as you ignore his question in favour of asking your own - the same thing you ask every time you see him now. “How are you feeling?”

“Hurt,” he laments, a hand flying up to not-quite clutch at his still healing chest. “One of these days I’m gonna start to think you aren’t really here to visit me.”

Even as he whines he waltzes his way over to you and holds his hand out to pull you off the arm of the chair. You follow through quickly to prevent him actually having to do any real lifting, holding on a beat too long before your hands part.

Wayne watches all of this with a fond look in his eyes even as he rolls them in exasperation, the movement going completely unnoticed by the two blind, lovesick kids in his living room.

“Alright, I’m gonna get out of here for a while. Put the crossword - and the old brain - on pause. I’ll see you kids later.” Wayne stands and pats your shoulder as he walks past you to head towards the door.

He’s about as subtle as a brick to the face.

You shoot him a parting smile before turning it on Eddie. He feels his heart pick up its pace in response and finds himself flexing his fingers a little awkwardly, as if this wasn’t a regular occurrence by now.

Heading to Eddie’s room and settling next to each other against his headboard is practically instinctual now. He’s got Black Sabbath playing quietly in the background, also not unusual, and you smile a little at how comfortable your routine has become. Turning to look over at him, you find his gaze already fixed firmly on your face.

“What?” Your nose scrunches a little in embarrassment at the slight whine to your question.

“What?” Eddie mocks, voice falsetto and exaggerated.

You let out a soft laugh at his teasing even as you lean over to gently shove at what you know to be the uninjured area of his chest.

It’s barely a tap but Eddie, ever the dramatic, sends himself flying backwards, bouncing a little as he falls to his back on his old, creaky mattress.

“Wounded! I’ve been wounded!” He yells, hands coming up to gently clutch at the area of his chest that he can still feel tingling from your brief touch.

“Stop it; that’s not funny!”

You know for a fact he’s not in pain - you’ve seen him in enough of it in the Upside Down and throughout his recovery to recognise it instantly, even if he wasn’t so clearly struggling against a grin and you didn’t know exactly where his wounds started and ended. That doesn’t mean you’re on board with him pretending you’ve aggravated his injuries when all you’ve ever tried to do is soothe them.

It does mean you can let out a soft chuckle at the idiot’s behaviour, though.

“Oh, it’s not?” His brows shoot up as if in shock as he finally lets the beaming grin break out across his face. “Then why are you laughing?”

He’s pulled himself up to rest back on his elbows, eyes meeting yours in a challenge. The position pulls uncomfortably at the still-healing skin of his chest but he likes the way you look down at him so much he’d stay there for at least a week if you’d just keep doing it.

“I’m serious,” you say, trying really hard to sound so and failing miserably. You shove your hand gently at his uninjured shoulder this time, unable to stop yourself from leaving it there as you lean over him just slightly, making a valiant attempt to hold back the amused smile you can feel tugging at your lips.

“I’m serious,” he mocks you again, tilting his head left and right a little as he does, long hair bouncing along with his movements.

He’s learnt that making fun of you makes you smile in that one particularly embarrassed way where you scrunch your nose a little, but you always giggle like he’s the funniest person in Hawkins, so he makes sure to do it at least a couple of times a week.

You do just that as if on cue and he feels himself melt at the sight. He lets out a fondly amused huff of air - more at your predictability than his own joke.

You roll your eyes as your laughter tapers off, head shaking slightly. Your hand is still pressed against the front of his shoulder and he’s trying his hardest not to freak out over it.

There’s a beat of silence. Your eyes are locked, mouths split into matching fond smiles and faces just slightly too close to be considered friendly.

And, really, with the constant visits, and gentle touches, and warm gazes, and the way you laugh at even his shittiest jokes, it shouldn’t feel like the biggest surprise yet when you press your lips against his.

He supposes it comes from the fact that he’s Eddie Munson and he doesn’t get the things he wants, and he certainly never gets the girl, so why would this time be any different? Why would he read into you making him a mixtape of your favourite metal songs so you can compare notes? Why bother daydreaming about the way you gently scrape his hair back into a loose ponytail for him because he still can’t lift his arms that high? Why add more meaning than friendship borne through hardship to the affection that blooms in your eyes every time you see him?

Why bother when he knows all he’s doing is setting himself up for disappointment?

So, yeah, maybe it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it does.

He freezes, and you’re already pulling back a little before he’s even fully processed what happened, your eyes flitting over his face to gauge his reaction. His big, expressive eyes are widened and his eyebrows have shot up, disappearing under the unruly curls covering his forehead.

You try not to panic that this is a bad sign.

You’d been so sure he liked you back; all his shy grins when you let him ramble on about DnD, his dumb excuses to find a way to touch you - even if it was just brushing his hand against yours when you pass him something he doesn’t really need, the utter delight on his face every time you came to visit - especially when you woke him from a nap that one time and he was all soft smiles, and sleepy eyes, and he’d fallen back asleep against your shoulder. You’d looked down at him and felt warm affection bloom in your chest. It had spread and spread and spread until it reached the tips of your toes and you couldn’t stop the smile from growing on your face.

You were also pretty certain you’d caught him staring before you even knew each other, but you’d always just brushed it off before.

It had become difficult to deny over the past month, though, since he’d woken up from his coma and held your hand and you’d visited him most days - both at the hospital and, later, his trailer. It felt like his eyes were almost always tracking you, only stopping when he’d look away quickly, a little bashful at being caught.

It was adorable, frankly.

Which was why you had eventually built up enough courage to press your lips against his the way you’d been imagining for a while now. Since it had become increasingly obvious that he wasn’t going to bite the bullet, you figured you’d go for it yourself.

A not so stupendous idea, apparently.

You lean back further, pulling away enough that your hand slips from his shoulder.

“I’m sorry; I–”

Almost as soon as you’d ceased contact Eddie had followed you, pushing himself up onto one side and leaning over to interrupt you with his lips.

He really, really hopes you aren’t sorry at all.

The way you lean into him almost immediately is answer enough. Your head tilts slightly and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, bringing up his free hand to cup your jaw. The soft sigh you let out when you pull back a little has him chasing you once more and, based on the way you grasp at his shirt to pull him with you as you lie back, you’re more than receptive.

It’s Eddie’s turn to pull back with a sigh this time, but you immediately recognise it as a sharp one of pain. You pull your hand off his chest instantly. So wrapped up in finally, finally kissing him, you’d slid your hand right over a slowly-healing bite.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” concern is practically dripping from the words as you look over his face to assess his discomfort.

Eddie’s brows are pulled together as he breathes a little sharply through clenched teeth. He seems to have frozen all movement as he lingers over you, left hand clenching at your hip where it had been placed so hesitantly just moments before.

It only takes a few seconds for him to huff out a small laugh, the pain evidently fleeting enough for him to recover quickly.

“Sexy, huh?” He grins, stiff stature melting onto you comfortably as he rests his forehead against yours. It’s so casual - like you’d done this a hundred times over. “You touch me once and I fall apart.”

He’s joking, his tone and his smile couldn’t make that more clear, but it makes your brows come together in a regretful frown anyway.

You should’ve been paying closer attention.

Concerned by your silence, Eddie pulls his head back a little and catches sight of your expression.

“Hey, hey, hey, I’m fine, I swear,” he promises, bringing his hand up to brush down the side of your face in a soft, comforting gesture. “Or is it…? I mean, do you not…?”

He trails off but his meaning is clear when he begins to pull away further, his hand dropping away.

Is it me? Do you not want me?

“Hey, no, no, that’s not…” The comforting is up to you now as you lift a hand to gently cup his head and guide him back down over you. He follows so willingly it makes you smile. “I kissed you, dummy.”

“Yeah… Yeah, you did.” He grins so wide he’s practically beaming at you and you let your gaze wander over his crinkled eyelids, and his dimpled cheeks, and his pink lips, and the sparkles in his chocolate-brown eyes as you imprint this picture in your mind, hopefully forever. You can’t help the way your own mouth slowly slides into a similar smile when he says, “do it again?”

It’s just a soft press of your lips this time, and you’re very careful about placing your hands over non-injured skin; one holding his cheek and the other on his shoulder. You feel his hand brush down your side to rest on your hip once more, thumb rubbing back and forth slowly.

You’re hardly even separating your lips from his but the instant you begin to move back a little he requests “again?” and “again?” and “again?” after every kiss until you giggle against him. He swallows the sound in his mouth as he presses against you once more.

You’re both smiling too much for the kiss to deepen but he’s still a little upset when you pull away enough to look him in the eye.

“Hey, listen. It’s our song!” You let out a soft laugh at your own joke as he hears the familiar opening of Black Sabbath’s Digital Bitch flood the room.

He groans, throwing his head back dramatically.

“You can’t hold that against me forever, you know.” His voice is whiny but there’s an undeniable grin stretching his lips and deepening his dimples. Giving in to an urge you’d been quashing for weeks now, you reach a finger out and gently brush it over the deep line of the dimple on his right cheek.

“You’re so pretty,” you murmur, relishing the way his eyes widen before dropping bashfully, his lips parting as his smile grows.

The pink flush that creeps up his neck and covers his cheeks is just the cherry on the cake and you decide you’re going to start telling him just how pretty he is as often as possible.

His gaze lifts to meet yours once more when you lean up to gently nudge your nose against his in an affectionate gesture. He clears his throat and you feel the fingers of the hand resting on your hip flex a little, like he’s still nervous.

“Um, you are too, you know? Fucking stunning, actually.” He lets out a breathy laugh and you’re so close you feel the puff of air on your face. “Always thought so,” he mutters quietly, eyes dropping down to your lips before slipping back up to meet your gaze in question.

As if the answer could ever be ‘no’ when he looks at you like that.

You close the small gap to press your lips against his once more and only pull back minutes later when the menace in him comes out and he tickles at your ribs.

Watching you giggle and gasp his name in faux outrage with your lips still spit-shiny from the kiss, it’s no surprise he can’t imagine how he ever convinced himself he only maybe had a crush on you or was halfway in love with you.

headcanon/drabble requests open for eddie :)

tag list: @a-hopeless-fan @waylandmorgernsternherondal-blog @aedicn

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x you #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson fic

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mypoisonedvine · 3 years

Text

peaches & cream || soft!dark Jake Wyler x reader

for @stargazingfangirl18's 5k challenge! I used the prompt, "the town golden boy isn’t as sweet as everyone thinks."

word count: 3.6k

warnings: smut (noncon), stalking/obsession, some degradation/negging (but lots of praise during the actual smut), kinda yandere vibes?, touch of breeding kink at the end, definitely flirting with the boundary between soft!dark and regular dark but I like to think it’s a fine line

“Sorry, but that’s a seasonal flavor,” the girl at the counter explained in a snarky monotone.

“Well, yeah, but isn’t it still… the season?” you pressed; normally you weren’t the sort of person to argue with a cashier over a milkshake, but the look she was giving you made you feel like she was holding out on you— especially when the promotional poster for the very thing you were trying to order was just behind her head, and said the flavor was available for two more days.

“We’re out,” she answered firmly, but then her face suddenly shifted to a much more pleasant expression as you heard the chime of the front door opening behind you.

You felt his body hovering behind yours just as his hand laid on the counter beside you, caging you in. It was even more unsettling with the context that there was a whole line of people waiting behind you already.

“I’ll get your usual,” the girl promised to the man beside with a flirtatious smile as she disappeared to the back, returning almost instantly with a shake in her extended hand. “Peaches and cream milkshake— extra whipped cream, no cherry. Enjoy!”

Your eyes widened at the reading of your own order. “I thought you were out!” you protested, going completely ignored.

"If you were my girl, this sort of thing wouldn't need to happen."

You recoiled from Jake's voice in your ear, and he smiled in spite of your snarl, bringing the straw to his lips slowly. With a shudder you walked away, deciding it was probably better to forgo a milkshake anyways— especially if it was a chance to avoid everyone’s favorite senior, the football king who basically owned the whole town for no other reason than being good-looking, athletic, and allegedly “charming” or whatever.

Of course, he followed you, sitting across from you in a booth and silently shooing his posse of fellow teammates to go off and give you two some space. If only he would give you space.

“We can share,” he offered as he held the milkshake out towards you. “I know it’s your favorite… it’s mine too.”

“I’ve lost my appetite,” you explained quickly as you pulled a book out of your backpack, intent on ignoring him since you couldn’t physically force him to leave.

He shrugged and returned to sucking on the straw, watching you unwaveringly as you tried to read your book— staring at the page was going well, but you couldn’t seem to actually get any words down. Had you forgotten English as a written language or something?

“Could you leave?” you finally asked as you groaned and looked up from your book. “You’re distracting me.”

“I’m literally just sitting here,” he reminded you.

“And it’s distracting!”

He smirked proudly. “My presence tends to have that effect on people. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You rolled your eyes, burying your face back in your book. “You know, you may have everybody else fooled, but someday you’re gonna have to leave this pathetic little town and go into the real world where throwing a ball isn’t a career and nobody fawns over you just because you have the audacity to be attractive.”

He chuckled lightly. “Right, because you have those big city dreams of yours, but believe it or not some of us like this ‘pathetic’ little town.”

“Well, of course you would,” you snorted. “Your dad’s the mayor and your girlfriend’s the head cheerleader.”

“My ex-girlfriend,” he corrected, finally getting your attention enough to make you shut your book.

“What?” you blurted out.

“Yeah, she dumped me,” he explained plainly.

“Why would she do that?” you asked, making him look much too proud of himself again. “Finally snapped out of the brainwashing, huh?” you added, effectively killing his smug expression.

“I guess you could say that. She met some college guy from out of town… I think her parents liked me too much, she needed a bit more rebellion.”

“Well, my condolences to you,” you smiled, “and my congratulations to her.”

“I thought you hated her,” he scoffed.

“Well, now she and I have something in common: a complete lack of interest in you!”

“I mean, I wouldn’t go that far,” he smirked, “she still comes over every now and again to suck my cock.”

You choked on nothing, face getting warm at his crude language. He didn’t talk like that with anyone else; it was so cruel the way he kept everybody in town under his spell except you, the way he let you in on his real darkness with no one else to confide in or believe you.

It was so fundamentally lonely, being the one person who wasn’t in love with Jake Wyler. It was even worse being the one person Jake Wyler loved.

At least, that was the word he used multiple times in his semi-anonymous letters, his incessant calls and emails, his speeches outside your window. He’d actually cooled off lately, you wondered if maybe he had finally let go of this ‘the one thing I can’t have’ obsession and learned to appreciate his girlfriend (who, for all her personality flaws, was objectively gorgeous, and seemed to at least be nice to him if nobody else).

But now that she left him (which you were still trying to process, honestly), you were surprised he hadn’t already moved on to the next best wannabe model and/or reinstated his campaign to win you over.

Then again, the look in his eye kind of made you think you were about to witness the second one.

“You know, when she does come over, I can only ever finish because I’m thinking about you,” he revealed in a low voice. You grimaced and slid out of the booth, stuffing your book into your bag and barely managing to throw him a goodbye before you dashed out.

It wasn’t like you really thought you could get away from him— he had made it clear over and over that you couldn’t— but the idea of being crammed in that booth with him, surrounded throughout the diner by his adoring fans who somehow didn’t manage to overhear him when he said those awful things, made you feel nauseous.

What you should’ve considered was that, fans or not, those people were witnesses, and now that you were running out into the dark streets of the town and he was chasing after you, you didn’t have any. It was just you and him, and when you turned into an alleyway to try to get home faster, even the dim glow of the streetlights couldn’t see you anymore.

“Hey,” he stopped you with a tight grip on your arm, pulling you back into him.

“Let me go!” you whined, trying to tug yourself away but only ensuring that his hand would leave a bruise on your arm.

“I will when you just hear me out, okay?” he hissed, spinning you around to look up at him. "Why don't you just give me a chance? Don't you wanna be popular?"

"I don't want to be anything that requires being within ten yards of you!" you spat.

He seemed bewildered, but you knew he wasn’t actually that stupid. "Why?"

"Because you know why!"

He sighed, slumping his shoulders a little. "Are we still on that, really? I told you, you should take it as a compliment. You know how many girls would kill to catch me jerking off in their panties?"

"You're sick, Jake,” you sighed, “and you're really good at hiding it from everyone else but I know what you really are. You told me you needed help with algebra and I actually believed you, for months you were lying to me to get close so you could perv on me when you already had a girlfriend and two side chicks anyways— god, Jake, you're crazy!"

You yelped when he pinned you to the wall, blue eyes darker than ever. "I really, really hate that word."

Against the wall, your back straightened as you felt the tone shift completely for a moment before he was back to his jovial self again, giving you a somber but almost-genuine smile.

“The only kind of crazy I am is crazy about you,” he defended with a laugh, leaning in a little closer. “Why can’t you see that?”

As his eyes moved from your own to your lips, a renewed sense of fear shot through you. “Jake…” you mumbled, apparently your feeble attempt to ask him to stop.

“Just one kiss,” he bargained, “and then I’ll let you go. Okay? That’s all I need.”

“N-no,” you whimpered, turning your head away as he leaned in even further. “Stop.”

“Come on, it’s just a kiss, baby,” he cooed. “Then you can leave. Hey, you might actually like it. You know, I think that’s what you’re really scared about… and I get it! When I first realized I was in love with you, it was scary for me, too— I mean, I’m the most important guy in town and you’re just some bookworm, it’s sort of social suicide for me so I had a lot to worry about.”

There he went with his negging again, trying to bring you down to his level. Your brain knew that, it saw right through it, but your gut still sank with doubt.

“But I know now that love is nothing to be afraid of,” he concluded.

“No, Jake,” you whispered, feeling tears well in your eyes, “I’m afraid that you’ll hurt me if I don’t do what you want.”

“Well, that is something to be afraid of,” he replied with the coldest laugh you’d ever heard; you didn’t hear any agreement, but the lack of denial was deafening. “So just be my good girl and let me kiss you…”

You swallowed dryly, your eyes wide open and searching for anywhere to look but up at him.

He was so close now that his lips brushed against yours with his command: “say it.”

You stammered over your breath, not sure exactly what he was asking for, and you winced as you felt his grip tighten on your arms.

“Say, ‘kiss me’,” he clarified in a harsh whisper. “Say, ‘please’...”

“Please,” you repeated awkwardly, hearing it in your voice but so clearly not your own words, “kiss me.”

He let his mouth intertwine with yours and your eyes were still wide open as he let his own fall shut, moving his hands to clutch your face gently instead as you gave a weak effort to kiss him back.

Objectively, he was good at this. A lot of things were objectively true about Jake: as much as you forced yourself not to see it, he was handsome; as much as it didn’t really matter to you, a boycotter of all things sports, he was talented; and, as much as no one else realized it, he was completely deranged. For every word of kindness from him there was another of anger. For every love letter in your locker, there was a threat left scrawled on crumpled paper inside your bedroom, just so he could remind you that your parents would let him into the house if he asked and never question it.

Which was why it was extremely important that you did not enjoy this kiss. You needed to hate the way his fingers traced over the pulse in your neck, the way his tongue tickled yours, the way his teeth just barely grazed your lip until your knees went a little weak.

But wow, there was something primally satisfying about melting into his arms, feeling his strength support you like it was nothing when he held your waist and pulled you closer.

You could almost forget that it was him. But then he mumbled your name into the kiss, nearly moaned it in fact, and it pulled you back to reality. With a gasp, you pushed him away and blinked your eyes open, not even realizing you’d closed them; hating how quickly you’d started to give in to him.

“There, one kiss,” you mumbled, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve. “I’m gonna go home now—”

“You can’t be serious,” he laughed incredulously. “You’re gonna kiss me like that and tell me you don’t feel this, too? We’re so meant for each other— we even order the same milkshake!”

“That doesn’t matter!” you denied.

“I love you!”

“That doesn’t matter either!”

You turned to leave but he grabbed you again from behind, covering your mouth with his hand when you opened your mouth to scream. “Don’t fucking talk to me like that,” he hissed in your ear, “and don’t walk away from me.”

Fighting against his grip did nothing but exhaust you: he only needed one arm to hold you back as he dragged you deeper into the alley. Your legs swung wildly and landed a kick to his shin, and he plugged your nose while he was covering your mouth so you couldn’t breathe.

“Listen to me, you stuck up little bitch,” he growled. “I’m really sick of this ‘hard to get’ act. I know you want me. So shut up and let me show you what you’ve been missing out on, okay? You gonna be good?”

In that moment, you would’ve agreed to anything for a chance to fill your lungs with fresh air, and so you nodded, the back of your head rubbing against his chest.

“You gonna be nice and quiet so nobody catches you getting fucked like a whore in this alley?”

Another nod, more feverish than the last, ended with a sharp inhale as he let go of your nose. But he was still covering your mouth, his arm around you now feeling less like restraint and more like an embrace.

"I've wanted you for so long, you can't even imagine," he explained softly as he leaned down and kissed your neck, gripping your waist tighter. "You and this perfect body of yours. This smart little head that thinks too much…"

You swallowed dryly as his hand trailed lower.

"This pussy you've been hiding from me for much too long," he added darkly, roughly shoving his hand up your skirt.

You whined behind his hand but he didn’t seem to care; he pulled your skirt up and grinned at the sight of your panties— because he recognized them.

“I remember these,” he purred. “They look good on you, baby, but they looked better covered in my come.”

Your cheeks burned with shame— you already hated yourself for still wearing the pair he’d tampered with, but it was harmless after a few runs through the washer, right? You weren’t going to stop wearing your favorite panties just for him, that would mean he won, in a sense; or, that’s what you told yourself to justify not burning them.

“Don’t worry, they’re gonna be soaked by the time I’m done with you,” he purred, slipping two fingers between your legs and growling slightly. “Well, actually, you’ve already done a lot of the work for me.”

He pulled the fabric aside and explored your pussy instead, tightening his grip over your mouth as you made little muffled yelps. The rough pads of his fingers found and targeted your clit instantly, that megawatt smile pressed against your ear as he started to rub your bud harder.

“Mm, feels good, huh?” he taunted, moving even faster as your hips jolted unintentionally. He stopped only to bring the fingers to his lips, humming at the taste of you which he sucked off of them. “So sweet, babygirl— better than any peaches and cream milkshake, that’s for sure.”

The wet fingers trailed down your body again, finding your entrance that he suddenly pushed into; it was a little too much without any warning and it made your eyes shoot wide open, a squeak barely escaping your throat.

"Just as tight as I imagined, baby,” he sighed, “all those times I used your panties, or hooked up with somebody who almost looked like you from behind. You’re gonna feel so good on my cock, I know you want it so bad.”

He took his fingers out of you to reach back and open his belt with one hand, the sound of the buckle matched in upsettingness only by the sound of his jeans sliding down to his thighs.

You heard your own breath loud and heavy against his hand as you felt his hard cock press against your thigh, a drop of precum smearing on your skin. Your breathing halted suddenly, though, when he slid himself between your legs to rub his cock over your exposed and swollen pussy.

“Oh, babygirl, you really are too good to me,” he grinned, kissing your ear tenderly. “So fucking wet and ready for me, huh? You need it that bad? You’re gonna get it, baby, ‘m gonna give it to you so good…”

Bracing yourself as best you could, you felt the head of his cock push against your entrance before he slammed in all at once, making you hiss in pain.

“Oh god,” he groaned, “fuck, you’re so warm…”

Already he was fucking into you roughly, pumping faster and deeper, paying no mind to your choked sobs of pain from the wide stretch. Even when it stung it felt oddly good, and the underside of his cock seemed to slide perfectly over your g-spot with each movement until your eyes began to roll back in your head.

“So fucking good,” he moaned hoarsely as he braced you against the brick wall for leverage, reaching back down with his free hand to rub your clit again. He chuckled when your legs quivered, and he must have felt your walls tighten around him, too. “I wanna hear those pretty moans, baby, if I take my hand away are you gonna be good?” he asked darkly. You nodded, enjoying the brief feeling of freedom that came from not having his hand over your mouth anymore. But then again, it was humiliating that now he could hear your panting breaths, your desperate mewls that you failed to swallow down.

He made a sound that was almost like a laugh as he watched you squirm in his arms, one more way he had to lord this all over you, as if forcing you to take him in an alley wasn’t enough on its own.

His breath against your ear was hot and strained, each meeting of your hips to his accentuated with a little grunt from him. It didn’t help at all that his fingers were rubbing you just right, with so much skill that you wondered if he’d somehow figured out how you touched yourself when you needed to get off. Honestly, you wouldn’t put it past him to have spied on you before, even if you couldn’t figure out when or how.

The hand that used to cover your mouth slid up under your shirt and pulled your bra down, a large, rough hand groping each breast and pinching your nipples until you bit down on your lip to stay quiet. For all the mocking and teasing he’d done before, he was pretty direct now— like he was trying to make you come as fast as possible, overloading your body with sensation.

And did he have to be so fucking good at it?

“I know you’re close, babygirl,” he whispered in your ear, “just let go…”

“Jake, please,” you sobbed, too far gone to appreciate that no begging would make him stop now.

“Come for me,” he demanded roughly, fucking you even faster as he sucked a mark onto your neck, and finally it all came crashing down with a choked-out cry of his name and a gush of warmth dripping out around his length.

“Ohh fuck, there you go, fuck it feels good when you come for me,” he grunted, thrusting even faster. “You’re gonna milk my cock with that pretty pussy, babygirl— you’re gonna make me come…”

“J-Jake, not inside!” you interjected, getting his hand back over your mouth in return.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he soothed, “waited too long for this to pull out now. Feels too fucking good.”

Behind his hand, the difference between whines of hatred and moans of pleasure was irritatingly subtle.

“I love you,” he reminded you in a voice exhausted yet heavy with desire, “so fucking much…”

A few more erratic, brutal thrusts accompanied by heavy pants and he was gone; you could feel his cock pulsing with each rope of come that filled you, so deep that your head fell dejectedly with the realization you had no hope of washing it out now.

His hand fell from your mouth but he didn’t pull out for another few moments as he caught his breath, gently peppering your neck and cheek in slow kisses. “Baby,” he finally sighed, breaking the crushing silence, “you’re so fucking perfect. I knew you were made for me.”

I hate you, you wanted to cry out, but words escaped you as he hugged you tightly and pulled your panties back into place, soaking them with his come as it leaked out of you just like he’d promised. He stuffed his cock back into his jeans and helped you adjust your clothes back to looking almost presentable, finishing it off by turning you around and smiling at you with serene pride before kissing your forehead.

"You're gonna make such a beautiful prom queen," he cooed, “especially if you’ve already got a nice little bump showing…”

His hand rubbed beneath your belly button for emphasis, making you whimper and force your eyes shut as tears rolled down your cheeks.

"Shh, don’t cry, baby,” he soothed, kissing your cheek softly. “Trust me, you're gonna love being my girl."

#siris5ksoftdarkchallenge #dark!jake wyler x reader #idek how to tag this nobody's looking for jake wyler fics lmao

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pa-panda-heroes · 4 years

Note

May I ask for some soft requests for the league ? What would they say to their S/O as they sleep in their arms ? Thank you 🥰❤️

ohooh this is cute, yes :>

What the LoV would say to their s/o as they sleep in their arms!

Tomura:

Honestly, Tomura wouldn’t say much at first. He’s much more intrigued by the face you make in your sleep and just watching you, content in knowing that you’re safe and asleep in his arms.

He’s also afraid of waking you, so he tries to be really quiet. But if he knows he can get away with it, he’ll absolutely run his index finger back and forth along your cheekbone lovingly.

Eventually he’ll get brazen enough to start whispering to you, firstly telling you that he’s happy to see you because he’s had a rough day, and then he goes on.

He’ll tell you about the nightmare he had the night before, wherein you had been hurt somehow - Tomura couldn’t remember details, but the tight feeling in his chest when he woke up stuck with him.

“I will keep you safe, I don’t care what I have to do. I’ll tear all of Japan apart. No, the world.”

And so he’ll tell you things he wouldn’t tell you if you were awake: what ran through his mind the minute he landed eyes on you, what kind of dates you’d go on if he weren’t a notorious villain, how he wants to see you smile more often, that he’s so happy you exist.

“You look as peaceful awake as you do when you’re asleep. That’s a good thing, right? I’m glad. I hope... I’m the reason.”

Eventually whatever leaves his mouth ends up as Tomura musing about you. It’s almost as if you aren’t even there and he’s missing you, like you were somewhere far away and he couldn’t bear not to see you.

Mr. Compress:

You could be cuddling watching TV or something, and he won’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep. It’s when he gushes about suddenly craving broiled eel like the one expertly prepared by the chef on TV, that he notices.

And he just melts. One thing Mr. loves to do is watch your facial expressions and how they change throughout the day, so he’s sky high when he gets to see your sleepy face(s) unabashedly.

He’ll compare them to expressions you make while you’re awake and will narrate how your facial muscles stretch and change as if you’re conscious enough to hear - and care.

From the faces you make, he’ll move on to just what he loves about your face in general, which eventually leads to what he enjoys about your personality.

“You’re perfect, you know that? I’m not idolizing you, you have flaws and so do I, but what I mean to say is... you’re perfect for me. But naturally, as I sit here, must I wonder - am I perfect for you?”

By the heavens he hopes so. And he’ll tell you that. He’ll tell you that no matter how much ruckus he stirs as a villain, he hopes that you’ll stay by his side and love him unconditionally. Being a villain isn’t some character flaw, he knows that.

“I think, maybe, you’re what I live for. What I fight for? Maybe both. No, maybe neither. What I mean is... hm, I can imagine different futures all I want, but I can’t imagine a single one of them without you.”

Mr. may not be adept at putting such intimate and serious thoughts into words, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to stop trying.

Twice:

To say that Twice wouldn’t take the chance to shamelessly ogle your sleeping face, would be to lie.

And to say that Twice wouldn’t take the chance to gush about you and how strong yet gentle and caring you are, shamelessly? Yep - a lie.

He’s going to narrate in explicit detail what it looked like that time you told off some older woman harassing you over your groceries after a lack of a good night’s sleep and a particularly grueling day. He was so damned proud of you for standing up for yourself.

Twice would 100% talk about selling everything he owns and buying you the fanciest ring he could afford just because. And while on that note, he’d change the purpose of the ring from “for funsies” to “you deserve it.”

“Somewhere down the road, that ring could be... y’know, special, right? More special than it is already, because it is yours, after all. How do I say it without actually saying it?”

Thank everything in existence you’re asleep because this poor man flusters himself! He trips over his words a bit, and he says things that would be embarrassing if you were awake. Hell, they’re embarrassing and you’re asleep!

But Twice means what he says, there’s no questioning it. He’s not much of a liar to begin with, and there’s no way he can look at you and lie - even if he’s trying to surprise you in some way.

“I just hope... you’re happy. This life isn’t so easy, so, ah, I wanna do what I can to make you happy. I want to give you everything you deserve and then some. Easier said than done, but... still!”

Himiko:

Himiko will start off poking and prodding at your face for the sake of doing so while she has you so vulnerable. It’s just self-indulgent fun for her and she can’t help it!

She’ll tug on your cheek, poke your nose, even run her fingers across your eyelids, like she’s making a map of your face. She’ll count the whispies or runaway hairs on your forehead if you have any, or possibly your eyelashes.

Himiko isn’t exactly “sappy,” and she’s not quick to open up. But seeing you so peaceful and serene even after her facial muscle torture, is a delight for her and she has to hold back the urge to squeal.

Oddly enough, she’ll ask you questions that you can’t answer amidst your unconscious state - almost rapid-fire, too.

“What did you think of me when we met? Did you think of me as just another bloodthirsty villain, or did you see me? Could you hear my heart race when I saw you beaten and battered on that sidewalk? Do you love me?”

After that she’ll fall eerily silent, electing to instead roam her hands all over you soothingly, with no ill intent.

Himiko’s face will scrunch as she looks at you, her lips pursing and eyebrows narrowing. To say that she never stalked you would be a lie. She only wanted you safe, and seeing you so defenseless reminded her of that.

“I think you can take care of yourself plenty, my dear. Don’t misunderstand. But the thought of letting you be on your own hurts. What if someone hurts you? Well, I’d hurt them tenfold.”

Dabi:

He’ll know you’re nodding off before you do, seeing your sleepy state the minute he’s exposed to it. Dabi’s attention isn’t anywhere but you when you’re cuddling like this, but you won’t know that.

The tips of his fingers gently ghost over whatever limb they’re closest to, and as he searches for something to say or do, or even think, he’s blank.

His brows furrow in frustration at himself. He’s not as open and verbal about his feelings as you are, and oftentimes it frustrates the living hell out of you, but he can’t help it. He’s been trying, though, and you’ve given credit where it’s due. He appreciates that.

“You put up with my shit too much, you know it? You’re so patient with me, even when you’re ticked at me for bein’ the jackass I am. Even when I do it on purpose, you stick by me. I don’t get it. Why?”

He’s enamored with how easily you seem to look past the grimy and cruel exterior that he’s created over the years, instead looking at Dabi, not the blue flame villain of the League of Villains. Would he stick around if the tables were turned? Psh! No! So why do you stay?

By the time Dabi had you wrapped around his fingers - or was it perhaps the other way around? - he thought he had your character down pat, known like the exact number of staples holding his skin together.

But the more hell he puts you through, as a wicked way of testing your loyalty he can’t help but do, the more you seem to want to stay with him. And the less he understands you.

“I guess I’m really stuck with you, huh? Not that you’ll catch me complainin’. Besides, you’re the one who gets the short end of the stick. Put up a fight more, yeah? Don’t just put up with me. Do what you’ve been doing, and help me be less of an asshole.”

Spinner:

He’s honestly the most clueless and flustered when it comes to talking to you, or about you, while you’re asleep in his arms. He feels so awkward, he can’t help it.

“You always believe in me when no one else does, so, uh, that’s really... nice of you. You’d think I’m a total creep watching you sleep right now if you were awake, huh? I just wish I could believe in myself like you do.”

Do you always encourage him and look up to him? Yes. But are you Spinner’s personal cheerleader? No, not all. What you do is not just boosting his confidence, it’s building it. And he’s going to tell you he appreciates that, if a bit awkwardly, and how much that means to him.

The other members or random passersby can call him a “lizard” all they want, but alongside his protests are always your snippy comebacks and jeered disapproval. He’ll be sure to bring up at least one instance of that.

While he’s telling you he appreciates your standing up for him, he’s also going to tell you to let up a bit so that he gets used to doing it himself. You’re not coddling him or anything, he’s just afraid of relying on you too much.

“I want you to rely on me more. I’m here for you... just like you’re here for me. Does that make sense? I guess it doesn’t matter, since you’re asleep... ah, what was I saying? I just- I want to support you like you deserve, I want to watch out for you. Forever. I want you to be you and not worry about me so much.

Spinner may trip over his words here and there, but his message would be absorbed all the same, if you were awake. He almost wishes you were, but realizes he can tell you all that once you’re conscious again, right? He’ll spill his guts to you, then.

#mha #mha headcannons #mha x reader #shigaraki x reader #mr compress x reader #twice x reader #toga x reader #dabi x reader #spinner x reader #shigaraki tomura #mr compress #twice #toga himiko #dabi #spinner #comfort / fluff #ig?#hng g i think im gonna put a character limit up when i open requests back up

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whenimaunicorn · 4 years

Text

The Split

The Mandalorian x female Reader

(gif contributed by @bennskywalker) (much love and undying gratitude to @equalstrashflavoredtrash for constant cheerleading, support, and beta services, and saving me every time I felt stuck on a scene; and also to @cptnbvcks for indulging the Big Meat headcanon and guaranteeing it’s happening in all my fics)

Rating: Explicit Content Warnings: choking, spanking, dominance/submission, threats during intimacy, rough sex Words: 8478

Summary: The Reader is a fellow Nevarran bounty hunter, working with the Mandalorian to catch a quarry and splitting the reward. They keep renegotiating the split until passions spark and other, kinkier interests start slipping out.

Full Fic:

There’s one thing you can appreciate about working with the Mandalorian: he sure knows how to be terrifying to his quarry. It’s not about bluster with him, or wild threats that can make a hunter seem unhinged; it’s in his sheer presence. He’s caught up to the quarry you’ve been tracking together, and now he looms over his prey like he’s inevitable.

‘Course, you’d never let him know he even made you shiver. “Enough with the dramatics,” you say to him, coming up behind the cowering bounty and yanking her arms together behind her back. “I’m the one that got her blaster out of her hand, and that’s the hardest part. Once they’re disarmed it’s all over. That ups my cut to 70%.”

A frustrated little hiss emanates from your business partner. He points that looming mask more squarely at you. “Fifty-five was what we agreed,” he says, words clipped. “And that was only because you had the specific location—”

“Without which your schedule wouldn’t have been worth shit,” you finish for him, pressing the binder around your quarry’s wrists. At least, the metal cuff clicks shut around one of them…

Suddenly the woman is whirling around, slamming the solid metal of the binder, hanging off just one wrist, right into your stomach.

You try to grab her but the momentum is not in your favor, especially with the wind knocked squarely out of your gut. You brace your hands on your knees, willing yourself not to fall completely down as you fight the pain, not in front of Mando, and manage to suck in a decent breath as you look up with involuntary tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

Just in time to see the Mandalorian grab the woman by the throat, stopping her escape in its tracks. He shoves her to her knees, bristling with frank irritation, and presses the muzzle of his blaster to the side of her skull. “Stay down.”

You stagger one step in their direction. Your gut hurts just about as much as your pride.

You can’t see a smirk on that cold metal face, but you know there has to be one as he looks over at you. “What were you saying about the hard part of the job being over? I’ll take that seventy.”

“This gets you maybe an extra five,” you wheeze, stomping to the quarry kneeling at his feet and jamming her other hand into the binder where it belongs. “And you’re forgetting that I was the one that noticed her sneaking out that hatch in the back.”

Another one of his annoying silences follows, the one where he stands so still and makes you wait, just guessing what thoughts might be bouncing around inside the helmet. “And she’s going back in my ship. My fuel, my carbonite. I’ll take sixty.”

You huff.

“You’re the one that started this. I would have been fine with the original agreement.”

You roll your eyes. “We’ll talk about it after she’s loaded in.”

“Up,” the Mandalorian barks at the quarry, digging those orange-tipped fingers into the cloth covering her shoulder and hauling her to her feet.

The woman complies, looking defeated, and you all start walking across the plateau toward where the Razor Crest has been hidden. Mando’s been in the game too long to pay docking fees at an official spaceport on a planet so chaotic that you can get away without.

Soon enough, the quarry says what everyone with a price on their head says, once the binders are tight around their wrists. “You know, you two really don’t have to worry about your split. Just let me get back to my guys, I can pay you each as much as that whole price on my head.”

You snort. “If that were true, we wouldn’t have found you working in such a shit-hole. No way the syndicate values you that much.”

“I seem to recall a story about you taking up a quarry on an offer like that once,” Mando’s modulator emits at you. He slows his pace so he can see your face as the three of you trudge across the uneven ground. “Didn’t it end with another Guild member finding you stripped and tied up in a cellar? That would have been a sight to see.”

“I heard that story too,” you shoot back. “Wasn’t me. But if you want to see me like that, Mando, maybe you can try to play your cards right a little later…” you force your mouth to close. Not the most well-thought-out comeback. Nor the kind of thing to say if you want a fellow Hunter’s respect. Which you do. It’s just that there’s something about the Mandalorian that’s damned enticing, that makes you wonder if he ever loosens up even a little, lets anyone touch the warm body that’s gotta be somewhere underneath all that armor.

“I know a good hotel in the East Quarter,” the quarry pipes up before Mando gives you a response, “soft mattresses, and real good soundproofing in the walls. Maybe you two need to work out some of this sexual tension before taking me back to the ship? You can just stick me in another room until you’re done.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d just twiddle your thumbs and wait real nice for us.” You stick your blaster into her ribs and prod her to move faster, just for being annoying. “Sweet of you to be so generous, but don’t worry. He and I’ll have plenty of privacy while you’re stashed away in carbonite for the ride to Nevarro.”

The Mandalorian’s helmet turns toward you sharply.

“What? It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mando, but I always collect in-person. I’m riding with you.”

Mando’s ship is a real bare-bones operation; it’s not much more than a cargo hold and a cockpit. It’s almost enough to make you regret insisting on coming along. You can’t find a spot to get comfortable in, and there’s nothing to do. Mando’s not helping; he’s been sitting at the controls of the ship, back perfectly straight, since take-off. The course has already been set; the eerie lines of hyperspace are streaking by, and there’s nothing in this cockpit that actually requires his attention unless something goes wrong.

“So… what do you usually do while you’re in hyperspace?” you finally ask, slouching against the cockpit wall.

Mando’s hands turn palm up. “This.”

“You serious?”

He shrugs. “Good time to meditate.”

You look out at the rushing stars. “You have got to be kidding me. I’d go completely crazy in about five minutes.”

“You probably would,” he says. So calm, so matter-of-fact.

You look down at him sharply. He hasn’t moved a muscle, though he could be looking at you sideways through his visor and you’d never know. Infuriating. You plop down into the seat behind him. “You don’t think I’m capable of being quiet?”

“I’ve never known you to be.”

You flip your hair. “Some of us have a thing called ‘people skills.’ But it doesn’t look like they cover that in Mandalorian school.”

Now he turns his face toward yours. “Is that what you think you have.”

You nod, stifling the quick words that heat up your tongue so you can prove how quiet you can be.

“I’ve seen you try to get free drinks from soldiers that haven’t had shore leave in months, and still not be able to seal the deal.”

Mando? Teasing you? That’s new. You scoff at the accusation. “You just left too early. You would have seen where that night went. Try loosening up a little sometimes.”

Another silence. Then he swivels away from you, back to his perfect posture. “No thanks.”

“What are you jealous?”

The stack of armor in the pilot’s seat gives you no reaction at all.

You exhale loudly. “You know, I always thought you must have had some other kind of life to go back to, the way you drop those pucks off with Karga and never stick around.” You glance down the ladder at the empty cargo hatch, thinking of the junky little cot you saw crammed into a closet down there. “But you really live like this? Nothing but work for you, huh. Is that what it takes to be the best hunter in the sector?”

His helmet moves a fraction in your direction. “At least you can admit it.”

Your face gets hot. You did not mean to give that to him. “Some people say that about you.” You cross your arms, trying to get more comfortable by throwing your feet up on the control panel to his left.

He rolls his neck, beskar facing pointedly at your feet until you huff and move them.

Your frustration cracks into all-out mockery. “Ooh,” you blurt out in a sing-song voice, “I’m Mando, when I’m not hunting I sit perfectly straight and stare into space; my capture rate is near-perfect because I never sleep and guns are my religion.”

His helmet tilts above his metal-encased shoulder, dangerously close to actually looking at you again. “If you’re going to keep running your mouth like that, I can think of a few ways to make you shut up.”

It takes you a moment to recover from the rush that shoots through your body, a confusing mix of adrenaline and frank arousal as he speaks to you with the tone he usually reserves for quarries. Then you bark out a laugh. “Mando! Did you just make a dirty joke?”

Slowly he swivels the chair toward you, until he’s facing you squarely with his legs spread and fists on his knees. “I suppose you could take it that way.”

And then he just sits there, staring at you, as you decide which way to take it. Was he trying to say he hadn’t meant it as a come-on? That you’re the only one here with a dirty mind, that immediately imagined him shoving his cock down your throat? Fuck. Or does he want you to take it that way, to climb into his lap and sit your ass down on the battered metal plate covering his thigh…

You have to shake your head a little to make the thoughts stop. That is so not what he means. “You’re just mad that we make a great team,” you say, standing up and grinning, trying a new tactic. “That after almost bungling the hunt today,” the helmet cocks sharply at that accusation, “you realize that you need me. I’ve got skills you can’t even come close to.”

It’s hard to determine what sound comes out of his modulator, but you think it’s a snort. “What are you talking about.”

“My aforementioned people skills, for a start. Don’t forget I was the one that took in that warlord on Strigoth by getting him to follow me out to the edge of town without any of his guards. Not everything has to be a shootout. And I knew the quarry today was going to run before you did.”

Mando crosses his arms over his chestplate. “Keep telling yourself that. I’m still not raising your percentage.”

“I can hack any security system since the final Imperial update release, which is most of them in the Rim, and on top of all that”—you swing your left hand in like you’re going to slap him upside the helmet, and when he lifts his arm to block, you smack him over the ear with your right—“I’m faster than you.”

You jump back instantly, not sure how he’s going to react. His body tenses up into a fighter’s crouch, starting to come up out of the chair toward you. Then he sits back down, body language deliberately relaxing. He adjusts his helmet with one hand. “You’re a child.”

“I call it playful,” you shoot back, the adrenaline rush of what you just did almost making you giggle. “Another asset you seem to be lacking.”

He only shrugs in response, then swivels back to facing the oncoming stars.

He’s given you an opening that’s impossible to resist. As soon as his back is turned you swing your open hand forward. He’s ready for it, which you basically expected, and he knocks your arm away before you can make contact with his helmet this time. And ouch, that gauntlet of his jars your forearm all the way to the bone. You make a frustrated little noise. “Well, if you want to stick to business, we still have to talk about the final terms of the split. We can go back to 55-45, if you admit that today I had the superior skills.”

“With you taking the forty-five?”

“Hell no.”

He pauses, and you think he’s about to say something mature and reasonable, like he always does. Instead, he comes back with a very calmly-worded: “I could put you out the airlock right now.”

You swear there’s a wry little tone to that modulated voice. “You’d have to catch me first”—you slap the bucket on his head again—“and we’ve already determined I’m faster than you.”

“Stop that,” he growls, finally standing up. His cloak swirls dramatically and you try to suppress the primal feelings that make you a little weak in the knees when he comes up to his full height in such close quarters.

“Make me.” The words are out of your mouth before you can decide if they’re really such a good idea.

The Mandalorian’s helmet tilts. Now it’s his turn to try and work out what you may or may not be implying. When he finally speaks, there’s a new tone in his voice, one that catches something deep in your belly and drags. “You think you can take me?”

…Can you? You may be as good a Hunter as he is, but you couldn’t say unarmed combat is one of your strong suits. And you don’t even want to think about how much he out-weighs you, especially with all that armor on. But how can you possibly eat your pride and back down after you’ve provoked this?

You look around the tiny space of the Razor Crest’s cockpit. Mando’s helmet stays squarely aimed at your face.

“A lot of expensive equipment in here,” you say casually. “Wouldn’t want to damage anything throwing down right now.”

“Mm-hmm.” His skeptical hum makes the modulator crackle. Did he just lean in closer?

At this point the sexual tension is thrumming like a mis-firing engine in the space between you. If he had a face you could read, a mouth you could tilt your face up and kiss, you’d know what to do, but this? Even your renowned ‘people skills’ are failing you now.

You look away from the impassive, dark lens that covers his eyes, and that’s when he retaliates. One heavy gloved hand whips around your side and thuds a stinging strike right into your ass. The impact knocks you forward, almost into his chest, but you stop yourself before your hands touch his breastplate.

You suck in a breath and freeze, wide eyes drawn like a magnet back to that beskar face. Mando just spanked you. Hard. Mando… just… The pain ignites an arousal so sudden and strong that you’re worried you’re about to start trembling. It would absolutely kill your reputation if any Hunter found out that your sexual tastes ran submissive, that a deep secret part of you wanted nothing but to be overpowered and forced, to be used by someone stronger than you, better than you…

You can’t think of anything to do but flee. “I… uh…” His helmet tilts again, watching your face closely as you stutter. “Yeah, I guess I was being a little too childish. I’ll stop…stop trying to make you lighten up.” Your eyes slide away from his helmet’s eye slit, unable to handle even the imagined eye contact. “I’ll leave you alone to do whatever it is you do up here. Meditate. I’m gonna go down and…” you make for the ladder to the cargo hold, “and clean my blaster.”

He just watches you go. You can still feel the impact of his hand on your ass, with every movement of your leg as you climb down the rungs of the ladder. Fuck, it’s making your pussy tingle just a badly, too. Your head has just dropped below the hatch when Mando’s modulated voice follows you down with a suggestion that sounds suspiciously like a command. “Why don’t you clean mine, too.”

You feel your face and chest getting hot as soon as you get down to the relative privacy of the ship’s lower level. If you were trying to maintain control of the conversation, you’d say something sassy back to that, not let him win an inch of dominance, but you’re not in control anymore, are you? Not of yourself, not of whatever this is that’s going on between you. And it’s so dangerous. How would you keep his respect, if your top competitor in the Guild knew this about you, what you wanted him to do to you…

Mando’s weapon rack is set into the wall across from the ladder. Certainly there’s cleaning supplies stashed somewhere in that section, but you’re too shaky to get right to work. Instead, you walk down along the racks of carbonite, idly inspecting his cargo as you try and pull yourself together.

Four of the racks are currently occupied; the Mandalorian has been busy. Each one is tagged with a bounty’s chain code. You recognize two of them from Karga’s list. Quarries that you had passed on, that seemed too difficult to be worth their price. Bastard was about to show you up again when he unloaded these trophies.

You take a deep breath when you reach the end of the line. Your ass still tingles in the most tantalizing way, but you grit your teeth and tell yourself to ignore it. Maybe if you just stay down here, avoid your traveling companion until the ship reaches Nevarro, everything else will go just fine. No more bruises to your pride, no dirty secrets revealed. Yeah. That’s smart.

You turn and Mando is just there, boxing you in between the racks of carbonite carriers. How can a guy covered with so much metal be this stealthy? You try not to let shock show on your face; which only means you end up freezing like a prey animal.

“You liked that.” He makes the accusation solidly, with the weight of heavy interest bearing down behind it.

“What are you talking about.” You know, but you don’t want to answer for the heat that surely showed in your face when Mando spanked you. You try to wiggle past him, but he doesn’t acknowledge your intent, makes no move to make way for you.

“You know.” He’s just staring down at you.

You twitch in irritation and decide if he’s ignoring personal space, so can you. Your chest and thigh slide against solid armor as you force your body through the gap between him and the carbonite. “Get out of my way.”

His helmet is the only thing that moves, tracking your labored progression. “Make me.” He echoes your earlier challenge with an amused little tone.

“Fine.” You use your entire body weight to slam him into the rack on the other side. But he recovers too quickly; when you try to step away, into the center of the ship’s hold, he gets an arm around your chest.

As if your adrenaline wasn’t spiking already; now your combat reflexes kick in and you pull him in tighter, squatting low and grabbing that arm for leverage. With a quick burst of effort from your legs, you flip him over your shoulder.

You follow him down, taking advantage of the way a fall inside all that metal has to stun him, and climb on top of his body. “Fifty-five percent.” You also attempt to change the subject.

He reaches up and it’s a struggle to control his arms. He’s kriffing strong, and you’ve already taken off your combat equipment with the hidden tricks you usually use to deal with opponents that are bigger than you. He twists underneath you, in some way that you don’t expect, and with a rough shove and a brief crushing sensation along one leg you find yourself flat on the deck beneath him. “Are you really going to pretend you don’t like this?” his modulator purrs down at you.

Subject not changed. Every one of your nerve endings is in high gear now, and there’s a powerful urge inside you that wants to mewl and spread your legs apart for him right here, like a bitch in heat acknowledging the alpha male. You push the image back with a growl between your teeth, and use your thighs only to try and throw him off you.

Mando responds to your offensive by smothering you back down with his hips. Something solid crushes into the apex of your thighs, and you remember his armor does not have a codpiece.

A feral little moan escapes past your lips. Mando stops, lifting up just a little off your body and cocking his helmet to the side where it hovers only a hand’s breadth above your face. “What was that?” he asks, voice pleased.

And just like that, the whole game has changed. You were so worried he was trying to embarrass you, get one over on you. But if he likes it like this too… You reach your hand down boldly and throw his question back at him. “What’s this?” you ask as your palm makes contact with a delightfully solid bulge straining against the thick fabric of his pants.

A deep rumble purrs out of his modulator. “If you can manage to behave, maybe you’ll find out.”

How does he know exactly what to say to make you squirm? Your body floods with heat as you inwardly flail around to find a non-submissive answer. “And what happens if I don’t behave?”

“Then, maybe things get really interesting.”

Oh. Fuck. Now there’s an option. Maybe you don’t even have to submit to get the kind of tumble you want from him. You bare your teeth in a ferocious, challenging grin, and take advantage of the way he’s pulled his weight back to twist out from under him, knocking his helmet one more time with your elbow as you go.

You scramble across the deck out from under him, but a heavy hand catches your belt before you can get very far. You kick but Mando’s already inside your reach; your heel glances off his armor without even slowing him down.

He tugs on your belt, harshly, and climbs over the backs of your legs to force you down. “Where do you you think you’re going?” His voice is tight with the effort of getting himself positioned on top of you, squishing your belly into the deck.

“Mmf” is the sound you make in response, because now he’s pressing a forearm into your back and putting most of his weight on it.

“Hold still.” You give him a little token resistance, but mostly you let him get settled how he wants, holding you down to the floor evenly with the left side of his body. Leaving his right hand free. “So. What happens when you don’t behave.”

He spanks you, solid and centered and sharp.

You expected it just enough to hold your breath, and make sure you don’t cry out. You may be face-down on the floor under the Mandalorian, but you still have your pride. The first smack is followed by two more, and he grunts when you still don’t make a noise.

Heavy fingers smooth over the sting in your flesh. His hand feels amazing as it covers the swell of your ass, a slow, deliberate drag that feels warmer than it ought to and much more soothing than you expected.

“What’s it going to be, Y/N?” he asks. When you don’t answer fast enough for him, he swats at your other cheek, lazy and powerful.

Maybe he got a little noise out of you with that last one; it’s just too hard to stay quiet and not flinch both at the same time under the strength of that arm.

His helmet comes closer down to your face. “It’s okay to let go.” He speaks with such confidence, such seductive calm. “I can tell you want to submit. You don’t have to keep fighting it.” He shifts on top of you. “Though I do like it when you struggle.”

Your body rolls enticingly underneath him, without your brain’s permission. “Don’t you dare tell anyone you got me like this.”

“Of course not.” His answer is immediate. You remember how he’s always been an honorable man, that part of his reputation impeccable. Perhaps you really can trust him with this side of you. He sticks to the Code, he honors his promises, and lives by the Way of the Mandalore.

That last one begs a certain question, of course. “I wasn’t sure that Mandalorians could even have sex.”

A throaty noise makes the modulator crackle. “We have our ways.” A pause. “Is that what you want?”

You lift your head a little higher. He doesn’t give you much freedom, but he shifts just enough to help you feel comfortable breathing again. “If that’s what you’re offering, yeah, I wouldn’t be opposed to things ending up there.”

His hand gropes over your ass, fingers diving to tease more sensitive flesh between your legs. “After we… resolve a few things.” He grips tightly, almost cruelly. You agree in a sound that comes out much more high-pitched than you intended as he palms your ass and kneads it boldly. “Like whether you’re ready to start behaving like a good girl now.”

You still can’t bring yourself to just say yes, as hot as his words are making you. But you curl into his hand, just a little. To encourage him.

He growls something in a language you don’t know. It sounds like a curse and his weight is pressed down on you again as he scrambles with your belt, loosening your pants just enough to shove everything off the curve of your hips, baring you to mid-thigh in the ship’s cool air. When he spanks you now it’s sharper, the sting lighting up your tender flesh under every open-palmed strike that just keeps coming and coming. “Rubbing your ass on me does not count as an answer.” Smack. “I want to hear you say it.” Smack. “That you submit.” Smack. “That your ass is mine tonight.” A few involuntary cries squeeze out of your throat before he relents and rubs you again, the leather of his glove singing over your overstimulated skin.

You slow your panting breaths before you speak up, endeavoring to match his even tone. “Maybe I’ll play along for a little while.” You twist further, until you can stare up into his silver mask. “What do you want me to do?”

He pulls back, sitting up on his hip. From the angle of his helmet you’d guess that your answer does not really count as the submission he was looking for. Nor did you mean it to be. Someone’s gonna top you, they’ve got to earn it. Even if they are already, physically, on top of you. His moment of thought ends. “Take off your clothes.”

His hand squeezes at your ass one more time as you shift, like he’s loathe to let go while you comply with his command. You make as quick of work with your boots as you can, then push your bottoms off after them. Mando’s sitting beside you, leaning up against a large cargo crate, helmet fixed on your slowly-revealed body.

You’re so self-conscious that your skin feels like it could be glowing, as you bare it for him inch by inch. There’s nothing to read in that cold helmet, but its angle never wavers, riveted on you.

Once you’ve gotten yourself completely naked, he beckons you to come to him with two curling fingers. It’s amazingly erotic to move toward him with nothing on, while every inch of the Mandalorian warrior is still covered in battle-scarred plates.

He reaches out, palm up for your hand. You place your hand in his and he draws you in, until you’re kneeling right beside him. His fingers trail up your arms, over your shoulders, coaxing you closer. His touch is lighter than you expected. But you can hear him breathing through the mask. He’s struggling to stay this calm. To savor this.

His helmet tips down as his fingers knead harder; he watches himself press and squeeze the flesh of your shoulders, your neck, your jaw. The modulator translates another buzzing hum. Does it fascinate him, to see so much bare and vulnerable skin, when he can show none?

You feel your nipples tighten, a silent craving for contact. This feels good, but you want so much more. You look right into his eye slit. “I won’t break,” you say, twisting yourself tighter into the grip of his hands.

The Mandalorian growls and rises up to his knees, helmet filling your vision as he presses himself close and rakes his fingers down your back. He’s looking down at your panting chest and squeezing your ribs, watching the way your pristine tits are so close to brushing against his dirty metal chestplate. He clutches you in, pressing your belly against his, betraying a desire for closeness that he just can’t achieve.

Your hands come up to his shoulders, burrowing through the cowl wrapped around his collar, trying to make contact. Your fingers curl up the column of his neck, where the thinner fabric lets you feel a hint of his body heat. He stiffens when you come close to the bottom of his helmet.

“Leave it,” he snarls, just as you’re telling him “Don’t worry, I wasn’t—"

He scoops you up tightly and sets you on top of the cargo crate he had been leaning against. Your legs open and wrap around him of their own volition as he presses between them. You cross your ankles underneath his cloak, locking his body in close. You let your hands rest on his shoulders, just inside the pauldrons, but don’t attempt to slide under anything again.

Leather-clad fingers rake up your ribs, dragging up the sides of your body before they close over your breasts. Finally. You arc into him and let your eyes close, feeling the texture of his gloves across sensitive skin, the hungry twisting and tugging against your nipples.

“Open your eyes,” he demands, voice breathy with as much arousal as you’re feeling. “I want you to look at me, keep looking at me, let me see…”

He trails off, but you can guess what he means. Let him see what it feels like to be touched. You tip your chin down and lock your eyes on that T-shaped window in his helmet. His fingers pinch around both your nipples at once and your jaw drops. He tickles around the edges, then grabs up the full swell of your tits and squeezes. Your eyes try to flutter shut; it’s already hard to remember his instruction.

He settles into an entirely delicious rhythm, kneading your peaks, watching every crease of your brow, reading every gasp and twitch of your lip so that he can tweak at your nipples just right, until the pleasure is almost unbearable. You don’t even realize your eyes have fallen closed until his hand disappears from one of your tits and slaps at your cheek.

It’s not hard, just a slight sting, the corrective swat of a playful alpha. “Eyes,” he reminds you, then goes right back to his blissful torture.

Your core is warming almost unbearably. Every tug at your nipples is drawing a tingling line of pleasure right down between your thighs, taking the heat that had already awoken there during your spanking and fanning the flames, until the need for more is almost unbearable. “Mando,” you moan, tilting your hips forward on the crate, “please…”

A pleased little sound comes out of the modulator. “Please what?”

“Urmmm,” you moan at him, twisting your body, trying to scoot your hips a little closer to him. “I need more.”

He responds by pinching your nipples harder, just enough pain to make you gasp and curl. You pout up toward his helmet. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But you like it.” He does it again, and this time you cry out. A stabbing ache deep between your legs reminds you you’re still not getting what you want.

Fingers tickle down your belly, brushing across your inner thighs. Then they slide around behind and pinch you hard on the ass. You wail in frustration.

Mando tips his helmet closer to your face. “Tell me again how I don’t know how to be playful.”

“Fuck!” you cry through gritted teeth.

“Fuck what?”

Your hands scramble down his armored chest, aiming for his belt to just reach down and show him what you want.

“Uh uh.” He grabs your wrists before you can do more than pop the buckle on his utility belt. “Hands stay on my shoulders.”

You immediately comply, too far gone now to be contradictory. “Fuck me, Mando.”

“Oh yeah?” He straightens up a little, his posture cocky as he stands there wrapped in your naked legs. “You ready to say it?”

“I’m yours.” You don’t even hesitate. “Do whatever you want with me.”

He takes his belt the rest of the way off with one hand, lets it drop to the floor. The other hand is busy squeezing your ass, then traveling around your hip. He pushes your legs open a little wider, then his thumbs come running down your inner thighs, pulling at your labia, spreading you even more. You lean back, curling your hips up, to give him a better view.

His breath hisses out from under the helmet. “You want me to fuck this little pussy?”

“Yes,” you moan, as his thumbs stroke up and down, just around its edges.

He pulls you open wider. “You ready to be a good girl, and do exactly as I say?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Exactly,” he repeats, and a ghost of a chill runs down your spine in the midst of all this heat. He takes one of your hands from his shoulder, and turns it palm up near your mouth. “Spit.”

The thumb of his other hand is still sliding up and down next to your opening, not touching your wetness. You appreciate that he’s not about to let his dirty gloves make things unsanitary. You gather up saliva to the front of your mouth and carefully coat your first two fingers.

Mando keeps his grip on your wrist, and pushes your hand down to your entrance as soon as he’s done watching your lips and tongue work over your own fingers.

You smooth the spit over your slit, Mando’s grip still guiding you, making sure you do a thorough job lubricating yourself. His other thumb creeps down over your clit, rocking across it carefully, steadily, his helmet angling back up to watch your face.

It’s a struggle to keep your eyes open against the pleasure of that pressure, finally right where you need it. But you remember his rule. You keep your gaze locked on the beskar as your own fingers find a rhythm underneath his, the gloved hand locked around your wrist urging you to press into yourself deeper, faster, in coordination with his rolling thumb. You find yourself clutching at the back of his neck just to keep your balance as the needy pleasure explodes. “That’s it,” his voice soothes over the modulator, “get yourself ready for me.”

You’re doing more than getting ready. Even just this much touch from him is sending you straight toward a spiraling orgasm, now that all the wild pleasure built up by every slap and struggle and pinch finally has somewhere to go.

He sees it coming, the way your eyelids go tight at the effort to keep them open and looking at him. “Don’t,” he warns. “Save it.”

He stops moving his thumb, though he doesn’t release its pressure. He swirls your hand inside of yourself one last time before drawing it out, then setting it back onto his shoulder in line with the other one.

You can’t help but roll your hips against his thumb while Mando starts loosening his own clothing. You want to call him cruel when he removes that hand too, bringing it up to caress your neck, but you have no ability to talk back anymore. Especially when his fingers curl up underneath your jaw. “Now. The most important thing.” You can feel him pulling himself out of his pants, though he’s brought his body in closer and you can’t see that far with your head tilted up in his hand like this. “Don’t look down.” His fingers squeeze tighter around your jaw, the heel of his hand pressing into the top of your throat. “If you look, I’ll have to kill you.”

He could be exaggerating, just to make this hotter for you, more intense, but you remember what he said to some over-curious bitch at Karga’s tavern once. No living thing has seen me without my helmet. Apparently The Way is preserved if violators quickly become only the formerly living.

“Yes,” you say quickly, voicebox buzzing against his wrist, words mumbling together against the unrelenting pressure in his fingers, “I understand.”

A few more quick movements down where you can’t see, and then you feel something warm and thick pressing up against your core. You both moan together as he slides his head up and down your slick folds, only fumbling a little before he finds his aim. Fuck. This is what you’ve been craving. You brace yourself against the cargo crate as best you can, squeezing your legs around him to invite him in.

You think you're ready to take him, but you're not. He crushes in bigger and wider than you’re used to, and you wail up into that impassive beskar face and try in vain to remember how to relax and take a dick like this one.

His breath is catching in little straining grunts; apparently this is pretty overwhelming for him, too. When he’s halfway in he removes his guiding hand from his own shaft and returns his thumb to your clit; that helps. The more familiar pleasure of his pressure helps melt your walls into the stretch of him. “You’re so. Fucking. Tight.” His hand never wavers on your jaw as he starts to pump, in and out, getting a little bit deeper into you with every thrust, groaning a little louder with every inch he gains.

Fuck. This position has every muscle in your body straining, which is probably why it’s so hard for him to fit in, but you don’t even care because the intensity of it is everything that you’ve been craving. “Fuck—” he adjusts his grip just a fraction, so you can talk a little easier, “fuck me just how you want, Mando, I can take it.”

He groans and takes his thumb off your clit, bringing that big hand around to grab onto your hip and brace you for a wilder pace. You only bemoan the loss of his thumb for a second, because the new angle slides his cock against a wicked spot deeper inside you.

“Ahh!” you wail, and wrap your arms tighter around his neck, needing him to hold you up as he fucks up into you at an angle that destroys the precarious balance you had been maintaining on the edge of this cargo crate. His controlling grip on your neck is choking you just a little, a sensation so erotic that you can feel your impending orgasm sizzle and tighten all around his cock the more you focus on it. “Mando, I—Can I?” you pant, your face so close that your breath is fogging up the beskar.

“Yes, fucking come for me,” he orders, then presses into you harder, his grip momentarily cutting off your airway completely. A second later your orgasm hits you like a ton of bricks, spasming every muscle in your core, your thighs, in your silent, breathless chest, and Mando just keeps fucking you through it all.

As soon as the heel of his hand slides off your throat you’re screaming through your teeth, the sound bouncing along with his thrusts. His pace is relentless until your orgasm finally peaks, and the stiffness of your body starts to melt against him. You realize that you’ve wrapped your arms fully around his helmet, getting as close as his controlling grip on your jaw would allow.

His pace slows, but it does not stop. From the aching deep inside your belly, you know that he’s still fully hard, just giving you a brief moment to recover yourself.

You sigh into the side of his head, a long, lovely sound. Your body shivers with aftershocks around his solid shaft, keeping your pleasure brimming, not letting it fade. That hand controlling your jaw pushes you back, gently, until he can see your face again.

His grip spasms on your ass. He must like what he sees. “Close your eyes.” You do, and he starts to pull away. “Keep them closed. I’m turning you over.”

You unlock your ankles from behind his back as he draws his length out of your body, both of you gasping and shuddering as he withdraws. Your legs come down to the ground rather stiffly, and you’re glad of the way he manhandles you along, until you’re bending over the crate with your thighs pressed into its edge. You’re not sure your legs would have held you up without his help.

Mando wastes no time lining his cock back up again. You hold onto the edges of the cargo crate as he presses in eagerly. A gasp rips from your throat as your head lifts up in an involuntary bend of your back; this position lets him drive in deeper, forcing you to adjust to his size all over again.

A split second after your head comes up, Mando’s fingers squeeze through your hair at the base of your skull, using that grip to hold you steady and facing forward. You really weren’t trying to turn and look, but you suppose he can’t risk it. He keeps control of your head, pulling your hair a little in time to his thrusts, as he groans out a deep, pleasured sound. You give voice to how you’re feeling, too, letting little sobbing moans spill out in time to his insistent thrusts. He can’t see your face anymore, and you barely have the leverage to move your hips against him, so this is the only way to keep the connection.

“Oh, keep making those sounds,” Mando pants, then the modulator keeps crackling with more of his soft grunts as he plumbs your depths. “You take me so good.” When he flattens his hips against your ass it definitely hurts; he’s reached the end of you, and is trying to stretch past it, deep inside. But even that pain is erotic; you wail and submit under his praise and his smothering need.

His grunts and his thrusts both start coming faster, and just as you fear that you’re hitting your limit, that you can’t take any more, some new dimension of release and submission open up inside you, and all that suffering transforms into a pleasure so fierce that your walls are clenching and your mind is wiped by an orgasm that turns the rest of your body to jelly.

When your mind clears you find your cheek flush to the surface of the cargo crate. Mando’s hand is pressing it there, with his fingers wrapped across your eyes, and he’s groaning through his teeth as he smashes himself as deep into your body as he can get. He shudders and bucks, roaring through his orgasm, the modulator translating the sound with an almost musical edge.

When he’s done he sags partially on top of you, his belly resting on your hips while his arms keep his chestplate from digging into your back. His cock is keeping you plugged, a thick presence that makes you feel stretched even when it’s going soft. One of his hands is still resting over your eyes, but all the tension has gone out of it. You wonder if he’d feel the flicker of your eyelashes against his glove if your lids accidentally parted. You keep them closed.

He hums, fingertips running softly up your back. You wonder if he’s looking down, admiring your bare skin once again. Your entire body is thrumming, the satisfaction spreading to every muscle fiber. You know things will feel awkward soon, but for now you really don’t want to move.

Eventually Mando pulls himself gently out of you. A spurt of warm liquid follows, running thickly down your leg. Fuck, how backed up was he?

“Don’t move,” he warns, lifting his body up off of yours.

You give him a contented little murmur and stay perfectly relaxed. “Eyes still shut,” you reassure him. You’re not even annoyed at the lack of trust these constant reminders might convey. This is something he has to control strictly. Certainly it’s a great privilege that he even took the risk with you. You listen to his footsteps retreat and return, as you lay draped over the cargo crate and enjoy the bliss that is only just beginning to fade.

“You can open them now,” he says softly once he’s standing over you again. One hand slides over your ass, pausing at a spot that feels surprisingly sensitive. “I’ve given you a welt or two here.”

“Souvenir,” you grin up at him, twisting your spine while keeping your hips relaxed under his hand. “Thanks.”

Mando nods his helmet back at you. He’s got a cloth in his other hand, dampened from the fresher, and he wipes up the mess he’s left between your legs with careful, steady dabs. “I should be the one thanking you,” he says softly, maybe even a little awkwardly. “That was…”

“Overdue?” you quip, as he’s wiping all the way down to your ankle to clean up the enormous load he had for you.

“Maybe just a little.” He steps away to trade the towel for a thin, precisely-folded blanket, which he shakes out and spreads over you. You stand up in his arms as he does, guiding him to wrap it around your shoulders. You hold it tight and lean in toward him for a snug embrace. The blanket makes pressing your bare body against his armored plating much more comfortable. “Come here,” he mutters, and draws you to sit on the floor with him, leaning up against the cargo crate and each other. Even the afterglow of wild sex with the Mandalorian doesn’t make his spare ship any less uncomfortable, but you focus on the way his arm holds you tucked in tight against his body, the way you can feel him breathing against your ribs.

“That was good,” you breathe.

“Yeah.”

You lean your head tentatively against his shoulder, wondering how much intimacy he’s going to allow now. His arm shifts, helping you get more comfortable, and his thumb is dragging back and forth, idly, along the top of your thigh.

There’s one question you have to ask.

“Would you really have had to kill me, if I looked?”

He holds his breath for a moment, then lets it blow out with a soft glottal sound. “Most Mandalorians would. But honestly? To me, that wouldn’t have made a difference. Even if you didn’t live to tell the tale, my honor would still be smirched. I’d know I’d failed a central tenet, and from every day after I’d be living a lie.”

Your brow creases, and you turn to look up at him even though you can’t read his face. That was kriffing serious. “So it’s not just about the helmet.”

His beskar mask nods. “Not the way I was raised.”

You turn your gaze away, idly looking across the cargo bay. “Wow.” You’d never seen him not covered head to toe, and you never would.

“But I think…” he trails off as his hands burrow under your blanket, coming around to meet each other in front of your belly and fumbling with something. “I think this is acceptable.” His hand finds one of yours, and air rushes into your chest in a silent, measured gasp as you realize the fingers winding between yours are his, warm skin, completely bared to the wrist.

You sit together in silence for a long time, feeling the twin pulses of living palms pressed together, the small twitches of muscle and the sparkle of nerve endings when a finger softly strokes across the back of a hand. The more you imagine how much this must mean to him, the more it means to you, until your head is spinning and you can barely handle the intimacy of the kind of touch you’ve always taken simply for granted.

You’re afraid to ask what this means. This whole encounter was so unplanned; you don’t even know what you want from the Mandalorian, much less what he wants from you. Is he doing this just because of the afterglow rush of soft hormones, or does he think you and he could be something more?

And when you feel awkward, you talk. People skills, remember? You squeeze his hand and restart an old conversation. “Told you we make a good team.”

He grunts.

Maybe you should just shut up and enjoy the cuddle. But his non-answer does not help your racing mind to still. The urge to tease him starts taking over again. “You know, we’re still not done negotiating that split.”

Mando groans softly. “The only split I want to think about is how far I can split open your legs.”

A new thrill runs up your spine, but you stay on track with only a small giggle escaping your throat. “How about we round it back up to sixty percent for me, and as soon as that big dick can get hard again, I’ll throw on a blindfold and give you the best head you ever had in your life.”

Mando’s fingers card through yours, and his other hand comes up to play with your hair. “Tempting.” There’s a rumble deep in his throat that makes your aching cunt tighten. “But let’s just call it 50-50, and we can fuck all the way to Nevarro.”

Part Two here

My Mando Smut Masterlist

Taglist: @mabelleen @lokiaddicted @aethersghoulette @nolivingthingdroid @pinkmoontribe-blog @baar-ur @otherthingsinhead @biolo-tea @greendragonzz @aesikupills @of-narwhals-and-ink @doubtedbus409 @kittyatemytaco @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @space-princesssss @okilover02 @debonaire-princess @myfruitgummies @pinstripeninja13 @taman-a @mandowhoreian @cptnbvcks @funmadnessandbadassvikings @soapjay @otherthingsinhead @onebatch--twobatch @lilwickedred @mabelleen @stardancerluv @naiomiwinchester @equalstrashflavoredtrash @laketaj24 @themaskismyface @pascallorian @shadowfoxey @thatkidofwarandpeace @pokeasleepingsmaug @anniemar

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x reader #mandalorian smut #the split fic #Mando smut

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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

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Dreams, Chapter 11

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 11

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2616

Summary: Another dream makes things more clear for the reader and less clear for Sam.

Warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, s l o w b u r n

The booths are those plastic-coated pressboard swoops that are so easy to clean, one row down either side of the long room once you walk past the counter to order. Like other pizza places, there are red pepper flakes and grated parmesan on the table, but they also keep ranch dressing in a minifridge behind the counter as a concession to Midwestern sensibilities. You know you’re just outside Dayton just like you know the pizza shop is run by a family, father and two older teenage daughters deftly throwing dough and scattering cheese evenly over it in a way that shows their years of practice. Dean sits across the table with his elbows on it, one forefinger and thumb picking through a plate of nachos between you. His black t-shirt, amulet, and lack of flannel make you notice the hum of the air conditioner in the background, straining over the 90’s alternative radio and reminding you that you’d been here in a heat stroke the summer after you and Dean had gotten together, his golden freckles and lightened tips of his slightly messy hair underlining the memory.

“They don’t serve nachos here.” It’s half statement and half question.

“Babe, it’s your dream. They’ll serve whatever you want. Does the pizza suck in Wisconsin or something?”

The two sisters are whispering to each other as they look over at your table, an almost-argument that ends with who you suspect is the older sister poofing a pinch of flour into the other’s face. They’re both cute girls but she’s adorable, soft cherubic cheeks and messy bun piling impossibly glossy hair on her head as she walks over to the table with a gigantic pizza. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks in a perfect welcoming cheerleader pitch.

“I think we’re good for now, sweetheart,” Dean purrs with a wink. That you remember; you’d playfully chastised Dean for dazzling the teens, laughing in his face when he’d said it wasn’t on purpose, that he couldn’t help it if chicks dug him. The wink had proved your point then and now it makes the girl’s cheeks flush red.

She catches herself remarkably well, the stammer almost slipping under the radar as she assures you that you can “holler if you need anything!”

Dean brushes his fingers free of nacho debris and loosens a piece of pizza from the melting cheese of the ones next to it. “Last time you had all kinds of sweet nothings and questions for me and now you’re Silent Cal?”

“I don’t think this is real, but I’m pretty sure if I push it you’ll either die in this dream or I’ll wake up, so my plan is to stay here as long as we can.”

He drops the pizza back into the box and wipes off his fingers on a napkin before slouching into the booth, arm stretched across its length. “So test me then. Gimme a question only I would know or something.”

“Well if I ask you something that I know the answer to, my brain will just project you knowing it. See the problem?”

Dean squints and pouts in consideration, touch of a smile dancing across his face and if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen may you be struck dead right now. “Then ask me something you don’t know the answer to.”

You think about explaining how that too could just be some part of your subconscious recreation of Dean but you don’t want to keep pulling at loose strings in the event that it wakes you up. It’s too hard to keep from smiling, seeing Dean charming and relaxed like this, and when you grin it makes Dean bite his lip. “What’s something I don’t know the answer to?”

“Ah, ah—I thought I’m just a hologram, how would I know?”

“Projection, but okay,” you stall. “Wait, here’s one. Sam said when I first started going on jobs with you guys that you had to have a conversation about staying focused. What was that all about?”

He runs his tongue along the inside of his lower lip. “Man, why would he tell you that?” he says under his breath, smirking mostly to himself before leaning forward to meet your eyes. “Fine. I’m not even sure that you’re going to remember this. There was a vengeful spirit in Indiana, some like homesteader guy, ring a bell?”

You have only the vaguest sense of recollection and sort of waggle your head to show it.

“It was way at the beginning of when you started coming on jobs with us. You and Bobby got into it because he wanted you to bring your own car so you could ditch us if we were ‘acting like cretins’ or some shit like that?”

That fits the last puzzle piece in for you and makes you chuckle. “He ended up giving me like $250 of mad money in case I needed a new room or a bus ticket, yeah. I remember.”

“I didn’t know that part but that’s gotta be the same trip. The whole thing was really stupid. Basically we were supposed to have your six but both me and Sammy wanted to carry a shotgun instead of doing that protection spell because it looked cooler. We were arguing about it when the spirit whipped a chunk of the barn’s scaffolding at you and we didn’t catch it in time. You heard it coming and ducked so nothing ended up happening, but it fucking demolished the wall behind you. It was a huge fuckup—thing could’ve taken your head clean off, you know? Sam was so broken up about it he was wasted for like a week solid after we dropped you back off at Bobby’s.”

“Really? That doesn’t sound like him at all.”

“I know, usually he does some kind of pouty baby bullshit. But I mean both of us felt really guilty that bitching at each other could’ve taken you out.”

Dean’s eyes rake over your face, seeming to linger over every inch like he’s going to draw a topographical map of it later by memory. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say something but you can’t think of anything other than tracing each of his freckles where they dust across his nose.

A hand reaches over the table to run his fingertips along the back of yours, and that certainly feels real enough to send an ache into your gut. “What if you ask Sam? If he says that’s not what happened then you can keep saying I’m not real and you don’t have to listen to me.”

“But he already basically told me that. The only thing I probably wouldn’t have guessed about that is Sam getting drunk about it—these could’ve been just well-informed guesses about when it probably was or the kinds of things it seemed like he was implying.”

His lips press into a firm line and the barest touch of pink rises in his cheeks. “We, um, we pinky swore on it.”

The adorableness of his embarrassment makes you grin teasingly as much as the divulgence does. “A pinky promise? You guys must’ve been pretty serious to take such a sacred oath.”

He rolls his eyes at your ribbing and throws his hands back in his lap with a defeated smirk. “Laugh it up. Would that be good enough proof for you?”

It seems like Dean has figured out a loophole in the system, but you’re sure the light of day and Sam’s scrutiny will figure out why it isn’t actual evidence of communication with Dean beyond death, and you tell him that.

A curtain of suspicious confusion falls over Dean’s face. “Sam being weird about it is what’s keeping you from trusting this? Kid, I’ve been talking to Sa—”

And you woke up.

The bed was empty next to you but you could smell something sweet in the air and hear the light clinking of pots or pans Sam was trying his best to keep quiet. You blinked back a few tears of frustration—who even cared if it was real or not? Reliving a great memory with Dean was more than enough and instead of enjoying it you’d wasted a chance at some small respite from your constant ache of grief. And even then, you hadn’t used any of your time to figure out how the whole thing worked, how you could see him again.

But the most pressing issue was what you thought Dean had been trying to say before disappearing; that he had gotten through to Sam. Sam, of course, deserved to have secrets, but if he had been sitting on the resolution to all the angst you’d been struggling through in the last weeks (months?), you couldn’t imagine a reason why that wouldn’t hurt. Nothing would be solved by laying in your bed to sulk about it, though, so you threw on some clothes and went to brush your teeth.

When you came out, Sam was hunched slightly, the standard stove highlighting his decidedly non-standard height as he shuffled a pan’s handle. He had a dishtowel over his t-shirt clad shoulder, a habit from the bar that sometimes held over when he was in the kitchen at home, and bare feet under old jeans. They were wearing through at the knees, and you knew they were absolutely pajama-soft from having periodically thrown them in with your own laundry. Through the kitchen window, enough snow-brightened sunlight came into the room to cast him in a halo glow that gleamed off of his hair. As long as it had gotten, chunks still swept into his face as he looked down at the stove, and he tucked one behind his ear as he looked up, half-singing a Buddy Guy song that was playing softly. It was stunning—he was stunning, statuesque and strong and right there in front of you. Cooking you breakfast while you slept in, of all things, chocolate chip pancakes he had to have remembered were your favorite from ages ago. You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d had them and right now, nothing in the world sounded better. He beamed and tilted the pan toward you. “Morning! I made pancakes, you want some?”

And you should’ve just let the moment rest, sat in the rare bright winter morning and eaten chocolate chip pancakes and relished how well the boiler was working, maybe later in the day read a predictable murder mystery or taped off the living room to be painted and listened to REM until your shoulders were sore from running rollers up the walls all afternoon. Instead, about as stupid and weird a flop as if a toad had come out of your mouth, you said, “Have you been talking to Dean too?”

Sam’s face fell but not in the right way. There was too much angle in his brow and that confirmed it. “What?” he asked, but it didn’t land.

“How long have you been talking to Dean?”

He kept that curious smile for a second, like maybe he could push through by playing dumb and you would forget, but finally his lips flattened and his jaw clenched as he stacked a finished pancake on top of its predecessors. “Just because I’m having dreams about him doesn’t mean it’s really him,” he finally answered, softly and as though he was telling the bubbling pancake batter in front of him, unable to meet your eyes.

You felt the lump forming in your throat and tried to get the words out ahead of its solidifying. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“For what?” He let go of the pan and turned toward you, supporting his weight on the countertop. “So we can both—”

“Both what? Be delusional? Is that what you were going to say?”

Sam didn’t answer, but the set of his jaw was firm and he kept his eyes locked on yours.

“He told me you were drunk for a week after the hunt you were talking about.” You watched as Sam’s pupils widened a touch. “And that you didn’t just promise each other to buckle down, you pinky swore.” Sam’s Adam’s apple jumped in his throat. “It’s true, isn’t it? I can see in your face that it is. Did you already know it’s really him?”

He looked down at the floor and clenched his jaw. “I was pretty sure. Or at least I really hoped I was pretty sure.”

You felt more than consciously allowed your mouth’s falling open. “How? How long?”

“It just—I don’t know, it just felt different. I—uh, the first time was after we made those cupcakes; he asked about the cupcakes.”

You slumped against the countertop opposite him, speechless. He shoved the pan off the hot burner a little too hard, put a palm on either side of the stove to brace himself. The two of you stood like that for a long minute, the smell of chocolate not matching the stiff heaviness in the air at all.

“I don’t—what if it’s not real?” His throat sounded bound even though you couldn’t see his face, hulking mass of him spread across the tiny kitchen.

He seemed so defeated, so young, and then you couldn’t believe how selfish you’d been, not putting two and two together that something challenging Sam’s grip on or understanding of reality must shove him back to the brain melting torture he’d endured in the cage and the months—years, maybe, he was always so tight-lipped about it—afterward. What the fuck were you thinking, not seeing it before, how this could seem like a perfectly laid trap for Sam, the most poetic way to whip his mind into stiff peaks of meringue. It made so much sense why he would need time to really suss it out, see the situation from all angles and investigate, check and re-check. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes but you blinked them away. This was not about you or your complicated need for him, it was about Sam, what he’d been through, what he was likely putting himself through even now.

“The, um, the pancakes smell really good.”

“Yeah?” There was half a laugh behind his words, humorless as it was. “I hope they’re okay, I know they’re your, uh, your favorite.”

“I’m surprised you remembered.”

Sam leaned on one arm to rub his face with his other hand. “Yeah, well.”

“Can I help?”

After a beat, he stood up and offered some space next to him on the stove. You worked hip to hip, sprinkling the chocolate chips while Sam flipped. He was scraping the last of the batter into a last little runt pancake with a spatula when you couldn’t help yourself and wrapped your arms around his waist. He seemed surprised, if sad, before setting down the bowl and covering as much of you as he could, folding over you like a protective shell. It reminded you of that dirty motel room, months and months ago, when Sam held you together as you cracked in his arms. All he could do then was be steadfast in reminding you he was still there, if nothing else was, and you hoped you were able to give him the same now.

You silently laid two place settings on the kitchen counter while Sam set the food out. He sat next to you and had picked up his fork when you touched his wrist to still him. “If it’s not real for you then I’m losing it too.”

Sam thought for a second, then raised his forearm and kissed the back of your hand where you held onto him before cutting into his pancakes.

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 12

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lesbianlotties · 3 years

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Sam Fraser Has a Good Day

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Fear Street Trilogy (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Samantha "Sam" Fraser/Deena Johnson Characters: Samantha "Sam" Fraser (Fear Street), Deena Johnson Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Not Canon Compliant, Everyone Is Alive, Nightmares, Breakfast, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Napping, Dancing, Late Night Conversations, Making Out, Kissing, Fluff without Plot, Domestic Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Fluff, literally what the title says Words: 2401

In the span of a couple of days, Sam Fraser was: in a car crash, chased by several undead killers, used as bait, almost overdosed, drowned, possessed, tied up in the trunk of a car, hit in the head several times... and somehow she survived.

She deserves a good day. She deserves to: stay in her girlfriend's house and steal her sweaters, sleep until noon, have a good breakfast, eat jello in peace, get clean bandages, play video games, eat ice cream, take a nap, dance to her favorite songs, go on a late-night drive for cheeseburgers, and cuddle and kiss her girlfriend the entire day.

Sam wakes up startled, as usual. She is gasping for air and sitting up hastily. Was she having a nightmare? Is she stepping into a nightmare now? Because she can tell she’s wearing one of Deena’s t-shirts. But what if her mom sees her? Is she going to catch her? Should she start running from something, or keep herself from running toward something?

“Sam?”

That soft voice is the one that breaks the spell.

“Deena,” Sam sighs.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Deena whispers, tentatively wrapping her arms around her girlfriend. Instantly, she feels Sam relax in her embrace.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, tucking her face on the crook of Deena’s neck. “Just a nightmare.”

“I got you,” Deena says softly. She places a kiss on Sam’s forehead and carefully guides them to lay down again. “It’s early. Why don’t you go back to sleep?” Deena asks, realizing right after that Sam fell asleep before answering at all.

A couple of hours later, Sam wakes up again. This time there are no nightmares, no screams of terror caught in her throat, no reaching out blindly for air or a weapon. She wakes up slowly, clutching the heavy blanket that covers her body, yawning without restrain, and eventually opening her eyes slowly. The first thing she does is look for her girlfriend, and she finds her sitting at the foot of the bed, sketching on a notebook with an endearing frown of concentration on her face.

“Good morning,” Sam says through a new yawn.

“Well,” Deena smirks fondly at her, “it is closer to noon now, but good morning to you too, baby.”

“What? Noon?” Sam frowns and attempts to rub the sleep off her eyes. “Since when do I sleep longer than you?” Sam asks, and puts on a pout on her lips for her next question, “And why are you so far away?”

Deena chuckles affectionately at her and puts away her pencil and notebook. She crawls back to her girlfriend and playfully flops down beside her. “Hey,” Deena greets her with her signature raspy tone. She receives a dreamy “hi” and a soft peck on the lips in response. Afterward, she explains, “To answer your question, I just thought you deserved a day to sleep in.” When Sam gives her a look of pleased surprise, Deena adds, “In fact, I think you’ve earned a full day, just for you, to rest and enjoy.”

“Deena, you don’t have to do that,” Sam attempts to protest, right before her girlfriend interrupts her with a kiss that turns into two, and three, and four, and soon enough they simply lose count.

Deena’s plans encounter an obstacle as soon as they manage to leave the comfort of her room to go make breakfast. Sam was fresh out of the shower, wearing one of Deena’s t-shirts this time. Deena barely gets to open the fridge before Sam tries to intervene with a soft-spoken, “Let me.” It’s safe to say that Deena puts up quite a fight, though.

“I just wanted to take care of you for one day, okay?” She insists. “You fucking deserve it.”

“That’s sweet,” Sam replies, feeling absolutely endeared. She leans in and places a kiss on Deena’s forehead, and Deena tries and fails to keep up her frown. “Listen, I appreciate it, and I love you for it, okay?” Sam says, giving Deena’s lips a small kiss. “But consider this. One, you already took care of me at my worst. Two, a perfect day, for me, means that you get to enjoy it too, and I get to take care of you too, got it? And three… do you really want to burn my breakfast on my special day?”

Sam attempted to quickly kiss Deena’s cheek and run away, but the brunette was quick enough to reach out and take her in her arms, ticking her in revenge for the not-unfounded critique of her culinary skills.

After their meal, the two girls make their way to the living room’s couch, where they are free to cuddle and exchange lazy kisses for as long as they could possibly want. Eventually, though, Deena finds the strength to pull away long enough to have an actual conversation.

“So, while you were sleeping, Kate and Simon stopped by,” Deena says. “Everyone feels kind of bad about you, you know, getting possessed and shit.” Deena pauses with a grimace, not proud of her choice of words, but Sam quickly kisses her cheek to urge her to go on. Deena begrudgingly stands up from the couch, to look for a certain bag, and explains, “Josh, oh so generously, gave us the gift of privacy and he is staying the fuck away from home for the day. He’s sleeping at Simon’s house. Also, he says you can play his video games, if you want. And… Kate and Simon brought all this.”

Deena drops a bag from the Grab N’ Bag on the couch and Sam eagerly looks through its contents. She gasps, “Finally!” And pulls out one of many packets of jello.

Deena’s love-sick laugh spills right out of her lips. “You’re adorable,” Deena says before kissing the top of Sam’s head and climbing back to the couch beside her. “There’s also popcorn, chips, ice cream is in the fridge, a couple of your favorite movies that I think were yours in the first place and they’re just returning, and a happy birthday card because they don’t exactly make cards for the shit we’ve lived,” Deena explains, content to watch her girlfriend smile and nod happily while enjoying her jello. Then she clears her throat and not so contentedly adds, “We also have a bunch of uh, fresh bandages and stuff.”

The two girls exchange a look and understand exactly what this means.

“This is not what I had in mind when I planned to give you a perfect day,” Deena says. She is sitting on the bathroom counter without a shirt on while Sam gives the final touches to the fresh bandage on Deena’s stomach. At the beginning, her hands were shaking with guilt, and fear, but she quickly got them under control and lovingly worked on the healing wound that a different version of herself caused.

“I told you,” Sam insists without looking away from her work. “I also want to take care of you, you know?” She is standing there without her shirt on, with an equally fresh bandage on her back.

When Sam iss done, Deena gently grabs her hands and moves them up to her lips to kiss them sweetly. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Sam turns breathless at the gesture. She feels butterflies in her stomach and decides to tell Deena how much she’s enjoying her day. Speechless as she is though, Sam only thinks to lean forward and connect their lips, determined to kiss her girlfriend until they lose track of time.

Some time later, Sam finds herself comfortably seated on her girlfriend’s lap, wearing her sweater again, and biting her lip in great concentration as she tries to succeed at one of Josh’s video games.

“You nerd, I can’t believe you’re into this,” Deena chuckles fondly behind her.

“Hush, I almost got it,” Sam mumbled.

As much as Deena wants Sam to win whatever game that is, she thinks it would be a crime to hold herself back in a position as convenient as this one. So she moves Sam’s blonde hair out of the way and starts placing feather-light kisses on her neck. At first, Sam tries to ignore her. Then, she squirms just a little. After a very effective bite from Deena, a small whimper escapes from Sam’s lips.

“Tell me,” Deena starts saying with a seductive whisper. “Do the other cheerleaders know you’re secretly a dork?”

That finally gets Sam to stop the game and turn around with a gasp. “Deena!” she protests, although she’s laughing. And she crashes her lips together. She would hate to let Deena win so easily, but she feels much more like a winner in this situation.

Sometime in the afternoon, Sam wakes up on the couch with her head on Deena’s chest. She’s so perfectly comfortable and warm and safe, that she starts to feel suspicious. She didn’t even have a bad dream at all. She starts to fearfully consider this might be nothing but a dream about to turn into a nightmare, but then she moves her head up to look at her girlfriend and her worries vanish all at once. Deena is still asleep, she’s frowning a little and her lips are slightly parted as she adorably mumbles in her sleep. The feeling of love and adoration in Sam’s chest is so strong and so real that she doesn’t have any doubt this has to be her reality.

After all the pain, the fear, and the danger of it all, this is real, and they earned it. It’s not even just about those days of extreme violence when they ended the curse, it’s even bigger than that. It’s a moment of well-earned peace and happiness that’s been more than three hundred years in the making. They have been fighting for this moment their entire lives, and they were so close to losing hope forever, but they made it. Deena was right, they fucking deserve it.

So, Sam makes a couple of decisions. First, she decides it’s best if they go one day without watching a horror movie. As much as she loves them, they have had enough horror for a while. And two, she decides that continuing her nap is the perfect way to honor Deena’s wish of giving her a perfect day. She gets comfortable again on top of her girlfriend and drifts back to sleep.

Not too long later, Sam and Deena are in the middle of a tube of ice cream and halfway through watching Grease. Well, Deena is watching the movie. Sam is a little more focused on the extremely amusing sight of Deena trying to avoid smiling at the movie.

“Oh my God, you love it,” Sam keeps giggling whenever Deena slips up and grins at the movie on the television screen.

“No, I fucking don’t,” Deena rolls her eyes, makes no move to quit the movie, and adds through gritted teeth, “I just acknowledge that it’s a classic.”

Her words only make Sam smile even brighter as she continues to take spoonfuls of ice cream and marvel at the sight of her girlfriend.

A perfect day, of course, wouldn’t be complete without listening to the mixtape Deena made for Sam, and dancing in the middle of her bedroom without a care in the world.

Sam is the one that starts dancing, swinging her arms around, not very gracefully. And Deena shakes her head at her with extreme fondness. “You are a weirdo, Sam Fraser,” she says, making her girlfriend laugh, completely unaffected by the comment.

“Dance with me,” Sam replies with a carefree grin on her face. She steps forward and pulls on Deena’s arms until she convinces her to dance with her.

As usual, Deena tries to put up a fight that she loses as soon as she stares into precious blue eyes. There’s not a thing she wouldn’t do for Sam. They already had to do the most extreme things for each other. How could she refuse her girlfriend a dance?

It’s a perfect evening to a perfect day. The two of them dance to their favorite songs, laugh wholeheartedly, kiss without holding back, jump and spin and fall in each other's arms again and again, as if falling in love all over with every new song.

As comfortable as it would be to stay home for the last few hours of the day, the perfect dinner to complete the day means getting cheeseburgers. Not even Deena complains about the idea. After all, she always loved driving around town with Sam in the passenger seat, humming along to the songs on her mixtape, her blonde hair glowing under the streetlights they passed, completely comfortable silence between them, without a destination in mind.

They park the car at a familiar spot. They eat their cheeseburgers, playfully feed fries to each other, and have a perfectly good time. Conversation flows easily between them, reminiscing of old memories or sharing dreams of a bright future that starts to feel more possible than ever before.

When Sam starts yawning, Deena is quick to point out, “You’re sleepy.”

“Am not,” Sam scoffs in that very particular way that tells Deena her girlfriend is blatantly lying.

“Don’t fall asleep on me, Fraser. How rude,” Deena teases her.

Sam giggles happily in response. She can’t deny she’s looking forward to returning home to Deena’s bed, but she genuinely loves to put up a fight against her girlfriend, no matter how often she ends up losing.

“I’m very awake,” Sam insists, a knowing look on her face because she can easily predict Deena’s answer.

“Prove it,” Deena says.

Even before she’s done saying the words, Sam is leaning in to kiss her. They kiss, again and again, until Sam whispers against Deena’s lips, “Take me home.”

It’s well past midnight when Sam and Deena finally agree that even perfect days must come to an end. They lie in Deena’s bed, facing each other, legs tangled together, often exchanging kisses or sweet words that only exist in that vulnerable space between them.

“Thank you,” Sam whispers. She pushes a stray brown curl behind Deena’s ear, then her hand rests for a moment there on Deena’s cheek, her thumb lovingly caressing her skin.

“I told you,” Deena replies in an equally hushed tone even though they have the entire house for themselves. “You deserve it,” she adds, then she turns her head just enough to place a small kiss to the inside of Sam’s wrist, making the blonde smile timidly.

“I’m not talking about today,” Sam says. She considers explaining that she means she’s saying thank you for absolutely every moment they spent together since they met, but…

“I know,” Deena says. Her smile widens and she adds, “Just so you know, I also enjoyed today, a lot. So thank you too.”

Sam replies with a sweet kiss to Deena’s lips. Then the two of them cuddle closer and slowly, peacefully, happily drift off to a good and restful night of sleep.

#fluff without plot!!! i said fluf!! without! plot!#fear street #sameena #sam x deena #deena x sam #sam fraser #deena johnson #fs #fear street fanfiction #fear street trilogy #fear street movies #my fic

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kim-ruzek · 3 years

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The moment I can breathe

Summary: Snapshots of moments in Kim's life, when it's autumn and pretty, warm but cool, and ever so peaceful-- her favourite time of year, even when the year is bad.

Word Count: 1.7k

Read on AO3

Notes: This is for my wonderful, lovely Cíara (@fighterkimburgess ). Just for being an amazing human and so kind and caring and never failing to make me feel supported. They compared me to a late September/early October day, which then we learnt is *both* our favourite days, and thus this fic was born.

This fic will also mean that I've officially published 100k words of fic on ao3. It's technically not for the same fandom, so I wasn't going to count it, since 3k of the words is for svu, but it's fitting I reach 100k published words on my account with a fic for Cíara so I'm counting it. Especially as I've got about ~60k unpublished words for cpd and I've published some drabbles and short one shots on here that I haven't yet posted to ao3.

But it's fitting because Cíara has supported my writing for Burzek and this fandom from the very beginning; I never would've had the courage to post like clockwork if it wasn't for them and so many of my ideas got better and more developed bc they helped me and was a sounding board and just a source of encouragement-- Cíara, you are the best cheerleader ever and one of my favourite people. I love you so incredibly much. ♥️

With that said; enjoy!!!

“What are you doing out here?”

At the words, said to her by someone standing behind her, Kim’s shoulders tense, the hair on the back of her neck standing on a edge. It’s only Adam, she knows that. Knows his voice, his soft, gentle, affectionate voice. One never filled with judgement, or dismissiveness.

But her eyelids flutter shut slightly, the warmth of the autumn sun beaming onto her face, and all she can remember is all the times before, of people—of them—not being even a touch as understanding as Adam, of them coming into her peaceful bubble, and popping it without a care in the world.

Kim opens her eyes only a few seconds later, turning slightly so that the sun shines on the side of her face, instead, and she smiles at her boyfriend. They’re at work, everything is so new, and it’s a secret, so she can’t step towards him, or invite him into her bubble, but she can smile and watch as he smiles back.

“Nothing. Just getting some peace before my lunch ends,” Kim answers his question.

“I wanted to kiss you, earlier,” Adam tells her later that day, when she’s snuggled up against his side, his arms around her. He noses her, nudging her affectionately. Kim lightly laughs, stealing a quick kiss before teasing him.

“You always want to kiss me,” At that, Adam chuckles, a throaty deep kind of laugh that shoots shivers down her spine and makes her ache with a need, a desire for him.

“That I do.” His voice is warm, warmer at how fast they are learning each other, how quick they are to etch these details into their souls. “You looked so peaceful, I just wanted to wrap my arms around you and cuddle you,”

Adam says those words, and Kim tilts her head more so she could look up at him. She chews her lip for a second, debating something that isn’t much of a debate, not with Adam, and she speaks again.

“Do you want to know why?”

Kim comes through her apartment door, hands full of her shopping. It’s still early, really, still plenty of day left. She has been up for a few hours, but the day, really, has only just begun. There’s a peace in her body; she is ready for the hours left.

“Where did you go?” Adam is on her couch, still in his pyjamas, lounging as he watches the tv. He mutes it, sitting up straighter as he asks her, his eyes following her as she walks in. She holds up her shopping.

“You’re a smart man,” She says, smiling at him as she does. Adam hums, looking at her curiously, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Kim feels oddly seen, like she’s transparent to his eyes.

“Don’t lie, Kimberly. You went to sit on a park bench and read, didn’t you?” Adam fishes at her half-read, semi-battered book from one of her bags.

Perhaps she is transparent to him. And perhaps she doesn’t mind, Adam not looking upon her with judgment or derision, just looking at her with care and love in his eyes.

He remembered that Kim’s favourite kind of days was those on sunny autumn days, when the leaves are deep terracotta earthy tones and falling, and everything is on that edge of winter, yet still looks so beautiful and magical. And he remembered not to mock her for being so caught up in it, but just because—just because he knows her.

Kim stares at the leaves laying on the ground, crumpled and stepped on. The shades are so pretty, deep reds and oranges, a sight that comes around only once a year, yet they’re discarded and forgotten by everyone who walks past them.

The trees are dying, shedding their unnecessary leaves, needing to preserve that strength. The air is getting colder, this last middling warmth of the sun will be gone soon. It will be snowy and cold, and everything will be dead.

Not yet, time is still caught in this magical time of being alive—of looking alive—and being dead—of looking dead.

Kim can relate to that, hoping that next year, next year will be different.

“Why did you want coffee here?”

Kim turns her head to look at her mentor, at Al. Antonio is her main partner, now, Al being assigned to whoever. But he’s still her mentor, even if Antonio believes in her all the same. Al is a special man, a force that everyone needs in their life.

“Sit.” Kim pats the space on the bench next to her and Al obliges, handing her over her coffee as he does so.

“Look—everything looks so pretty,” She indicates at the park land that lays before them, smiling at his beautiful everything looks. From the corner of her eye, Kim sees Al smiling that half smile of his.

“Hm.” Al is a man of very little words, and Kim will never know if he gets she wanted to bring some light in his life as Lexi’s birthday approaches, but she thinks he does, and she knows he appreciates it, knows that she’s sharing a part with herself with him.

“Sorry, is this space taken? I just need to rest for a moment—not as young as I used to be, me.”

Kim looks up from the fallen brown leaf she is aggressively staring at, the lead she’s been staring at for god knows how long. It’s an older man who’s asked, probably not too much older than Al would’ve been. He’s got a kind face, and she can tell the moment he sees the tears in her eyes, the utter distraught on her face.

“Are you okay, dear?” The man gently rests a hand on her shoulder, full of concern. Kim forces herself to nod, giving him a weak, watery smile.

“Here,” she stands up, making the bench available for him. He goes to protest, but Kim shakes her head. “I’ve got to go to work,”

She does, and it is good that the man came along, otherwise she would’ve been late, caught up in her memories, of how she’ll never drink coffee, silently, side by side with Al ever again as the autumn leaves fell around them.

“Tomorrow is meant to be a warm day, for October, that is,”

Kim looks at Adam, pausing in her task of grabbing her things from her locker. She frowns at him, unsure to as why he’s telling her—hoping he’s not planning on asking her out on a date. They’re spending time together, but that’s not for them, not yet, anyway.

“I was gonna go to Al’s grave—if you want to come with me? It’ll be the kind of autumn day you like.” Adam doesn’t leave her unsure for long. There’s a tightness in her chest, a constricting in her heart, at his words.

She tells herself it’s because of the thought of Al, not because Adam remembered her favourite kind of day.

“Kim? Are you asleep?”

Kim opens up one of her shut eyes, looking at Adam, who’s peering at her, a hand resting gently on her shoulder before shutting the eye again.

“If I was, I wouldn’t be now.” She replies, dryly, but with affection.

“Alright, smartass. I was just coming to ask if you want some lunch. But I’ll leave you to your ‘reading’, although I’d like to point out reading usually, you know, dictates reading that book beside you,” Adam’s words are said without malice, and Kim opens her eye again just in time to see Adam going to retreat away.

She catches his hand, halting his movements. She smiles up at him.

“Lunch sounds wonderful.”

“Kim! Look!”

Makayla’s smile is wide, her daughter beaming, as she jumps into a big pile of leaves that she had just constructed. Kim can’t help the equally big smile, affectionate and loving, which takes over her face at that, not that she’d want too.

Her daughter is laughing, a joyous sound, and she plays and messes around. Her excitement and happiness is infectious, and Kim finds herself feeling a new kind of peace watching her. It’s her now seven year old’s birthday, and there’s something oddly beautiful, Kim think, for Makayla to be born in late September, to be born on one of her favourite kinds of days.

It’s a low key birthday, but it’s perfect for her daughter, and so it’s perfect for Kim.

And as she plays, Kim thinks that one year she should take Makayla to see where she grew up, so that Makayla could play in the same place Kim did, the same place Kim fell in love with this type of day.

“Bet you’re happy these days are finally here,”

Kim’s head is resting on her fiancé’s shoulder, their hands entwined, but she tilts her head up slightly so she could look at Adam.

“Oh, don’t think I don’t know why you decided that we should go for a stroll in the park today. The sun is out, it’s autumn, you’ve got that peaceful look on your face. I bet you’re glad Ally was born in the spring so that she’s old enough now to be able to go out for longer,” Adam’s ability to see Kim as transparent has never faded over the years.

“Hm. You see right through me,” she says, her other hand gently moving Ally’s pram, turning her eyes back to watching Makayla play a little away from them.

“I wish you didn’t have to wait all year for these days,” Adam says a few moments later. “You deserve to be this peaceful all year.”

“Adam, I am.” Kim pulls away from him at that, her hand still attached to his, however. She moves so she’s looking at him more front on.

“This,” Kim indicates around them. “is beautiful and pretty. But I don’t need it anymore, not for that peaceful feeling.”

“Oh. Makes sense, kids do give that feeling, too,” Adam interrupts her before she’s finished, not quite understanding.

“It’s not because of them—well, not quite. They’re the bonus. But Adam, I could go forever without ever seeing a day like this again, because I have you. You are these days for me, every day with you is like this in my heart.” Kim tells him, earnestly, before cuddling back into him.

“I love you, darlin’,” he says not a second later, his voice breaking slightly.

“I love you, too.”

#burzek #kim burgess #adam ruzek #kim burgess x adam ruzek #chicago pd #burzek fic #chicago pd fanfiction #ree writes #ree's.writing #Cíara tag

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ggreactionsandscenarios · 3 years

Note

Number 9 and Yves

Yves x Reader

Prompt n°9 : Bumping into the football captain and his girlfriend

Queen bee

Like most of the time you were late for school, the only difference was that today you couldn't. Avoiding detention was your only goal right now. It was forbidden to run in the corridors but nobody never said anything about speed walking.

Well maybe someone should have because you wouldn't find yourself butt on the floor if they did.

"Are you fucking made of stone like a golem ?! I think you broke my nose."

You didn't know what kind of stupid people you bump into but when you were lift by your collar you guessed it probably was the stupidest one of them all.

"Do you wanna die hoe ? Do you even look around you before running like a horse ?!"

Of course you had to bump into the star player of the football team, no wonders he was only shining on the field with his testosterone's damaged brain.

"I'm sorry your majesty if I'm the one hurt but still need to apologise to some stupid piece of shit."

You weren't the type to let someone talk to you badly, even though dying wasn't that appealing either you had to answer. The joke raised his fist ready to punch the crap out of you. You closed your eyes in anticipation but a voice stopped you.

"Baby, this girl probably hit her head, she forgot who she's talking to. You don't have time for that, go to your praactice and let me handle that."

That voice, you opened an eye meeting hers right away. You sure didn't notice her presence before but of course she'll be there arms clamped around his arm. You and Yves used to be friends a long time ago but you lost contact with the now famous queen bee of the school. Dating the golden boy and being the head cheerleader, yes Yves was the perfect cliché.

"She disrespected me !" The joke was whining like a baby.

You were wondering if you could still make it in time if you let them argue about who would take care of you and sneak out.

"I'll take care of it and of you later."

The way Sooyoung whispered it in his ear made you want to puke. Of course she had to bring up sex to manipulate this dumbass of a boyfriend but did she really have to let you know about it ?

The jackass had finally loosen his grip and you could now breath properly again. He left but not without glaring at you, letting you with your old best friend in an awkward silence.

"Yep .. so thanks but no thanks, I have to go."

As you were about to leave you were pulled by your arm right back at your place.

"In your dreams. I said I was going to take care of you and I did mean it."

In your three years of coexistence with her being the popular girl, Yves never let anyone hurt you neither hurt you herself but maybe this time she had enough.

You weren't able to wonder much about what she was planning to inflict you that you were dragged behind her, her hand clenched tightly around your wrist,rather painfully.

In other circumstances getting pinned against the bathroom door could have been hot or at least thrilling but right now you were just scared of what might be about to come.

For some reasons the blood that had stopped running down your bruised nose began flowing again.

You rose your hand to your nose trying to stop the flow, missing the way Yves face that was worth it of the best poker player until now turned into a soft and worried one.

Her hand caught yours back making you flinched expecting her to drag you painfully again. She gave you a small look, somehow ordering you to let her do whatever she was about to do.

You let her get your hand out of your face, examining the mess her so called boyfriend made. She pulled you softly to the sink, being careful not to hurt you this time.

Not letting go of your hand, she reached out for paper towel with her other one. At this point you were just observing silently, not really sure about what all of this meant but too surprised to think about it anyway.

She let water run on the paper before proceeding to clean the blood that was over your face. You could see how her moves became hesitant as her hand got closer and closer to your face.

You didn't say anything, looking at what she was doing attentively as she finally reach your bruised area, her sudden shyness making her bump into it.

You left a small grunt from the pain, grabbing her wrist with your free hand.

"Sorry."

Even her voice changed you noticed, letting her old caring voice get to your ear.

You were froze, it was too much of your old best friend, too much of the girl you didn't get to see for years, too much of the girl you fell in love with years ago.

Yves was waiting for you to allow her to get back to cleaning your wound again. She wasn't pushing you at all this time, she was just waiting for you to let her hand go and you did.

After few seconds of staring right into your eyes, she focused back on what she was aiming to do in the first place.

She was cleaning your nose carefully, small brush of the paper after small brush, sometimes frowning her brows when blood would run again or wouldn't want to get off.

You could feel yourself falling in love again, seeing this side of her that you missed so much again but you remembered yourself of who she was now, who she became, which was a person that you didn't like at all.

Your heart was saying the opposite though when she brushed your upper lips, staring at it so much that you were suddenly feeling some sort of incredible feelings in your stomach.

When her hand retrieved from your face, you had to fight the urge of keeping it there. What you disliked even more was the fact that her head fall down at the same time as her hand.

Interrogations were fusing in your head at the moment but you decided to do what felt right. You took her hand back and made it cup your cheek, your palm keeping it there.

As link by a spell her look got back on you as well, your gazes meeting in a silent conversation. If the words couldn't come out you were for sure sharing way more then that right now.

It was like all those years apart were slowly disappearing, the same way the distance between you two was. You couldn't tell if you were the one leaning in or if it was her.

What you were sure about was that if that stupid bell hadn't rang, you would have met her lips. The fact that she ran away when it did, made you think that you did miss your only chance to kiss the not so famous caring Sooyoung hidden behind this queen bee title.

Hey, thanks for requesting out of my prompt list😁 I was playing to write this one with Joy but the queen bee vibe does suit Yves really well. Anyway, I hope you'll like the scenario, give feedback 🙂 And of course you can request again whenever you want. -Ael

#girl group #kpop girls #girlfriend #loonaverse #loona icons #loona yves #yves #loona ha sooyoung #loona sooyoung #loona yyxy #loona

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

for the meet ugly asks, 08 with the ot4 if that’s ok? (the note in the locker one, in case I have the wrong number). rating up to you! :)

Here you go! I went NSFW

Joseph is not missing his chance. Not again.

If he’s keeping count, which he’s certainly not, he’s missed fifty-two chances between fifth grade and now.

Barclay’s family moved next door in the summer of 1951, causing eleven year old Joseph to learn very quickly what it’s like to have someone whose side you never want to leave. Lucky for him, Barclay felt the same way; they were in the same boyscout troop, were each others first choice for sleep overs or outings where they were allowed to take one friend. When they hit high school, Barclay went out for football because Joseph did (and Joseph did because that’s what upstanding young men do). They played together all four years, Barclays growth spurt rendering him doubly dangerous on defense and the dominant source of Joseph’s late-night fantasies. Joseph did debate club alone, but Barclay joined him for chess club. And when Barclay bought his car, his first stop was to take Joseph cruising, just the two of them.

Unluckily, Joseph’s never worked up the nerve to tell Barclay how he feels. This may be why he hasn’t had a date since the spring hop two years ago, while Barclay’s had quite a few (cheerleaders and band boys alike can’t seem to resist his physique and general gentleness).

That all changes today. Joseph slipped a note into Barclays locker right before lunch that conveyed all relevant information.

Dear you,

Drive in on Friday? We can park in the back row.

Love,

Joseph.

He’s sitting in his normal spot on the bench near the cafeteria, doing his best impersonation of someone who’s heart isn’t in his throat.

As he’s scanning the crowd, none other than Duck Newton begins weaving his way over to him, leather jacket reflecting the sun and his black hair combed back as always. Joseph was wary of him for years--as any good square is of kids from the rough side of town--until they got paired together in biology their senior year. Duck, who seems not to give a shit about school the rest of the time, is incredibly good at science. And he’s funny, nearly got them both kept after class for cracking a joke that made Joseph lose his breath laughing.

The problem is, right now he’s waving a very familiar piece of paper.

“Gotta say, I’m pretty fuckin flattered, Joe. But, uh” he leans on the table, smiling playfully, “I gotta make sure ‘Drid is okay with me playin backseat bingo with someone who ain’t him.”

“Um.” Joseph shakes his head, trying not to focus on the idea of Duck holding his head in his lap in the dark corner of the drive in, “I, I’m so sorry. I must have been nervous enough to put the note in the wrong locker. Not, not that you’re not a catch.”

Duck raises his eyebrow, “1650 or 1652?”

“1652.”

“Huh. Well, I got shop class with Barclay. You want me to just give it to him?”

“No.” Joseph holds out his hand.

Duck places the letter in it with a shrug, “Suit yourself, slick. See you later.”

Joseph rips the letter to shreds, tosses it in the trash, and hopes that’s the end of this humiliating error.

It’s not.

“Hello, Joseph.” Indrid Cold rests a shoulder on the locker next to his. There’s no one in Kepler High quite like him; his family moved from California three years ago, which most people use as the explanation for Indrid’s red glasses, crystal necklace, and pale hair that is always a quarter-inch shy of the principal writing him up for it. He’s never struck Joseph as the kind to fight, but he did mistakenly proposition his boyfriend three hours ago.

“Indrid. How can I help you?”

The taller boy hands him a folded slip of notebook paper, “By taking me up on this invitation.”

Before Joseph can ask any questions, Indrid is disappearing down the hall. The paper contains a hand drawn map to an X, under which is the word “Bash” but nothing else. Joseph has never been invited to any kind of party that needed a secret map. He mostly just gets invited to get togethers because he’s the captain of the football team. No one talks to him once he’s there. Well, except Barclay.

He stares at the map; he doesn’t have to be home until ten. He’s never going to get a chance to make the scene like this again.

Joseph shuts his locker and hurries to his car.

------------------------------------------------------

Indrid’s remarkably accurate map leads him to a dirt parking lot beneath the sign for Amnesty Point. As he follows the signs for the “beach house,” a Coaster’s song drifts through the air, underscored by splashes from the lake to his right. He’s deep in the woods on the wrong side of the tracks, but even so he’s unprepared for how everyone lounging around the weathered picnic tables on a shaded patio stops talking and stares at him.

“Who the fuck invited the square?” Someone whispers, making him wish he hadn’t left the map in the car.

“Joseph?”

He turns so fast the gravel flies. Barclay, clad in a grease-stained apron, is smiling so bright it evaporates his nervousness.

“Hi, big guy.”

His friend hoists him in a hug, “I’m so glad you’re here, Indrid said he invited you but I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“He piqued my curiosity. Um, is this the new job you were so cagey about?”

“Yep. Mama--she runs this place--pays real well, but tries to keep Amnesty Point kinda secret. Cops just love busting places like this up for no reason.”

Joseph nods, still a little hurt Barclay didn’t trust him enough to share where he worked. His friend must notice the dip in his smile before he hides it, because he adds, “It’s gonna be even better working here now that you know where to find me. Listen, um, I gotta get back before Jake sets something on fire, but the burger stand closes at eight. I’ll come find you after that. Duck and Indrid are down by the dock, if you want company.”

He absolutely does, since the alternative is looking even more out of place by being the only person here alone.

When he hits the grey sand, Duck is just pulling himself back onto dry land. The half moon scars on his chest are the only reminders of the trip he took to San Francisco last summer.

“Glad you showed up, slick. Day like this, the water is the only nice place to be.”

“I wish I’d known, I would have brought my swim shorts.” Maybe if he rolls up his pant legs he can get some relief from the heat…

“Could just go in your boxers. I won’t tell.” Duck winks.

“Nothing is also allowed.” Indrid lilts, floating past on his back.

Joseph looks at him, then at the planks of the dock because Indrid is also demonstrating that second option without a care.

Duck snickers, “sugar, put somethin on, you’re scandalizin’ the poor guy.”

“Very well. But I demand help with the sunblock in payment for quashing my self-expression this way.”

“You’re soundin like your pops there, ‘Drid.”

“....ugh, you’re right.” A splash and the soft fwup of a towel, “alright, Joseph, I’m decent.” He is, but his swim shorts leave very little to the imagination. Joseph stares a moment too long, notices Duck smirking when he looks away.

The greaser holds out a bottle of sunblock and they get to work.

“Goddamn, this wouldn’t take so long if you weren’t so fuckin long everywhere.”

“You’ve never complained about that before.” Indrid grins, red sunglasses hiding his eyes. He doesn’t lift a finger to help them, but Duck seems to get a kick from it. Joseph wonders if he spoils Indrid like this in everything they do. If Indrid ever does it back.

(If either of them would do it for him).

They spend the evening talking, Duck skipping stones and Indrid sunning himself while Joseph dangles his legs in the water. When they get back to the beach house Joseph receives fewer stares, Duck and Indrid’s company substituting for cool. He and Duck get a real dinner, but Indrid opts to down three Cokes in place of a meal.

When Barclay closes up shop, he’s immediately at Joseph’s side. Joseph is about to suggest they all go for a walk when Indrid winks at Barclay and steers Duck towards the trees with a promise to see Joseph at school tomorrow.

“You get on okay while I was working?” Barclay starts them on a path towards the edge of the point.

“I did. It was actually really nice just to spend time talking with people who like me. Or at least don’t hate me enough to shove me in the water fully clothed.”

“Nah, they’re not those kind of guys. Hell, it was their idea to invite you here. I was, uh, I was too shy.”

He stops, turning to face Barclay, “what do mean?”

“Duck told me about the note.”

“Oh lord.”

“Not on purpose, he just mentioned he’d seen you and when I asked how you were doing, well, you know he can’t lie for shit. So Indrid suggested we invite you out here.”

“Out of pity?”

“No.” Barclay frowns, sets his hands on Joseph’s shoulders, “Joseph, why didn’t you just ask me out in person?”

“I was too nervous. I thought it might ruin everything.”

“Not a chance, blue eyes.” Barclay rumbles. Then he’s kissing him, gentle and slow, whimpering when Joseph kisses back and cups his face. When they part, he’s certain there’s nothing but air under his feet.

“Can we do that again?”

“Not tonight. Your curfew is still ten.”

“Shit, you’re right, if I don’t get on the road I’ll be late.”

“Lemme walk you to your car. I gotta hang around since I’m Indrid and Duck’s ride home tonight.”

“Do you want to go get them so we can all leave together?”

Barclay chuckles, tips his head towards the woods where a faint, rhythmic grunting cane be heard.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, not gonna ruin their fun.” He pulls Joseph into a much more heated kiss, then sighs, “get home safe, blue eyes.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Joseph suffered through both the personal hygiene class at school and his father’s lecture on what to expect now that he was truly a man. But nothing in either of those taught him what to do if he’s so hot under the collar he can’t focus but the guy who’s causing it won’t just fuck him.

He and Barclay have gone out every Friday for the last month, steaming up the car windows with their kissing sessions. They tried to work out who was supposed to give who their varsity jacket and settled on just trading, Joseph smiling whenever he spots Barclays name on his back. And Barclay tells everyone Joseph is his boyfriend with a level of pride he never gave their state football wins.

But he won’t go all the way with him. One Sunday afternoon they were listening to records in Barclays room when the larger boy rolled across the rug to straddle Joseph. His hands were hot and a little rough on his cock, Joseph moaning into his mouth as he came in under a minute. Before he could reciprocate, the front door banged open, announcing the return of Barclay’s parents. His boyfriend told him not to worry about it and kissed him on the cheek.

He’s worried Barclay loves him but doesn’t want him. He’s worried that if he ever does, Joseph will embarrass himself, be so inexperienced and inelegant he’ll turn him off forever. He wonders if he can entice Barclay to ask him to fuck so he doesn’t have to admit the embarssing intensity of his desire.

“Duck? Do you, um, do you think I’d look better if I dressed like you?”

The greaser looks up from his notes, “Maybe? I mean, I dress like this because I dig it. You wanna try it, go wild.”

Joseph nods, intending to drop it. Instead, he slows his stride by Duck during their laps in gym.

“It’s just, I’m worried I’m too square for anyone to be really into me.”

“Joe, what the fuck is this about?”

“Newton, I heard that! That’s an extra lap.”

“Son of uh, hold on, are you worried about Barclay? Because he’s so into your goody-goody thing I’m surprised he ain’t asked you to fuck him with your report card.”

“Stern, you’re done, get off the track!”

He jogs to the bleachers, Duck’s words rattling around long after he’s hit the locker room.

“You’re really worried about this, ain’t you? You’re smart, slick, but I swear sometimes you can’t see what’s right in front of you.” Duck is behind him, still in his gym clothes while Joseph is half changed out of them. They’re both dawdling, the locker room empty save for some other stragglers near the bathroom.

“Duck, if I were in high demand, I’d be getting more, um, attention than I-”

His sentence is cut short by Duck yanking him down into a kiss, lips salty with sweat and so demanding Joseph wants to get on his knees.

Duck pulls back, pats his cheek, “Like I said; right in front of you.”

With that he waves and leaves the room the back way. Joseph can’t even be mad for cutting school; right now, he’s almost ready to follow him.

-------------------------------------------------

“I really must thank you again.” Indrid clears the low table of his math notes, “my focus is such that I struggle with math much more than I’d like. Having someone sit and walk me through it in a calm setting helps a great deal.”

“I’m always happy. Barclay can too, if you ever can’t get a hold of me.”

“Oh, I know he can. He helped me last year.” Indrid stretches his legs; they’re on the floor of his VW Westfalia. His parents let him live in it on the property behind their one-story house as long as he continues to be a cooperative member of the household.

“I didn’t know that.”

“It was only a few times, though he often lingered when we were through.” Indrid’s emphasis makes Joseph blush.

“Duck and I weren’t going steady yet. And my cocksucking skills are not the stuff of legend for nothing.” Indrid smiles, dreamily.

“Oh. Um.” Joseph shifts his notebook into his lap.

Indrid sits up straighter, “I apologize. I, ah, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not sure that’s what this is.”

Indrid cocks his head, “No? Envy perhaps? After all, you’ve had years to dream about him, to hope you’d be the first, and here comes a skinny little freak from the coast to beat you to it.”

“You’re not a freak” Joseph says softly, “I, I can’t say I blame Barclay for taking you up on it.”

“He does have excellent taste” Indrid looks pointedly over his glasses at him. The heat under his skin doubles as Indrid crawls forward, “you know, Duck and I have an...understanding. But if you and Barclay do not, I can stop. I mean, I can stop regardless, if you don’t want this.” He lowers to his belly between Joseph’s legs, nuzzles his fly with a hum.

“I, I--ohlord” He moans when Indrid mouths at his slacks; he’s getting hard, if he had his way he’d lay down and let Indrid suck him off until he came on his glasses. But he knows he won’t enjoy it if he isn’t sure how Barclay feels.

“I, we should stop. Please.”

Indrid sits up, smiling, “Of course. Would you like to stay for dinner? My mother is making fish stew instead of tofu salad for once.”

“...I’d love to.”

---------------------------------------------

“I didn’t know Amnesty owned all this.” Joseph let’s Barclay guide him through the trees.

“Yeah, Mama’s family bought it years ago and she’s hung onto it through some seriously nasty shit. Hah, there they are.” Barclay waves to Duck and Indrid, resting against each other on a massive, checkered blanket. His boyfriend sets the picnic basket down and then, confusingly, turns off the lantern Duck brought.

“Okay, baby, there’s something I’ve got to ask” Barclay looks at him, “do you think I don’t wanna make it with you?”

“Truthfully? Yes. You, you’ve barely gone beyond some heavy petting, meanwhile Indrid was offering to blow me.” He slaps a hand over his mouth; there go all three of these relationships.

Barclay shrugs, “He told me about that.”

“Honesty is important. Most of the time.” Indrid grins.

“Blue eyes, I’m crazy about you. I’ve just been going slow because I was afraid I’d stress you out. I know how you get, Joseph. You put so much pressure on yourself to do everything right, I was worried you’d try so hard to be perfect for me that you wouldn’t enjoy it at all.”

Joseph stares into deep brown eyes, eyes he’s loved since he was a boy. Then he laughs softly, rests his head on Barclay’s shoulder, “You really do know me well, you know that.”

“Oh, oh baby” Barclay holds him closer, “you really think there was a way of touching me that’d disappoint me? Fuck, just getting to kiss you makes me the happiest guy in the state.”

“That being said” Duck drawls, “aint there somethin about practice makin perfect?”

“I, are, is this really what you three want?”

“Yes” Indrid nods, “but if you don’t, well, we shall never speak of it again.”

“I do. Sweet fucking christ I do.” He kisses Barclay ferociously as the other two scoot closer.

“Hmm, I believe we should let seniority decide. Barclay, what’s your preference?”

His boyfriend pulls back, kissing his jaw, “Do you wanna blow me, blue eyes?”

“So badly.”

“That settles that. Duck, what about--ah, I see you’re already taking off your pants, so I guess you’re fucking hm. He’s fucking you? Ah, semantics.” Indrid waves his hand dismissively.

“Wait, does, do we have a rubber?”

Duck pulls one from his wallet, “never leave to see this one without one. I know how he is.”

Indrid pecks his cheek, then grins, “I believe, Joseph, that leaves me to help you with your hand jobs.”

“Fuck, yes.”

“On your back, baby.” Barclays nudges him and he falls onto the blanket. For a moment only the trees and stars look down on him; then Barclays face fills his vision as his hands open his fly and guide his cock out.

“AHshit, shit that’s good.” He bucks as his boyfriend jerks him off steadily, his cock standing at attention in a matter of seconds.

“Okay big fella, you go get your dick sucked.” Duck straddles him. He’s down to only his undershirt, his muscular thighs, soft belly, and strong arms on full displays as he rolls the condom down.

“You’re so handsome” Joseph sighs.

Duck seems to blush, “Thanks, slick. Not bad yourself.”

“I mean it, really, you’re incredible” he paws his legs, grabs his shirt and pulls him down into the kiss. Duck giggles into his mouth, then sinks down onto his cock. Joseph decides he is never, never letting go of the man above him; his weight is so comforting, his body so perfect, the way his laughs morph into moans so charming.

“G-great thing about this position” Duck gasps, “is you don’t gotta do much besides let me ride you. That’s why it’s ‘Drid’s favorite.”

“Second favorite; you on my face is my first. Speaking of which” he kneels, gently lifts Joseph’s head into his hands while Barclay sits cross-legged on the other side of his head. His cock is thick and long, so mouthwatering Joseph opens his mouth without being told.

“Fuck, baby, wanted this so long.” Barclay guides his cock between his lips when Indrid turns his head. The skinnier man keeps supporting him as his tongue registers skin, sweat, Barclay and he whines for more.

“Easy, blue eyes, fuck, you’re doing great.”

“I’ll say. Fuck, can’t believe you been keepin this dick all to yourself, Joe.”

“I got my haAAnds on it once.”

“Clearly you should have done it more” Indrid purrs, hips moving slightly, “as soon as someone plays with it, he sucks cock very nicely.”

“No fuckin kiddin. Baby, baby, yeah, suck like that.”

Indrid shifts behind him, “Barclay, hold him a moment, there’s been a change of plans.” A zipper goes as Barclay cradles him. Then Indrid’s fingers are back, turning him to face a second, narrower cock.

“Handjobs can wait.” Indrid pulls him forward, moaning high when he sucks the head, “oooh, yes, that’s it.”

“Fuck, I’m gonna fuckin combust watchin you do that.” Duck bounces more deliberately and Joseph yelps joyfully around Indrid’s cock. He’s already close to cumming, the feeling of Duck around him and Indrid inside him flooding the rest of him with pleasure.

Indrid pulls his head back, starts to turn him towards Barclays, when it punches through him. He moans, pushes up into Duck as the shorter man laughs.

“I, I came first, I’m sorry, this is one of the things-”

“Shush” Barclay helps him up as Duck climbs of him, “that was fucking incredible, and you’re not done yet.”

“On your knees, facing us. Unless, sweetheart, do you-”

Duck’s hand is already between his legs, “I’m gonna enjoy the show.”

“Mmm, which means I get to enjoy you enjoying it. Barclay, turn slightly, like this.”

“Why, oh, oh I got it, fuck, you’re a fucking genius.”

Joseph agrees, though he’s going a bit cross-eyed. So he closes them, lets first Indrid and then Barclay press their cock into his mouth. It’s a stretch, his jaw aching instantly, but it’s the best he’s ever felt. They can’t push more than the heads in, so he concentrates on sucking and licking, pre-cum collecting on his tongue and spit seeping down his chin. Duck grunts behind him, offering running commentary on Indrid’s appearance and Joseph's voice. Barclay shoves both hands into his hair while Indrid keeps one on his cock.

“Fuck, fuck, Joseph, baby, this is fucking aces, gonna paint your whole fucking stomach white.”

“Ahnnn, agreed” Indrid pants, “your mouth was made for this, ohyes, that’s it, mmm, this is even better, feeling your cock against mine dearest, oh, oh” Indrid cums, bitterness hitting his tongue, and when he tries to swallow he gasps and gags instead.

“Fuck” Barclay grunts and then another burst of cum fills his mouth. He gasps for air as they pull out, sending some down his chin. He wipes ineffectively at it with the back of his hand.

“Here” Duck, underwear back on, cleans his lips with a napkin.

“Th-thank you.”

“Of course.” Duck kisses him as Indrid flops on his belly and Barclay curls his arms around Joseph.

“Gotta say, blue eyes, don’t think you got anything to worry about when it comes to making it good for me. Or, uh, us.”

“No, I don’t think I do.” Joseph rests against him, then jolts up, “shit, what time is it?”

“Ten.”

“Shit!”

“Don’t worry” Indrid nestles next to his knees, “we’ll say I had car trouble and you two came to my aid.”

Joseph relaxes back among his boyfriends, “Good call. Just, um, don’t let Duck talk?”

“Only if I get an extra kiss for keepin my mouth shut.”

“Deal.”

#OT4: Government Men and There Cryptid Boyfriends #Indruck #agent stern/duck newton #sternclay #50s au #inclay #meet ugly #reader request #trans duck newton

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n0wornever · 4 years

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I Miss You - Julie x Fem!Reader

Julie x fem reader where reader is most definitely a giant f girl- she does weed and crap but she’s like hopelessly in love with julie who wants nothing to do with her.....”

Disclaimer: Not going to lie, I struggled with this one. Substance abuse is a hard topic to write without making the relationship unhealthy (I know weed isn’t that bad, but you know what I mean), so I kind of put a spin on this request. I hope you still like it :)

Julie Molina knew one thing: You can’t force anyone to change.

That’s why she merely sat in the background as she watched her ex-girlfriend make a fool of herself in the middle of this party.

Y/N and Julie had been friends since elementary school, and dated for a year up til last January. It was that winter that the older girl started hanging out with a less than savory crowd who convinced her to take up habits that Julie just couldn’t approve of. The third time the girl had shown up to her house, in front of her family, reeking like whisky, Julie told her to leave and that she didn’t want to see her again.

The girl took it to heart, and Julie hadn’t heard from her since. However, she had seen the girl spiral from afar. Every party they were both at, Y/N was destined to go home so drunk after flirting with some girl all night in the corner of the room. She normally ended the night blacked out or so high that she could barely formulate a sentence. Although it hurt to watch someone she used to love fall flat on her face, Julie knew it wasn’t worth the risk of taking her problems on, atop of her own when the girl clearly didn't want to stop herself.

Y/N grabbed the waist of the girl next to her, and Julie watched as the girl who was clearly off-balance to begin with, tried to lean into the other’s ear with a smirk on her face. The two girls went toppling down as Y/N could barely stand. Julie sighed, setting her drink on the table and rushing toward the scene.

Michael, a guy from her 4th period chemistry class, helped the other girl up, pushing Y/N to the side in the process. Julie gave him a pointed glare as she reached for her former girlfriend’s wrist.

“Come on, Y/N, it’s time to go home.”

The girl looked up at her with drooping eyelids, swaying softly side to side. Another boy assisted Julie in getting the girl to stand up right, wrapping her arm around his neck. The boy helped usher Y/N to Julie’s passenger side seat. Julie thanked the boy and he waved as he ran back toward the house.

As she got into the car, she took a look at her passenger. Y/N was knocked out cold, leaning against the frosted window. Julie bit down on her lip as she watched her cheek slide down the glass. The younger girl removed her jacket, leaning over toward the other seat. She lifted Y/N’s head for a moment to place the soft fleece between her and the bitter cold material.

She put the car in drive and then pushed quickly down the street. As she approached Y/N’s house, she felt her heart rate pick up as she searched up and down the driveway. She saw that both parents cars were gone, a stroke of luck she’d begged for silently on their drive there. She unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door to the frigid cold. She rubbed her hands together for warmth as she walked over to the other side carefully, watching for patches of ice.

She softly knocked on the window to jar the girl’s eyes opened. Y/N lifted her head off the window, staring over at Julie with puffy eyes. Julie pursed her lips as she opened the door. Y/N stared at the girl as her breath came out in a cloud of frozen air.

“Y/N, come on, let’s go.”

The girl moved her head enough to slightly nod, and took Julie’s hand. It took a moment, but she was able to stabilize herself on the slippery ground as the two walked over to the front door. Julie knew the girl wasn’t coherent enough to find her keys, so the girl reached across, placing her hand in Y/N’s front pocket.

“Getting a little fresh there, Molina,” She slurred, Julie feeling her hot breath on her neck.

Julie found the keys, and pulled them out of the jean pocket. When she met the girl’s gaze again, she rolled her eyes at her.

“You wish, Y/N.”

Y/N chuckled, leaning onto Julie’s side as she opened the door. They both stepped inside the warmth awaiting inside the front door, and Julie set the keys on the ring above the shoe rack. She shifted Y/N’s grip on her neck and moved toward the stairs.

The two waddled back and forth up the first flight before Julie stopped to rest. She took a few deep breaths before pushing on and making it through the last seven stairs to get to Y/N’s top-level room. She grabbed the knob and threw the wooden frame open. She moved quickly to get the girl to the bed and set her down carefully on it.

Julie met her barely open eyes for a moment before leaning down to her legs. She unbuckled the huge black boots the girl wore and threw them to the side. She stood back up and stared down at the girl who was practically sleeping in front of her.

“Y/N, you’re ready for bed,” She tapped on the girl’s thigh to get her attention. “Crawl up into the covers.”

The girl grunted, moving on her knees toward the headboard. Julie monitored her movements as she found the blankets and curled underneath them. Julie gave the room a once over before waving at Y/N, who was already snoring. She giggled to herself for a moment before turning toward the door.

The next morning, Julie awoke to a knock on her window. She rubbed her eyes, pushing off her plushy red comforter to crawl off of her mattress. She made her way over to the window and stopped just short of it, staring at the bushy hair and tired eyes of the girl on the other end. She rubbed her eyes again, blinking twice to make sure her vision wasn’t tricking her.

“Y/N,” She whispered to herself, leaning forward to unlatch the window.

As soon as the open air hit her room, the girl came tumbling in. Julie suppressed a laugh as the tall girl fell to the floor with a bang. Y/N stood up quickly, dusting herself off and giving Julie a sheepish look.

“She’s never been graceful,” Julie said, as she crossed her arms at her chest.

Y/N regained her balance and stood in front of Julie. She rolled her eyes at her smirk and leaned back to shut the window. As she girls met eyes again, the older one rubbed the back of her neck nervously.

“I just...I wanted to stop by and apologize for last night.”

Julie rose an eyebrow in surprise, “Do you even know what happened last night?”

“Ruben told me you brought me home, and-” She sighed before saying the last part. “There were videos of....my actions last night all over Snapchat.”

She clasped her hands together, staring at the ground for a moment.

“I’m sorry you had to see that....again.”

“It’s fine we’re not even-”

“Friends, dating, whatever anymore, I know.”

Julie bit back her next statement as she watched the girl’s nervous gaze meet hers again.

“I still want to apologize.”

Julie rubbed her forehead in frustration, shaking her head at the girl.

“I just, for one night I wish you could have fun without getting drunk or something and numbing out the whole night,” Y/N met her eyes and hers widened. “I just... I miss you Y/N, but seeing you like that, I...I can’t even think about even being your friend again.”

“I know,” the girl said softly, fidgeting with her hands at her waist. “I miss you too. I...I wish I knew why I did the things I do too. My mom was right, you were the best influence on me.”

“Shirly knows a thing or two,” Julie let a soft smile grace her lips as she watched the other girl’s nervous movements.

“She knew I didn’t deserve you.”

A silence hung in the air as Julie’s eyes drifted over toward the corner of the room. Their breakup had been dramatic and brutal. There had been yelling and crying for over an hour.

“You’re trying to control me,” Y/N hissed, pulling away from Julie’s grip.

“I’m trying to stop you from consistently poisoning yourself,” Julie bit back, fists balling at her sides.

“You sound 85 years old, Jules. I’m just drinking with friends.”

“Every night? Y/N, no 17 year old should black out every Tuesday night for a month. It’s not healthy. You’re being stupidly irresponsible and I refuse to pick up the pieces again.”

Y/N stared at her as Julie started to shake. Tears fell from the young girl’s eyes as she ran over to her bed and fell to the mattress in a curled ball. Y/N couldn’t stand looking at her so upset. She opened her mouth to say something, but retracted it last minute, walking out of the room.

Even looking back at that moment sent shivers down Julie’s spine as she stood in front of the girl yet again. This time, Y/N was much calmer, sober and seemingly sincere. She took in her red eyes and her disheveled hair and tried not to walk up and run her fingers through it to fix it for her. Instead, she held her hands at her sides and waited for what the girl would say next.

“Julie, I know there’s nothing that I can say to make this better,” Y/N rubbed her hand against her cheek as she cocked her jaw. “But I want you to be proud of me again.”

Those words shot through her system in a millasecond. She felt her heart physically pinch in her chest as she tried to take a breath out. She finally found the strength to shake her head.

“You should do this for you first, Y/N. Take care of yourself for you.” She took a step toward the girl, holding her hand out to her. Y/N hesitated, but grabbed it and intertwined their fingers. “It’s clear that you want out of this, or you wouldn’t be here telling me that.”

Julie squeezed her palm, smiling up at her with wide eyes.

“You deserve that, I promise.”

Y/N let a small smile roll across her lips. “My biggest cheerleader, even when she hates my guts.” She brought Julie’s hand up to her lips and kissed the top of it quickly.

“Thanks Jules.”

The girl let go of her hand and moved back toward the window. She unlatched the lock and pulled the glass open. As she stepped outside, she leaned back over and smiled at the girl who watched her leave. Julie’s curls fell to the left side as she tilted her head. A small grin plastered on her face as she gave Y/N a small wave. She nodded before disappearing out of sight, closing the window behind her.

Tag list: @marinettepotterandplagg @lukeys-giggle @xplrreylo @kiss-themoongoodbye @bathtimejish @bookfrog247 @dasexydevitt13 @musicconversedance @txrii @bestdressedandstressed @daisiesforlacey @epikskool @themaddies-obx @jukeobsessedgirl @writerinlearning @dani27297 @whatever-happens-imma-stand-tall

#julie molina #julie molina x reader #julie x reader #jatp #jatp imagines #julie and the phantoms imagines

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howlingday · 4 years

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About Jaune ships...

I have opinions. You may not agree, but they are mine. They may change in time, but not now.

LANCASTER ( RUBY X JAUNE )

The old tried and true. I mean, what's not to like? Cute girl falls for first guy she meets at Beacon? Classic romance trope, and after reading how much Ruby loves romance stories (I consider certain parts in the manga canon), it makes sense. In fact, after Arkos sank (A moment of silence, please . . . Thank you), many moved to Lancaster, which isn't bad. Happens all the time in fandoms. Sad thing, though, is far I think she'll last. If we're talking Volume 5 or earlier, then maybe. However, I feel if Ruby were to have an endgame in romance, it would be RoseGarden (I have opinions on that as well, but today isn't the day to discuss that), mostly because Oscar bumped Jaune's role from male lead to male side. Not to mention that while Jaune is becoming a beast in his own right, Ruby is a different creature altogether and evolving her character more rapidly and chaotically than anyone else (Must be all that screentime).

TLDR: I want it to be canon, but I might just be hoping.

WHITE KNIGHT ( WEISS X JAUNE)

Doofus in tin foil meets princess who hates daddy (Am I in the romance section of the library? You know, the corner for adults only?) No, but I do like this ship. I'm always a sucker for the fantasy genre, and using a zero to hero male makes it relatable. I also kind of ship it because the same reason I ship NaruSaku in the Naruto fandom: he likes her and he's willing to go the distance. But enough about that; instead let's talk about canon. Will they hook up? It's a soft maybe for me, for two reasons. 1. Rosegarden is most likely to be endgame, and after Ruby and Pyrrha, I'd say Weiss is Jaune's next to be his love interest. 2. Weiss has warmed up to Jaune. Sure, not lover or crush level (Yet), but she's definitely changed her opinion on him. In Volume 1, Jaune was bugging her, like all the time, which I could see as him getting mixed signals on (Exhibit A: Tall, blonde, and scraggly). When Volume 5 came around, everyone jumped onboard because he saved her life (Don't lie, because I'll admit that I did it, too). Not the best reason, but still reason enough, I'd say. Then in Volume 7, she hangs out with him and Oscar to the movies (It was either that or awkward Bumbleby all night. I feel ya, sister). Nothing romantic happens, but it does show how much their relationship has developed. If Weiss is Jaune's endgame, then they have set the pieces up perfectly to do so.

TLDR: High likelihood to be canon and I'm a sucker for Knight/Princess ships.

KNIGHTSHADE ( BLAKE X JAUNE)

This is the part where I say definitely not. Not in a million years, but I'll explain why I like the ship, though. As for why it won't work, the answer is Bumbleby. They haven't kissed yet, but you know they're going to eventually (Because if they don't, the fans will attack like a swarm of hornets). But here's the question you might be asking now: why do I ship this? Well, it's part of the allure of "opposites attract" ('Cause I'm dressed like a cat!). Blake is an intelligent, outspoken, and agile ninja with a criminal history of terrorism who spends her free time reading novels. Jaune is a B at best on his tests, soft-hearted, and ground-based knight who's worst crime is fraud (Still a crime, but peanuts compared to literal terrorism) and spends his free time hanging out with his team. Day and night. But they also tried that with Sun for a season and a half and it didn't last (BECAUSE BEES).

TLDR: Not even a snowball's chance in the summer sun, but so much story potential if you do (Which I do)!

DRAGONSLAYER ( YANG X JAUNE )

This, I would say, is the opposite of Knightshade, where Jaune is the day and Blake is night, here Yang is the Sun and Jaune is the Moon (Like their crests! Remember those? Y'know, when they were relevant?) Will it work? Even less so than Knightshade. However, it does open up some interesting paths considering how... provocative Yang can be, and Jaune, compared to the other guys, is the nerdiest, geekiest dude at Beacon. It's like the cheerleader/nerd romance, except the cheerleader is the captain of every sports team... and rides a motorcycle. The Volume 8 preview introduced us to Yang and Jaune riding motorcycles and we went nuts over it. Yang was back in her element, roaring down the street, riding on walls, popping off tricks with Oscar riding- Back to what I was saying, people were asking, "How did he know how to ride a motorcycle?" and the elementary answer is "He didn't." He almost fell off his bike from a small box in the road. True, anyone would, but look at how he reacts: he stiffens, he refocuses on the road. This kid literally started riding at breakfast, and I DARE you to prove me wrong. But hey, great fic material right there, though, eh?

TLDR: Never gonna happen, but I don't care. All I care about is writing that they love each other. And they also fu-!

ARKOS ( PYRRHA X JAUNE )

I'm sorry, I need a moment. . . . Alright. Do it for her. This ship... was perfect. Probably the best ship out them all. I legit almost cry every time I think about Volume 3. Pyrrha was everyone's favorite. Her background, her interactions, her choreography, everything! But, of course, like everything in our lives, she was too good to be true. But let's honor her memory by talking about her ship, Arkos. Pyrrha was the champion of the world, the Brothers' and Oums' gift to Remnant. She could do no wrong and she HATED it. Her plight was with how she was seen. Everybody knew her! Everybody, except Jaune. And he only figured out she was "a big deal" was because Weiss had to spell it out for him! As time went on, they became the best of friends, two peas in a pod, the perfect odd couple! They worked together and trusted each other, they cared for and supported each other, they lo- No. No, I can't say it. It's been years, and it still hurts. So, I'll explain something else: the reason why Jaune SHOULD NOT be shipped right now. That reason is Pyrrha. Jaune was helpless to save her. He's suffering from survivor's guilt and he's still grieving. In Volume 4, he would sneak away and train until late at night to scroll recording of her. In Volume 5, he confronted Cinder and got Weiss almost killed because he let his grief for Pyrrha take control of him and let his emotions run wild. In Volume 6, he finds the Pyrrha statue and he... I don't know how to say this, but he let's go. He accepts that Pyrrha is gone and he's starting the healing process. He's finally ready to move forward.

TLDR: T.T I never felt that it was wise to wish too much~

MARTIAL ARCS ( REN X JAUNE)

I'll be honest, I don't really ship it. Yeah, it's cute, and it falls perfectly into the "if I had to pick a guy" part of me, but to be honest, I don't ship it. 10% because Renora and 90% it just doesn't click with me. They both just seem too soft, too quiet, too introverted. Best friends? Yes, definitely! But lovers? Eeeeeh, not really.

TLDR: I will only ship as neccessary.

NORA'S ARC ( NORA X JAUNE )

I've only just got in this deep with the fandom only recently, so I don't know if a lot of you know me. Heck, I'm probably just some RWBY fan you happen to spot as you move through your dash. However, old or new, I want to be made absolutely positively clear on this. Of all the ships here, this has got to be my-

O T FUDGIN' P

Wow! Never thought I'd feel so strongly about a crack ship like this. And yes, as sad it is to say, this is a crack ship. Renora was planned from day one, so it can't be helped. At least it didn't blast me in the face all of the sudden (OH NO, NOT THE BEES! AAAAARGH! THEY'RE IN MY EYES!). But why this ship? Well, for one thing, it's that whole opposites attract thing with Nora as the bubbly, outspoken, airhead powerhouse and Jaune as the soft spoken, introverted, nerd tactician. But wait, there's more to this trope, because it can go deeper: Order VS Chaos! Who makes all the messes? Who cleans up those messes? Who follows all the rules? Who makes their own doors? It's just. So. Damn! GOOD! One sad thing about this ship though is that it's not only not canon because of Renora, it's anti-canon because Renora. Every fan fic of Nora's Arc requires an explanation for Ren and Nora to not be together-together, like you have to write a formal apology to the FNDM for liking something that's different from what is canon or commonly accepted. If that's the case, then I'll be the anarchist here!

TLDR: I LOVE IT! What's that? Not canon? Who gives a damn?! I just explained why Jaune won't be shipped anyways! Now, if you'll excuse, I have some fan fics to find.

ARCFALL ( CINDER X JAUNE )

Oh, here it goes! Now, if we're talking ships that'll never happen, this is where we find better reasons than "it's not canon" and "character development". No, this... This is a declaration of war. Allow me to explain. Cinder Fall is evil. Like, down to her core. She wants power and she'll cut through anyone to get to it. Including Pyrrha. This woman sank Arkos by means other than "X and Y kissed, so..." She killed X, leaving Y alone. And her interactions with Jaune tell me she wouldn't even be worth a hate-bang. But, as Momma always, there's a thin line between love and hate. This is where the appeal comes in. Cinder is evil with no past, which leaves the previous chapter's of her life story blank to be filled in. Jaune is good with a troublesome, albeit easy past, but untapped potential for more. It's another opposites attract, but different from INTRO VS EXTRO and CHAOS VS ORDER; this is GOOD VS EVIL. Who will win this battle of wills; will our hero purify the tainted heart, or will he slip deeper into darkness, never to return to the light?

TLDR: Should be a NOTP, and yet the allure pulls me in.

What do y'all think? Do you agree? Let me know!

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sincerelyella · 3 years

Text

RAMifications Chapter 7 - Kiss Me

Book: The Royal Romance (AU)

Pairings: Liam x MC (Ella)

Song Inspiration: Kiss Me by Ed Sheeran

Characters belong to Pixelberry; MC Ella Brooks belongs to me

A/N: This entire idea came from @burnsoslow and her unBEARable series featuring her OTP Drake and Alyssa. This is Ella’s backstory and how she met the love of her life King Liam of Cordonia and became his queen.

Catch up here

Big thank you to my beta reader/snippet looker-overer (?)/my biggest cheerleader @burnsoslow - always catching little details that my mind overlooks.

Warnings: Some swearing; hinting of 🍐 or 🍋?

Words: 2002

“Lady Ella. Might I have a word?”

Ella wasn’t sure about the protocol for inviting the King inside her bedroom … but this was his palace after all. She nodded and stepped back, allowing him to walk past her as she shut the door.

“Hello again, Your Majesty,” Ella put one foot behind the other in an attempt to curtsy when Constantine waved his hand in the air.

“There’s no need for that, dear,” he studied Ella for another moment before speaking again. “How are you feeling about Liam?”

“Your Majesty?” What the hell does that mean?

Constantine blew out a breath. “Are you here for wealth? Fame? A title? Why are you here? Liam needs stability above all right now, Ella. You … joining in the middle of the social season, having not been in Cordonia long and knowing nothing of our traditions … that concerns me. We have suitors that have prepared their entire lives to be queen. This could be potentially dangerous should our enemies see this as a weakness!”

Ella grit her teeth and clenched her jaw in an effort to hide her irritation. What the fuck? “Sir, if I may speak freely?”

He nodded and gestured for her to go ahead.

“Why are you trying to intimidate me?” She spat out.

The King was taken aback at her tone and could only blink as a response. He hadn’t expected this very small woman to behave this way. Ella continued speaking, not even waiting for him to respond. “I may not have prepared my whole life to be a queen of an entire country, but I’ve spent a majority of my adult life studying. Studying diplomacy, trade, investment … how to recognize when someone is going into cardiac arrest and bringing them back to life,” she said the last few words louder than the rest, unable to hide her aggravation. “I have no doubt that these other ladies studied hard to be queen. But did they study how to be a wife? How to console someone when they lost everything they own? How to be compassionate towards people of a lower stature? The people need a Queen that understands them. Liam needs someone that can be a queen AND a wife. I’ve embraced your country, as well as your traditions.”

Constantine gave her a questioning look.

“I know I have because instead of just being with the man I want to be with … I have to parade around with four other women trying to win him.” Ella’s eyes met his, not backing down from his stare.

He was momentarily speechless. No one had ever spoken to him that way, ever. Except maybe his wife, but he hardly paid attention to her and her ramblings anyway. This young woman was fiery, and he wasn’t sure if he liked that or not. “I am not here to intimidate you, Ella,” he finally said slowly. “We will see how the rest of the season goes. I want what’s best for my country, that’s all.”

“What’s best for your country is a successor that has it all. If he’s happy AND can run a country with someone that loves him, then I don’t see the problem … sir.” She had forgotten that she was speaking to the king. He could have her gone and back to California in a hot second if he wanted to.

Constantine carefully took in her words and nodded. “Alright, Ella. We’ll see what happens. You have a good night.” He turned and let himself out of the room.

Ella walked over, locked the door and pressed her back up against it. My mouth might get me in some serious trouble here. She finally went to get ready for bed, slipped into the comforter and fell into a deep sleep.

Soft, constant knocks on the door woke up Ella the next morning.

“I’m coming … sheesh,” she mumbled, stumbling out of bed and tripped over her comforter that her foot was caught in. “Oh shit!” She shrieked as she hit the ground and the knocking stopped for a second.

“Ella?”

“Um, yes! Just a second!” Real smooth. Ella picked herself up off the ground, threw the stupid comforter on the bed and rushed to the door to open it.

There stood Liam, leaning on the door frame wearing a white polo shirt that outlined his chest and arm muscles perfectly. She roamed her eyes down further to take in the navy blue slacks and brown loafers. Ohmigod. It’s entirely too early to look that good. She inadvertently sucked her bottom lip into her mouth.

Liam cleared his throat and tried to hide a smile when he noticed she was staring. “Good morning, Lady Ella. I wanted to stop by and see you before I headed in to meetings today. May I come in?”

Ella blinked and quickly nodded. She moved aside so he could walk in the door and she closed it behind him. “Good morning, Your Highness. I’m sorry if I-” She was interrupted by Liam’s mouth on hers. Ella strained on the tips of her toes to meet him so she could kiss him back with fervor. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pushed her tongue into his mouth and he groaned in response.

He could hardly control himself. As soon as he saw her open the door wearing a tank top - she wasn’t wearing a bra, dear God - and the shortest Hello Kitty pajama shorts known to man, his cock jumped in his pants and his mouth watered. She looked like a goddess, with all her dark hair piled on top of her head, and her sleepy disposition; he was so tempted to just take her right then and there. It took all of the effort he could muster to pull away from those soft lips. “I’m sorry, I … really just came to say good morning,” he said in between breaths.

“Sure … you did,” Ella panted and laughed breathlessly.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to see you much today,” he said sadly. “My father and I have meetings and things to take care of before we leave.” Liam gulped. “Remember, we have to be, somewhat secretive, just until the social season ends,” he gave her a guilty look. He still kept his arms around her, not wanting to let go just yet. “I’m so sorry about this.”

“It’s alright, I knew what all this entailed. And I know you have things to do today. I have some interview that Bertrand set up so … I’ll be doing that,” she smiled up at him.

“I … can text you though, right?” That sounded so pathetic.

Ella giggled. “You’re so cute. Of course you can.”

Their intimate moment was interrupted by loud knocks at the door. “Ellaaaaaaa! Wake up sleepy heeeeead!”

“That must be Maxwell,” Ella whispered and they laughed. Liam leaned down to kiss her one last time before releasing her.

The door flew open. “Good morning sunshine!” Maxwell bounced into the room and stopped short when he saw Liam. “Hey buddy!” He grinned wide at the both of them.

“Good morning Maxwell,” Liam chuckled. “I need to get going, I’ll see you two later.” He grabbed Ella’s hand and squeezed it before walking out into the hallway.

“He came to … visit you huuuuh?” Max wiggled his eyebrows at Ella and she blushed.

“He just came to say good morning, that’s all.”

“Mmmhmmm. Is that what you crazy kids call it these days?”

She rolled her eyes but ignored his question entirely. “Okay, so I’m assuming you’re here to take me to get breakfast?”

“You are correct! Breakfast, the boutique, and then I’m also supposed to prep you for the interview. Bertrand will be here later to prep you some more!”

“Alright, let me get dressed really quick.”

45 minutes later, Max and Ella were eating in the dining hall. “So, what are they going to be asking me anyway?”

Max bit off a piece of bacon. “There’s only one person coming from Trend, her name is Ana de Luca. She’s pretty cool actually, the royal family and the nobles trust her with their interviews. Sometimes she brings Donnie Brine with CBC, but I don’t think he’s coming. She will most likely ask you about where you came from, what you did there, how you met the prince, how you feel about the prince, what would set you apart from the other suitors … things like that.” He shoved another piece of bacon in his mouth and washed it down with some coffee.

“Did you guys want me to be truthful or do you have some script for me to follow?”

Maxwell shook his head. “No, no, no, there’s no script. I’m sure Bertrand will want you to say things about House Beaumont … but, just be yourself. They want to know about Ella! So tell them,” he smiled reassuringly at her and continued eating.

A few hours later, after spending an hour in the boutique with Maxwell throwing all kinds of dresses over the fitting room door, she finally found a dress she loved. A black chiffon midi length dress with purple flowers on the bottom, it had an A-line silhouette and short sleeves. It was elegant enough for a daytime interview with the press, and was also Maxwell and Bertrand approved.

Ella sat in her bedroom with Maxwell, listening to him chatter away next to her about his new awesome playlist that he made. She was feeling her stomach twist with nerves, her hands clasped in her lap and she could feel her palms getting sweaty. She heard footsteps come right outside her door and knew it was Bertrand. Ella took a big breath in and let it out slowly. “You ready, Ella?” Max took her hand and squeezed it. “You’re going to do great!”

They both stood and walked out into the hallway meeting Bertrand and a petite woman with blond hair. “Hello,” Ella smiled.

“Hello, Lady Ella I presume?”

“Yes, Ana, allow me to introduce Lady Ella of House Beaumont. Lady Ella, this is Ana de Luca from Trend Magazine.”

Ella and Ana shook hands. “It’s a pleasure, Lady Ella. We are all very curious to know more about you.”

“Wonderful to meet you, Ana. Where are we having this interview?”

“In one of the ballrooms, I’ve had the crew set up already. Follow me.”

The four headed towards one of the open ballrooms, smaller than the other one Ella had seen a week ago. As they rounded the corner, Ella spotted two women coming towards them. One with jet black hair and the other with flaming red hair. The woman with the dark hair just looked at Ella curiously, while the other woman gave her the death stare. As Ana, Bertrand and Maxwell walked into the ballroom, Ella looked back at both women. The redhead walked up to her and snickered. “Well, well, well, look what we have here.”

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