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monarchberrysblog · 1 month

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𝔩𝔢𝔱’𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔲𝔭

18+ Miguel O’Hara x Fem! Reader

Summary: After arguing with Miguel over a touchy subject, you both come to a consensus.

Content Warning ⚠️: Soft! Dom! Miguel, Dacryphilia?, Praise (from Miguel), little nicknames (Mainly cariño and neña), and a little bit of Miguel being a complete munch. (if you don't know what that means, you're too young to read my content.) The reader is a pillow princess, overstimulation (nothing new), and unprotective P in V. (wrap it before you tap it). Miguel talks the reader through it, and Miguel cries. (I wish I were playing) (NOT PROOFREAD) (OOC MIGUEL)

Word Count: 3.1k+ words (holy shit…)

Author's Notes: Well, this occurred to me while soaking my hair in rice water 😭 But in all seriousness, here’s something sweet but smutty 😗😋 Hope you all enjoy it. If there are some plot holds, I'm sorry. I've been busy recently.

To my girlies who have a praise kink, your secret is safe with Miguel. 💌

It had been two weeks since you spoke to Miguel, let alone share a bed.

Miguel regretted that he yelled at you or how he compared you to Dana, his former lover. The truth was, you were far better than Dana. You were kind, patient, and understanding of his responsibilities as Spider-Man. He didn't know what came to him when he compared you, a literal angel, to one of the worst partners he'd dated beforehand.

You remained a pillar of support and unwavering patience throughout his double life. Despite the countless tasks, you never once complained. You were there to tend to his wounds at the odd night hours, offering comfort and care. During the frigid winter months in Nueva York, you never failed to have a warm and nourishing soup ready to soothe his ailing body. But now, asking him to come home soon was too much?

"Dana would never complain about me coming home late!"

"Well, I'm sorry that I'm not her!"

The same argument returned for the last few days until one instance ended it. It was the same argument managed, but he managed to end it—not as you expected.

"I should have never dated you! You are so demanding. Dana would never be like this." The second he finished, he covered his mouth with his hands quickly and backed away from you. He wanted to take back his words, but you didn't give him that advantage. Your silence felt suffocating to hear and to be around. But the sight of your lips quivering and your eyes at the brink of spilling tears. The urge to run to you and to beg for forgiveness rushed through his veins.

Before even having the opportunity, you are running away from him into your shared bedroom, like a small rabbit running away from its predator to seek shelter in a small hole in the ground.

As soon as Miguel laid eyes on the scene before him, his stomach turned, and he felt like he would be sick. It wasn't just that he had acted up—the complete lack of remorse he felt at that moment truly frightened him. Meanwhile, seeing you trying to hold back tears made the situation unbearable. But when he heard you weeping in your bedroom, the guilt he felt just got magnified.

The sound of thunder boomed throughout the apartment complex. Usually, this made you want to grab a soft blanket and snuggle in Miguel's arms. However, the events that led to this said otherwise. He was out in Nueva York while you were bedridden. The sensation of your pillow against your cheek buried away the melancholy and the tears that your poor pillow always caught whenever you got upset.

The now old Victorian complex now creaks and settles down every other occasion. The sound of a muffled evangelical leader seeped through the thin walls, despite the number of complaints Miguel had told the older man to turn it down. But now? The preaching from the frustrated man drowns out your sorrows as thunder continues to rumble throughout the complex.

The window sliding open greets you, snapping you out of the evangelical preacher's words. Veering over your shoulder, you see your boyfriend, Miguel, crawling back into the apartment, closing the old window, preventing the downpour from creeping in and soaking the red oak floors. The sight of him changing into his sweats and undershirt was enough to make you blush, but you ignored your instincts. The simple 'hey' he greets you made you toss and turn on the bed, ignoring him.

Your heart skipped a beat as you heard the words "Cariño, por favor" uttered from behind you. Your mind was racing, and you wondered whether to turn around and face him. The temptation to forgive and forget lingered in your heart for a week, but what he had said had left an unforgettable mark. The hurt and pain were too much to ignore, and you knew deep down that it was time to move on—even though you were too adamant for your good.

A small sigh of defeat fills the mere pregnant pause in the air as the bed creaks under the added weight on the bed before settling down. The blankets bunched around your chest and near your chin comforted you despite the smell of it being your favorite fabric softener combined with his scent. "C'mere…" He groans, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into a spooning position. A loud whine from you wasn't the response he was expecting. He expected a giggle when he did so, but an adverse reaction said otherwise.

"Please don't be upset, cariño. I didn't mean what I said about, well—" Miguel suddenly stops. There is no other way around it. He messed up big time, and can see the hurt in your eyes.

You weren't Dana, something that Miguel always took for granted—the memory of having to deal with someone so parasitic, like a brain-eating amoeba, was emotionally draining. Even thinking about it is enough to make anyone tired. The emotional unavailability was the thing that got to him when it came to her, knowing that she wasn't waiting for him and cared about herself instead. The artificial bullshit was the only thing she desired, such as the dates and the gifts, not the emotional side of things, such as aftercare.

"What I said, it was true. You're not like Dana," A pause filled the space as you waited for him to continue. "You're not her, and it's something I adore." The simple kiss to your temple made you liquefy in his arms, but you remained silent, giving the silent treatment. "And I'm sorry about what I said; it was something I said in the heat of the moment." A nuzzle to the pillow was the only response he received, along with the low rumble of thunder.

As his lips touched your temple, a wave of gentle affection washed over you. The kisses continued to rain down softly, dotting your forehead, cheeks, and finally, your lips, like a fluttering of delicate butterfly wings. A tiny grumble left from you, not wanting to cave into his little kisses and advances that you ever so adored dearly.

The harassment of sweet kisses ended after ten minutes, and you turned your body to face Miguel. "…hey."

"Hey, cariño…" He hums, sneaking a kiss to your lips, which you allow. "…hey." You repeated, not knowing what else to say. "Hi." Miguel chuckled from the back of his throat and planted another kiss on the forehead. You stayed silent for the longest time until you looked up at him from where you rested your head on his chest. "I'm sorry too—" Miguel covered your mouth with his hand, nearly covering your entire face. "No, don't apologize. This argument was all my fault." He pulled his hand away from your lips, and a subtle sigh left.

"I shouldn't have exploded over one little thing. You rarely ask for me to come home a little sooner." His fingers combed through your hair, occasionally fixing some knots. "It shows that you care; you want me to be at home, safe and warm…" The pitter-patter of rain continued to play a steady tempo like a metronome at an adagio, not too fast, yet a bit slow. "I'm sorry for giving a poor excuse for blowing my anger at you. It was… stupid." He breathes out. "I had no reason."

You hummed and nuzzled closer to him. "I forgive you…" You mumbled, soon curling up to him for his warmth. "I should have known that asking for you to come home sooner is a bit too much—" You were cut off once again with a kiss on your lips, muffling your words. After you stopped and returned the kiss, Miguel pulled away after a moment and ruffled your hair.

"No, cariño. None of this is your fault. The blame is all on me." He rubbed the back of your head with his hand, lightly massaging the nape of your neck with his thumb. A small chuckle escaped from him. Seeing your messy hair makes him smile at the sight you gave him. Usually, you would throw a fit about how you looked, especially when the two of you went out. But now, you seemed loosened up and mellow.

He embraced you tightly, nuzzling into your neck as soon as you returned it. "I missed you so much… I don't like being mad at you," you muttered, slowly rubbing your fingertips against the nape of his neck. Then you started playing with his hair. A small smile formed on your lips as you felt his soft waves against the pads of your fingers. "Even with your suit, your hair is always soft. It never fails to surprise me."

Miguel only gave you a chuckle before pulling you to rest on his body and planting a long kiss on your lips, which you happily reciprocated. The soft, supple kisses soon evolved into something hungry and messy. The soft caress around your waist soon became handsy and coping with a feeling of being on one another. "I missed you, nena…" He mumbles in between kisses.

His kisses moved from your lips, leaving a small trail from your neck to your collarbone and, finally, on your plush lower stomach. “Nena… let me, please…” With a rush, you nodded, rubbing your thighs together slowly. "Here, let's help you out…" Usually, the man would rip your underwear off, but this time, he held back. He patted your hips lovingly, gesturing for you to raise your hips. "Raise your hips for me." You obeyed immediately, soon squirming out of your underwear and helping Miguel.

His arms hooked around your thighs, dragging your upper half down onto the mattress and having your pussy close to Miguel's lips. "Look at that, that kiss got you all wet…" Before complaining that you could feel his breath against your sensitive clit, Miguel indulged himself, devouring you slowly and slurping any remnants of your arousal. "My god, you taste so good…" He shuddered in between your folds and soon probed his tongue at your entrance. The light flicks from the wet, active muscles tease you enough for you to grasp onto the duvet underneath you and moan deep from your throat. "Oh fuck, fuck me with it…"

Hum is the only response you accumulate as you feel the wet tongue slowly tease your fluttering hole and soon feel Miguel lightly push his tongue at your fluttering hole. A small, needy moan filled the space while the wet muscle made you arch your back against the mattress. "Fuck, I want it inside…" You urgently whine.

"What do you want, cariño? Use your words, m'kay?" He muttered, slowly pulling away from your pussy and taking the time to savor you.

"I want it…"

"You want what? Please tell me what you want." He cooed to you and rubbed his thumbs against your thighs. The light breathing against your clit and entrance didn't help your case. Your high was making it nearly impossible to get on top of him and to take regime.

"I want your cock… please."

After a few moments of your demands and feeling his soft breathing against your pussy, he slowly slid you back down onto the bed, laying you down on the bed gently. "C'mere…" Miguel whispers sweetly before he gently holds you close and slowly rubs his aching length against your folds. The sensation of the fabric of his sweats rubbing against your bare skin was enough for you to moan at the feeling. "Wait, this feels…" He paused and looked down at you. "Are we okay? I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." You could hear the sheer panic in his voice, but you only nodded, giving him the green light.

Reaching down, your hands worked quickly, and you pulled on his sweats and boxers. A low groan emits from Miguel, feeling his dick get freed from the restrictive clothing. "You wanna hump on my cock like a good girl?" He mumbles out heavily, slowly lowering himself and allowing his length to rub in between your folds slowly. "Oh god, slowly. Slowly, cariño…" He urgently breathes out, slowly letting his bulbous tip rub against your clit. The burning yet slippery sensation slowly builds up. The slow, sensual rubs are enough for more arousal to build up, making it feel like a slippery slide thanks to your arousal and Miguel's precum. "Mierda…"

"Do you want me to fuck you, and do you want my babies?"

You nodded immediately, squirming in underneath him on the mattress.

"C'mon, grab it and slide it in. You know how to do it."

It had been weeks since you'd had sex with Miguel, especially since the argument about Dana; it almost had been a month without any intimate contact. You slowly reached for his cock and lightly tapped his tip against your entrance, a little nervous about how it would be a tight fit. "Miguel?" You slowly whined, still holding onto his aching cock. "Do you need any help?" He hums, slowly getting himself comfortable. "It's been a while…"

He nods before he grabs his cock and helps you slowly push himself in. "Shit!" He suddenly hisses out, barely letting his tip inside of you while you claw at his arms and groan. "You are tight…" You looked down and saw that your poor partner barely kept it together. "Give me a moment, nena…" He murmurs out quietly, slowly thrusting his tip at your entrance.

"Just the tip?" You sweetly suggested, looking down again, seeing how desperately he wanted his length to disappear by simply slowly pumping into you. "Maybe… Just the tip…" Miguel nods, slowly letting his tip probe at your entrance.

The sounds of labored breathing and moans filled the apartment, drowning out the evangelical preacher from next door, along with the angry bangs from the other neighbors. "I want you…" You breathed out, slowly feeling him sink in his length until his happy trail brushed against your clit. "Then you can have me. I'm yours to do as you please." His voice was like warm molasses, a sweet honey running down with sweet venom.

Another shout from the older man next door causes Miguel to roll his eyes as he slowly thrusts into you, allowing his mushroom tip to brush against your cervix. "Shut up!" Miguel yelled out to the angry neighbor and returned his focus to you. "Can we go a little faster?" You meekly suggested while slowly moving on his length. "Ay, cariño…"

The sensation of his length twitching inside of you is enough to have the man nearly cave in and thrust into your fluttering walls to end the slow overstimulation on his tip. "Easy, easy…" He breathed out weakly, slowly grasping onto your hips. His talons digging into your flesh felt like tiny needles lightly prickling at your thumb while sewing. "You're a little tight, and it's been a hot minute." His breathy groan filled the space immediately, slowly moving in and out of your fluttering hole. Not listening to his demands, you began to move your hips down and slid with ease, allowing your arousal to cream on his length. "Let's piss the neighbor off."

It was a sick, twisted fantasy to anger your neighbors, especially with the fact that y'all had thin walls in the time-old apartment that could drive anyone crazy. Mainly because the older neighbors around y'all are rowdy and complain about every little noise you or Miguel produced, most the sound of a blender or even if some music played a little too loud to their liking. But to you and him, it was time to get back at them and be as noisy as possible.

His pace was languid yet deep, taking his time while letting out low, rough grunts. “You're doing well, cariño.” You respond weakly by letting out a mewl and only let your fluttering wall convey the message more. “I'm trying…” You whined, bringing him to your embrace. “Can you go a little faster?” You plead, feeling the slow, delicious burn from his girth. “You sure? I don't want to hurt you.” He nuzzled close to your neck, leaving tiny kisses.

“I can handle it.” You pant, slowly sink yourself into him, pushing yourself down on him. The veins running down his length brushed against your clit deliciously, with a loud mewl filling in the apartment. “Please, please, please.” You plead out loud. “I'm on birth control, please.”

“I want you to—” One quick thrust ended your words. A sudden scream of pleasure filled the space, feeling Miguel’s merciless tempo. “Oh fuck! Yes! Keep it at that!” You demanded while being underneath him. “Baby, I'm a little—”

The wanton moans filled the space while the banging of the neighbor on your apartment walls made this nothing but filthy. “Shut up!” Your hoarse demands filled the space while you banged your fist against the wall. His unrelenting tempo continued, feeling that burn you ever so missed desperately.

The wet, squelching noise made the scene more lewd for Miguel, along with your shared bed creaking underneath the two of you, barely holding on with whatever strength it could conjure up. You are underneath him while he can feel your arousal coat his length along with his precum. The pace felt nothing but filthy and desperate. The feeling of tiny water droplets landed on your cheeks, causing you to wipe them off before you look up and see your partner, your usual aloof, stoic partner, shedding tears before you. The rough pace continued as you clawed at his back, leaving faint, red marks before you felt your rippling finish come to you and embraced Miguel tightly. “Please, I'm close…”

With one single thrust, you felt him twitch inside you before putting his heavy load in you.

“You okay?” You peeped out to him while feeling him slowly slide out and wiping away his tears. “Yes, I'm fine. Just overstimulated myself a little.” Slowly, he pulls out, earning a tiny groan from you and immediately pulls you into a warm embrace. “I didn't hurt you, did I?” You shook your head no, taking in shallow breaths. “No, I'm okay. Just a little sore.” You mumble quietly. Little sore was an understatement…

“C’mere…” He pants out, pulls you into a warm embrace, and plants soft, lazy kisses on your temple and cheeks. “You did so good…” The lazy, slow presses of his body against you felt like a weighted blanket, along with his chest heaving against yours. His hands roamed your body, allowing his fingers to trace light patterns and memorize you. “What do you want for dinner, cariño? Do you want me to prepare you something or do you want that one pizza you like on Main Street?” He murmurs from your shoulder, not wanting to get off of you. An incomprehensive mumble is the only thing that responds to him.

“Pizza it is, then.”

#miguel ohara x reader smut #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #miguel smut #miguel ohara smut #miguel x you #miguel fanfic #miguel ohara fanfiction

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luveline · 6 months

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𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

eddie wakes up with a red string tied from his finger to yours, no idea where he got it, and no idea how to tell you that you're caught on the end of it. soulmate!au. fem!reader, 16k.

content warnings mentioned issues with self image, implied body dysmorphia, reader is insecure/a touch shy, alcohol, a short kiss after one character has been drinking, weed mentioned but not used by eddie or reader. please read with care! requested here ♡

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Eddie remembers the party in flashes. The feeling of his thick-soled creepers caught on the floor, wings in fly paper. Someone's headphones cracking like a wishbone between two hands and a fist fight in the backyard. Your hair touching some degenerate's cheek as they leaned down to kiss you, and the shudder that ran through you as you opened your mouth. Beer. Beer, cheap wine, another beer.

While he realises the beer may be fogging his memory, none of the fractures explain the piece of string tied to the marriage finger on his left hand.

He stands in the tiny trailer bathroom with his back against the door, the hustle and bustle of his Uncle Wayne's morning routine filtering through the flimsy door. It bends under his weight. Anymore pushing and it'll fly off the hinges.

The string withstands reasoning. Eddie wasn't particularly alarmed when he couldn't slide it off of his finger that morning, half-falling out of bed and desperate for the bathroom. He figured himself the victim of an elaborate prank, toppling out of bed to follow the red string where it stood taut. He chased it to the door and gave up when he realised that it disappeared down the dark stretch of road leading out of the Hills.

Panic set in somewhere between peeing and a pair of scissors falling apart around the string in the kitchen. Like even the touch of the string was an insult, uncuttable.

From there he tried yanking, buttering, slicing. The butter made his fingers greasy and the knife went dull. To the touch, the string is thin. Twelve pieces of strand like doubled embroidery thread, plain cotton to the eye, maybe polyester if the minimal iridescent shine is a clue. He can spread it out between his fingers and thumb, he just can't cut it off.

"Eddie, what the fuck did you do?"

Eddie winces and drops his hand from his eyes. The string slides down the doorway where it's trapped with a light shushing.

"What?" Eddie shouts back to Wayne.

"Don't what me, son! Come here."

Eddie groans and hangs his head. Pissed, he scrounges through the laundry for a shirt that's in acceptable condition and attempts to put it on but the insufferable string refuses to play nice. It bends, snags, and Eddie can't find a way to get it off —he has to pull the string toward him, pleased if sceptical to find that despite its taut nature, it will allow him enough length to get an arm through his sleeve.

"What the fuck," he mutters, looking at the mirror in disbelief. The purple-yellow bruise haunting the hollow of his right eye has shrunk since last night, to his relief. Upon reflection, Eddie doesn't think it'll draw much attention.

The string doubles back on itself, a red line up the length of his arm to his armpit where it disappears into the sleeve. From there, it snakes down his stomach to pull out from the bottom hem.

If whoever has the other end of the string decides to pull, his shirt will rise up. Awesome. Really great. He's a fucking streaker.

"Edward Albert Munson, if you don't get in here!"

"Wayne," Eddie says, pushing open the bathroom door with a suffering sigh, "what do you want me to say? I can't get the fucking thing off'a me."

Wayne is thoroughly unimpressed where he stands in the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest and gaze on the countertop by the sink.

Eddie's confused at first, complaint dying on his lips as he remembers the mess he made in a mad dash for freedom half an hour ago. Butter shines yellow and melted on a small plate, the broken scissors tossed frustratedly aside, a useless knife in similar fashion at the bottom of the sink.

"What the fuck, Eds?" Wayne asks.

Eddie holds up his hand. "I don't know!" he says, exasperated, eyebrows halfway up his forehead. "I woke up with it, I can't get rid of it."

Wayne's turn to be confused. But, like his newphew's, his confusion doesn't last long. "What happened to your eye?"

"The string?" Eddie asks, waving his red string around for emphasis. Bruises are commonplace, were nearly normal the summer between nine and tenth grade, this weird magic string is anything but.

"That what kids are calling shiners?" Wayne asks, taking Eddie's face in a rough hand. "At least say you got one in too."

"I don't remember."

"You don't remember?" Wayne asks, a mixture of unimpressed and horrified.

"No, I…" He bats Wayne's hand away, giving his tired-faced uncle an abashed smile. "It's fine, Wayne. I was at Gareth's last night."

"Ah, well that explains it. What does your bruise have to do with the state of my kitchen? You try cutting it off?"

Eddie turns from Wayne to grab the scissors and knife. He wraps both in paper towel until the sharps (or not so sharps) are covered and tosses them in the trash, scrounging for a bottle of bleach under the sink to wipe away his buttery mess. "You're focused on the wrong disaster, Wayne. Like, I tried following the string out the door and it's a half a mile long. I'm gonna follow it in the van."

"Is this, like, a trend? Speaking in tongues to get out of trouble?"

"What are you confused about?" Eddie asks, spinning back to hold his hand in Wayne's face.

Wayne doesn't look like Eddie, he's not so dark in the hair or eyes, and he obviously doesn't look like Eddie's mom, but the smile he gives him now was one Eddie's mom wore all the time, enduringly fond. Wayne takes Eddie's hand, turning his nephew's palm this way and that as the string slithers against pale knuckles. It almost writhes.

"What am I supposed to be seeing?"

"That's not funny."

"I'm not joking."

"Wayne," Eddie says, his shirt rising as he pulls on the string to catch the light. It shines in a way that isn't normal, too many colours like the scale of a deep sea fish. "This!"

"Right… I can't see whatever it is you're seeing. How hard did you get hit? Jesus, I asked you to stop getting yourself in these messes, you could get seriously hurt."

Wayne doesn't waste another second looking through Eddie's string. The weight of a long shift rests between his shoulders, abates as he brings the chipped rim of a Garfield mug to his lips. Eddie swears the chubby cat is mocking him, cruel eyes smirking at his misfortune.

"Unbelievable," Eddie mutters, ditching the whole scene in search of his dingy black sneakers.

Wayne chuckles and opens the cabinet where they keep their cookies and coffee cakes, calling, "You want breakfast?"

"No! I have delusions to attend to. Need anything while I'm out?"

"A new pair of scissors."

Eddie pretends to stab himself in the eye by the front door, over and over. His frustration calms. He slips into loose laced sneakers and grabs his jacket where it's hanging on the coat rack, digging for his keys. He elbows the door ajar, and doesn't notice his van isn't in the driveway until he's standing at the bottom of the porch steps, flabbergasted.

"Did you wanna borrow the sierra?" Wayne asks from the door.

Garfield looks on in silent judgement.

Wayne generously lends Eddie the sierra. He's relieved when he shuts the door on his string and it behaves like regular old string (which is to say, it doesn't buckle the metal), but then he tries to grab the steering wheel and his finger almost pulls from the socket, stopped by the string. His relief ends.

"Fuck fuck fuck," he says, opening the door, gathering some string and closing it again. Righted, he pulls his shirt back down his torso and starts the car.

Eddie's hoping he can follow the string to its beginning, but at this point he's sure he got his shit rocked hard enough to forget being hexed by a devious yet loveable warlock —the string can't be a real string. It doesn't tangle around the wheels of the car as he drives over the faint line of it leading from Forest Hills into Hawkins' town centre, it just vanishes, like Eddie's winding it around a bobbin.

He takes the first exit on the traffic circle reluctantly, away from the string and toward Gareth's house, where Eddie assumes he left his beloved van. He can't believe how wasted he must have been, and now that he's accepted the string as an irksome constant but prioritised it below van retrieval, the hangover he should definitely have rears a head. His stomach hurts, his eyes are sand, you were fucking kissing somebody else last night—

Eddie might throw up. He rolls down the window and sticks his head as far out of it as he can justify while driving. The roads are quiet, a late morning in Hawkins pockmarked by the burr of lawn mowers chewing up perfect lawns and the spray of illegal sprinklers. The sun emerges slowly and then all at once, licking his naked arms with the promise of sunburn should he continue the day unprotected. Eddie never seems to tan. He hates the sun, anyway, the glare of it bouncing off of the road in a blinding dotted line. He unfolds the visor over his seat.

Needless to say, he's in a shitty mood when he finally gets to Gareth's house, spying his van wedged in the driveway between a miscellaneous ford and a buick.

Hungover, too hot, trying not to panic about the red string choking his knuckle. It can't seem to decide on how tight or loose it's going to sit. It tightens as he climbs out of the sierra, loosens as he walks toward his van.

"Hey, gorgeous," he says, patting her freshly lacquered body with love. She's all jet black now, rust buffed and wheels shiny.

There are bikes crowded against the house wall like toppled dominoes. The window shades are closed but the door is wide open the hinges, the sharp smell of booze wafting out into the sun. Give it enough time and Eddie's sure the sun'll bake all the milling bodies into a brand new smell.

"Hey, man," Jamison greets, sitting on the kitchen counter and unfairly put together considering the bottle of sours he demolished alone last night, "you survived."

Gareth is face down at the table next to a plate of cold toast, jelly congealed. Jeff stands by the patio door smoking a cigarette that smells exciting, and Macy stands doing the dishes at the sink.

"Got the girl doing the dishes. Classy," Eddie says.

Macy drops the sponge she's using into the water, soap bubbles dripping from her fingers. "Thanks for offering."

He relents. The mess they've made —and it is generous to call it a mess, more apt might be an explosion, or a weather event— is extensive. Pizza boxes upturned, tomato sauce and stringy cheese smashed into the fridge like a modern art piece you'd see at MOMA. Eddie wouldn't put it past drunk or high him to have done it, declaring some statement of pretentious high horsery, so he doesn't comment on it. If it was him, he doesn't wanna know.

"Some party," Jeff says through smoke.

Eddie pulls the stopper out of the sink to let the water drain. He doesn't roll like that. "What the fuck happened?"

Gareth rouses at Eddie's question, said as it is with vigour, and remembers his toast. He takes a bite and turns in his seat to blink blearily at Eddie. For a second, Eddie kids himself into thinking his friend can see the string currently spilling water onto the floor like a tightwire.

"You lost your shit and wrecked my house, you stupid bastard."

Eddie looks to Jamison, as if to say, that true?

Jamison pushes a long arm behind his back and stretches. "Y/N was hooking up with Cory Wilson and you took it like a champ, in my opinion. We had a good time."

"She hooked up with Wilson?" he asks, dread pooling in his stomach. The string shudders as you had, Eddie remembers, your chin tilted up and your eyes closing into sweet dark lines, painted lashes squeezed together.

"She took you home," Macy says, muffled, a hair tie between her lips. She lets the thin blonde strands of her hair fall back to her shoulders. "She didn't stay the night?"

"That would've been kind of sick," Jeff says.

"He could barely walk," Jamison agrees. "Okay, I'm lying. You were fine."

"I figured she'd have to stay, the way you were begging her. Ditch Wilson, baby, he doesn't know you like I know you. We can make it work, just say you'll stop seeing him."

Eddie drops a plate in the sink with a splintering crush. The answering roar of laughter tells him what he hadn't had breath to ask. No, he didn't really say any of that shit.

"You were drunk, not stupid," Jeff says.

"Not that stupid," Jamison corrects.

Eddie frowns down at the broken plate in the sink for a breather. Nerves abated, total loserdom escaped for another day, he holds his damp hand up in the air. "Any of you fuckers seeing this?"

"Get a new tattoo?" Macy asks.

He shakes his hand, the string (still caught in his sleeve, line like a bright vein up his arm) shaking. "You don't see it?"

"Your artist is gonna be pissed, they hate cheaters."

Eddie sighs. "Can someone pass me the trash can?"

They clean the house together in fits and starts, all nauseous, all wishing they'd had the sense to have a chill get together, just the five of them. Gareth declares his home a no go scene for the rest of summer and Eddie doesn't bother offering, nobody wants a party at the trailer park. Seeing the disco ball missing a rainbow lense under the stairs, a jumbo box of popcorn sprayed over the entire downstairs bathroom, and poor Manny Gomez cup-locked where he snoozes on the Persian rug in the lounge, Eddie wouldn't agree to host a party ever, even if he lived in one of the rich kid cribs like Harrington. It takes hours to put it right.

The longer he cleans the looser the string becomes. It drops to the floor (seemingly done with no regard to the laws of physics, having magicked itself out of his sleeve at a point, unnoticed) and trips him up as he walks downstairs. Eddie led a one man search party for Gareth's pet fish who some idiot transferred to the bathtub. The fish flops around at the turbulence of his trip inside of a temporary cup, but Eddie manages to return the poor thing to its tank uninjured.

"It's fucking sick," he says, crouching down to follow the fish as it reacclimates. Its big black eyes are like sequins set in orange glitter, scales glistening, a shimmering of purple and teal blues kissing its underbelly as it swims. "You're a beautiful creature. I'm sorry somebody tried to evict you, babe."

"He's a boy."

"Yeah, and he's a babe." Eddie bites his tongue.

You bend at the waist. With the shades still drawn, the brunt of the light entering the room is from your left, and the right side, the side closest to Eddie, is lit blue by the fish tank. You smile gently at the goldfish puttering around between artificial seaweed, an expression that grabs Eddie by the intestines. You feel his gaze, turning your face ever so slightly to his.

"Don't look as nice without makeup, I know," you murmur.

You're dressed differently today, stripped back in one way and more beautiful all the others, bare-skinned, no makeup or glitters to hide behind. Eddie remembers every detail of what you were wearing last night, the details stamped into his temporal lobe (before he drank his weight in other peoples booze). Black tights that shimmered slick oil as you moved and a tiny dress to boot. You're not a small girl, thighs there and grabbable and so un-grabbed, and when you bent down Eddie's shamefaced to say he followed the line. He loved how you looked last night, loves how you express yourself, but he craves how you are now, the lesser seen side of the same coin.

"You look nice." He cringes, his reflection in the fish tank glass a horror. Eddie never actually managed to shower this morning. If he doesn't smell like pale ale it'll be a miracle. "You do. At least one of us showered."

"I'm surprised you're alive," you say with a fond smile. Eddie never takes your insults to heart because you never say them to hurt. You're easygoing. You're light incarnate. "I haven't seen you drink that much since graduation."

"Macy says you took me home." He stands at full height. You follow suit.

"Kicking and screaming. You told me you were going to drink every drop of Mr. Lashlee's bourbon or die trying, and you tried."

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asks. He can be volatile when he's intoxicated, like a fish out of water.

You gesture to his cheek. "Hurt yourself. You were freaking out and your hand kicked back. I didn't think it would bruise. Does it hurt awful?"

Your sympathy melts him. Eddie shakes his head, lying through his teeth, "I can barely feel it."

Your hoodie drowns you, your jeans not as oversized but hiding the feats of your thighs from view. He can't say he's not disappointed, though it's cute on you, your jeans rolled at the ends to showcase mildly mismatched crew socks and a pair of converse, their rubber shiny with newness besides a small sharpie heart on the left toe. Trapped beneath them is Eddie's string.

He tugs it out. You show no sign of feeling it as the string snaps upward like an elastic and stops short. It goes stiff as a stick, tied from the knuckle of his marriage finger and leading…

To the knuckle of yours.

Like matching rings.

Eddie thinks, Sure. If I'm delusional, of course it's something to do with you.

"Don't suppose you can see it?" he asks, pulling against the string. The red band expands to accommodate you, rather than tug you inward. It has a mind of its own, apparently, listening to Eddie only on occasion.

"The bruise?" you ask, confused. "It's hard not to see. But it's not too bad. You could buy some powder for it if it bothers you, but I think it makes you seem cool."

"I don't seem cool?"

You smile as though you're sharing a joke. If you are, Eddie hasn't heard it before.

It's weird, crushing on someone. He can't remember feeling this way growing up, spending sun-soaked days at playgrounds and parking lots and the pool, wet to the knees, you and your friends sitting under the shade of the umbrellas. The first time he saw you there, in your bikini bottoms and your big white t-shirt bent over a book, he didn't feel any sudden revelation. No spark. No pulled string. He thought you were pretty without bragging about it and he met you not long after that at a nondescript barbecue. Then he stopped hanging out with his middle school friends and flunked two years. He forgot you existed. And now he knows you again, he feels more and more of himself bending and twisting trying to be what you want him to be, or what he thinks you want, at least. If you want Wilson, he can be Wilson. Eddie can kiss like a fish and wear too much cologne, he can sell out and cut his hair to the ears.

Well, maybe not that far. I still want to be me, he thinks, eyes on your hands and the string stretched between them. The red seems darker now, onyx hued, ropey as blood.

"What are you doing here?" Eddie forces out. Not surprised, you and Macy are close enough that you've formed friendships with the whole gang of merry misfits, but wondering if his string has pulled you here. Does he have any say?

"I thought I'd help with the aftermath, see if anybody wanted to get burgers, the works."

Eddie catches a flicker of nervousness in your stance, the half-step backwards you take when his shoe nears your own. The string loosens.

He doesn't have any intention of making you uncomfortable. He probably smells like a dumpster, he wouldn't blame you for needing space. And if who you were kissing last night is indicative of who you'll be sidling up to again in the future, Eddie has low hopes for you both.

"Burgers?" Manny groans from the floor.

You turn slowly on one heel. "Hello, Manny," you say, angling your head to line up with his. "Someone's drawn on you."

"What did they draw?" Manny asks, rubbing his smeared face sluggishly.

You look to Eddie for guidance. The reality of Manny's tagging is embarrassing.

"It's a dick, I'm afraid." Eddie offers Manny a hand. "With disproportionate, uh, baubles."

"But I'm sure Benny won't care," you say.

—

Benny makes Manny wear a baseball cap pulled down low, because This is a family establishment, Man. Every time you see the thick-lined drawing on his cheek you smile and feel awful for it, but luckily Manny seems to be taking the joke well.

If you'd fallen asleep at the party last night and woke up with a semi-permanent tattoo of similar calibre you'd be too mortified to bother leaving the house until it was gone. You're not thrilled with your appearance as it is. Any cruel additions would have you housebound.

Guilty, you take a bite of your burger to hide your smile. Eddie's already clocked it, generous enough to pretend he hasn't noticed, and Macy finds it funnier than you do, so she's yet to notice your amusement. The rest of the boys are making ornaments out of plastic straws. Gareth is shit, Jamison better, but Jeff takes the cake with a three layer birthday cake, candles included. It strains to break as he adds another candle. His bloodshot eyes show no signs of anxiety.

Manny grabs a napkin and knocks your ice tea. The cup sloshes but doesn't spill, ice cubes clinking and beads of condensation racing down the sides of your glass. You pick it up to feel the cold. Lately you've been morose. The cold, any sensation, can put distance between you and the heavy for a while, but there's no cure. And now you've gone and let Cory Wilson of all people kiss you for the simple fact that he wanted to.

He's the first person who's ever wanted to kiss you.

But you don't want him to kiss you again, and you're not sure how you manage it. Do you have to tell him you're not interested? Probably not, it was just a stupid kiss. He dipped down, his lips hot, his smell nice if overpowering, and it was right for a while, it was what you wanted, but then his hand dropped down rather than up, searching for something to take rather than something to hold.

It's not how you pictured it.

"You okay?"

You raise your eyes, ice tea in hand. Eddie splits his attention between you and a basket of crispy crinkle cut fries loaded with cheese and bacon bits. He's nonchalant, his shoe tapping into yours as he leans forward for another bite. He chews, and he waits for you to answer.

"I'm alright. Thinking about work." Bad lie. "Gareth said you got a new tattoo?"

"Nope. I've been thinking about getting a new one to fill the gap under my puppeteer," he says, extending his arm to show you it in the light, the ridge and weave of his veins stark against his white skin. They're especially fierce leading down to his wrist, as is the small notch on the outermost side. You reach out to touch it without thinking, fingertip rubbing carefully over the bump.

Eddie pushes his arm closer. "I want something here." He draws a half circle with his opposite pinky in the empty space. "But I can't think of what I want. Sometimes you go to the shop and they have a bunch of flash sheets and you like one of them enough to get it, right? I don't know."

It means a lot to you that he'd let you touch him without asking. You should've asked.

He should've asked you, but he was drunk. You're not sure he was thinking straight.

You sit back in your seat and finish your iced tea, feeling the cold slide down into your chest. You shiver at the feeling.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Eddie asks.

"Why wouldn't she be okay, Munson?" Manny asks.

"Quiet, dickhead."

Manny snorts, grabbing a greedy handful of Eddie's fries as punishment for a low blow. Eddie couldn't care less, clearly, his focus on you and your moping. You step into a sweeter smiling version of yourself that you save for times like this.

"You know I work for Deenie DIY?" you ask.

"Of course I know that," Eddie says, and not in the way people do sometimes where they assume you're insulting their intelligence, but the nice way. Like knowing where you work is easy information to carry.

He's the nicest of his friends, which is a credit to him; they aren't a bad bunch.

"So, I have this coworker that keeps bringing soup to work, and she swears that someone is syphoning off a couple of spoonfuls before lunch every day…"

Eddie listens to your story with a weird expression. You bumble through the twists and turns of the world's stupidest fable, how she blamed a bunch of different people and now no one likes her, and the soup was getting warmed up by the fridge lights —it was her own fault. He listens, he smiles and nods and offers commentary that's funnier than the original story, the entire time with a downturn to his lips. You hate seeing him like that, but you don't know what to say.

Plates left streaked with ketchup and mayo, glasses dotted by greasy prints and lip smackers, you and your friends tip as generously as twenty-somethings can afford and decide to head back to Gareth's for a couple of hours. It's barely past noon on a Saturday in late July. Nobody has to work for at least thirty six hours. You pile into two cars, arguing about what tape to play for the ten minute drive. Eddie ends up in the seat beside you somehow, and he doesn't shy away when the car takes a bend and you lean into his side.

He puts his arm behind your shoulder. "Sorry," he says.

"It's okay."

You lift your head. The memory of his face hovering close to yours, the sweet smell of cheap cherry wine on his breath, his hand clumsy with drink but kind as it climbed your back, your dress thin enough to catch your death, thin enough to feel like he was touching bare skin. Sorry, he'd said, you're just so fucking beautiful.

"I gotta take my uncle's car back. Wouldn't do me a solid and come with?" he asks.

—

You follow Eddie in the van. He can see you in his rear view mirror, your hands on his steering wheel, the window down and the breeze ruffling your hood.

Jeff was too high to drive and Eddie wouldn't trust Jamison to drive a moped. Gareth can't drive and okay, Macy can, she's good, but Eddie chose you for a reason. The string tied between your hands clings from door to door.

Eddie pulls the sierra into the driveway in front of the trailer, holding two fingers up to you as he hops out and jogs up the steps. Two minutes.

"Wayne? Brought the car back."

"How's your bruise, Eds?"

Wayne's laying on the couch with a blanket over his legs, coffee cup swapped for a plate of cookies and a bag of chips. Eddie leans on the doorway, Wayne's keys on his finger. The string bobs back through the door, as if to say, Hey, she's over here, dipshit.

"It's fine, what are you eating? Did you have breakfast after I went?"

"Yeah I had breakfast, I'm a grown man." Punctuated by the crunch of potato chips. "It's lunch time. This is my lunch."

"Let me make you a pot pie or something."

Wayne waves him off. "You're going back out. Who's in the van?"

"That's Y/N."

Wayne smiles knowingly. "Ah, is it?" He stands up with remarkable speed putting his plate of cookies on the table. He ducks down to peek through the window, and you must see him or wave, Wayne waving back. "Make her come say hi."

"I won't be making her say shit."

"She was nice last night."

Eddie cringes, having forgotten you were his saviour. "Do I wanna know what you said?"

"I said you were an idiot and an embarrassment, and that your safe return deserved a reward. You should invite her over for dinner."

"No, because that's, like, a couples thing. Come and meet my parents," Eddie says, shoulders jumping, hands up in jazz hands, "laugh at my baby photos."

"I don't have many of those. Got a bunch of you when you were fourteen and deep in the glam rock obsession."

He used to say Eddie could wear whatever he wanted and paint his face a hundred different colours as long as Wayne got to take a picture.

"Great, I'll invite her, and you can show her your nice album of reasons not to date me."

"Son, why don't you just ask her to dinner? Worked in my day."

"You're not even old. And I was going to," Eddie whines, rubbing the flat of his forehead ineffectually. "Then she was kissing this idiot Cory Wilson last night. I blew it. Lost my chance."

"I still think you should ask her for dinner. Any sense about her and she'll say yes."

It's one of those reassurances your mom says to you when you're down on your luck. Handsomest guy in the world, how could anybody say no to that face?

"Maybe I'll ask her." Eddie smiles nervously. "We're gonna go hang out, cool? You going to Dean's?"

"None of your business. Yeah, I'm going to Dean's, just to help him fix his hand saw. I'll be back before six. See you then?"

Eddie tosses Wayne the sierra keys. "See you. Don't drink too much."

"Ironic, Edward!"

Eddie leaves the trailer feeling vaguely hopeful about you; maybe Wayne's right. Kissing somebody doesn't mean you're married, but the window of opportunity to let his feelings be known is getting smaller the longer he waits. And seeing you standing against the grate of the van with your hands in your pockets, slice of your calves peeking out between your socks and jeans, big sleeves on your hoodie falling up one arm, he doesn't know if he can wait anymore.

"Hey, would you wanna get out of here?" he asks. "Like, ditch Gareth's for a bit?"

"And do what?"

The string shortens as he closes the gap between you. He twists it around his finger. It's tied to you —it must be a sign. (Or he's imagining it and he has, like, a paralytic brain worm eating its way across his eyeballs.)

"I don't know, hit the goodwill? I have somewhere between twelve and sixteen dollars with your name on it if you're interested." He tries not to shrug, can't help it. "Only if you want."

"Yeah. I want to." You worry your lip. "I'm not dressed to go out."

"Are you kidding? You look fine. You look good."

You rub your wrists together, grimacing.

Eddie can roll with the punches. "Or you could go home and change first?"

"Would that be okay?"

Eddie's glad for offering to witness the spectacle of your bedroom. The string seems to hate him but love you, giving you space all the way here and yanking him like a bad dog when he strays too far. You change behind your closet door and it forms hearts at your feet, unperturbed by the mountain of rejected shirts and skirts.

Eddie lounges in a bean bag by the door, taking in your belongings as he waits. You've crafts on your desk, little origami cranes made of paper you've painted with watercolour. Phthalo blue and alizarin crimson foiled with short, skinny strokes of gold etching. Intricate and simple, time and care poured into each sheet.

"Are you sure I'm okay by here?" Eddie asks.

"Can you see me?"

"No." Eddie can see shelves of books with creased spines, your made bed and all your mismatched sheets, the candles on your window sill —moonlight meadow, half-burned and sun-bleached; candied sweetheart, untouched; white lily and freesia, a double wick with only one melted tunnel—, and the soot stain unfurling like a soft-edged flower around the curtain pole. "Can't see anything."

"Then don't worry."

The sun ticks higher into the sky as an hour stretches into a second since you left Gareth's together. Eddie likes his room, his dense kingdom of the stuff that make him him, but he likes yours for the quiet. He can picture you sitting cross legged on your bed with a book in your lap, your back arched uncomfortably forward, a day old drink of water on the ceramic coaster with tiny bubbles clinging to the sides of the glass. He thinks he'd like that, to sit here and watch you, listening to one of your CDs, the string between you bouncing with each turn of a page.

Eddie pulls on the string experimentally. Determined to fuck with him, it becomes a tauter thread, and the momentum of his tug tips you over. Your hand follows the line and the sudden slip pulls you into view without a shirt. Eddie flinches and looks as far away from you as he can.

You laugh to yourself, but the sound is bitter, like burning coffee grounds on the tongue.

"Is everything good with you?"

You and Eddie are friends. Not great ones, but enough to have been able to ask you to ditch the others. There have been hundreds of seconds alone, the two of you sitting together at tables edged by arcade machines, diner booths, bowling alley benches, waiting for the others to get back, and those are moments where Eddie found time to fall in love with you. The string must be a manifestation or those seconds, threads of time tied together that join you forever, even if you can't see them. They're there. Eddie cares about you and it makes his throat hurt to hear your unhappy sounds; you have a morosity to you that he isn't heartless enough to ignore. He doesn't want to.

Everybody has an unseen misery weighing them down. Eddie needs to find a way to hold yours for you. Just for a bit, however long you need.

Unless Cory Wilson is going to take that mantle. Maybe that's why you're sighing; Eddie would be pretty upset if he had to remember being kissed by Wilson. He was already upset about it, and Wilson didn't kiss him.

"Hey," Eddie says, peering between his fingers. With you definitely out of sight, he lifts his head. "Seriously, are you good?"

"I don't know what to wear, that's all. Sorry for taking so long."

"We could sit here till tomorrow and that would be cool. We don't even have to go, but you don't have to stress about what you're wearing. It's goodwill."

"I always get stressed about what I'm wearing."

"Is that a girl thing?"

You toss a pretty flowered dress over the closet door. It slinks under its own weight and puddles on the floor. "I've always been like this, I get too focused on looking nice, it winds me up."

"You always look nice."

Your laugh says you certainly don't believe him. "Thanks, Eddie."

"I'm not just saying it to make you feel better. You'd look nice in a potato sack."

"Like Marilyn Monroe."

"Who?"

You appear in a sliver, naked arm linked to an unseen but unignorable naked chest, your face over your shoulder and a beatific silkiness to your smile. "You know who she is. Happy Birthday mister president? Blonde, with her beauty mark." You tap your top lip with your pinky.

"Oh, right. Did she wear sacks often?"

"Someone said she was beautiful because her clothes were designer and made to fit, so she did a photoshoot in a potato sack to prove she was beautiful."

"You could totally do that."

"It's not other people I need to convince." You retreat behind your closet door again, your voice half as clear as you confess, "I think… I've always been like this. I look in the mirror and I don't even know who I'm seeing. She doesn't feel like me."

Eddie's ridiculous sitting on a beanbag while you bare your heart. He swears in his head and climbs onto tired legs, his hangover beating like a dull knife between his eyes for a moment while he gets used to standing.

You take his silence for something else. "Sorry, ignore me. It's weird."

"That's not weird. It's not." He tries to say what he means and not the first words that come into his head. "You know, I used to feel that way. Growing up, in junior high, I felt like such a poser. Even when I started being myself, I didn't feel authentic. Does that… is that similar?"

"I guess so. How did you make it stop?"

"Okay, this is gonna sound bad, but my mom died." Eddie twists a ring around his knuckle, the string tangling between fingers. "And I didn't care for a while. And then I got older."

"I'm sorry," you murmur.

"It's okay. I didn't say it for sympathy. That's just what happened." Eddie sits gingerly on the end of your bed. He doesn't want to intimidate you —after all, you're a young woman alone with him in a state of undress. A vulnerable young woman, if you're as upset as you're beginning to sound. "I'm trying to make you feel better with the worst personal anecdote ever."

"You don't have to make me feel better. I shouldn't have brought it up, I don't…"

"You can tell me anything," he says.

You appear again, this time fully clothed. Black skirt to your knees —the sickest skirt you've ever worn— and a thin gauzy camisole, you look beautiful, and insanely uncomfortable. "Really?" you ask, hands wringing.

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. I promise."

"Well. Last night," —Eddie sees flashing lights, the carbon bubbles in a spilled beer— "I let somebody kiss me."

He knows. It's agony. Eddie waits for you to continue with an open expression despite the feeling your confession inspires; he assumes this is what a knife to the eye feels like, the willing horror of letting you use it.

"Nobody's ever wanted to kiss me before, so I let him. And I'm shit scared that I'm never gonna recognise myself in the mirror, so I'll keep letting him kiss me." You wring your hands meanly. "Sorry, I know I sound like a bad movie. Why is talking about your feelings this awkward?"

"That was your first kiss, last night?"

It's not the right question. You wince visibly. "I know, I'm in my twenties, it's embarrassing."

"No, that's–" Eddie sighs. "That's not what I meant." What did he mean? Fuck, I wish it could've been me, and Jesus, that doesn't make a lick of fucking sense. You aren't right, for starters, Cory Wilson isn't the first person who's ever wanted to kiss you, he's just the bastard that got lucky enough to have you reciprocate. "Wait, was it okay? Did he corner you?"

You sit on the end of the bed with a small smile. "No. He didn't pressure me."

"Was it what you wanted?"

"Not really… I guess I don't know what I want."

Is that rejection, or is he self-absorbed? Should he take the hint, or is he just another guy making it about himself? Eddie leans back into your bed to escape the heartbreak of being close to you, the string anchoring his hand in place as he tries to scratch his chest.

"It's not embarrassing to get your first kiss in your twenties," he says, eyes roving over the lines of a small paper butterfly, black cardstock like ink against your white ceiling. "That's what your twenties are for."

"Don't bother, I know exactly how you lost your virginity."

Eddie scrunches his eyes shut, can't stop himself from smiling as his wry voice scratches out, "Listen, everyone knows how I lost my virginity, but that's not the point."

"You'd think a seventeen year old would make marginally better decisions." You're teasing, not shaming, your smile playful.

"No, you wouldn't. Seventeen year olds are stupid. I thought I knew what I wanted at seventeen and now I'm twenty three and the only thing I know for sure is that I don't know a thing. The point of being twenty is doing shit for the first time. It's our first time being grown ups."

"That's wise," you say.

"Fuck off."

You lay down beside him. The string whips like a ribbon in the wind before falling into the shape of a heart again, clearly pleased to have you near.

"It's not embarrassing," Eddie says quietly. "But when you get your second kiss, I think you should save it for someone you want to kiss. Don't just let someone have it because you're not sure of yourself."

"That's a nice sentiment, Eddie, but I already gave it away."

He swallows his surprise, a tiny spike of agony. "How was that one?"

"I'm not sure about it. I don't think it counted."

"Do I wanna know?"

"I'm not sure about that, either."

"Was it Wilson?" he asks.

You turn your cheek into the bedsheets. He can hear the fabric brushing your skin, turns ever so slightly to meet you, a few inches all it would take to breathe the same air.

"Eddie," you say, very, very softly.

His heart eases into his mouth a beat at a time until it's thrumming between his ears.

"Yeah?" he asks, his tone a twin.

"I think I need to cancel our plans."

It's not what he's expecting you to say.

—

There's a black velvet jacket dotted with embroidered stars hidden under your bed, their silver thread like cosmic dust. Music pounds the floor and shakes the house's foundations, seeping down into Macy's damp basement one rippling riff at a time, the bass of it deep in Eddie's chest, but he can't stop thinking about your jacket. Did you know it was there?

The string tied to his marriage finger grows restless the longer you and Eddie are apart, bouncing like a shockwave whenever he thinks your name. In fact, all it takes is the idea of you, the slightest memory of your smile, your hands, the way you tell stories to the group with your shoulders turned to him like he's there alone, and the string flinches.

"Are you okay?" Manny asks.

Eddie drags his way up the couch. "Hey, Man. You got the dick off your face. That's great."

Manny lifts his cheek. "Had to steal some of my mom's make-up. Can't tell, huh?"

The colour match is dubious, now he's mentioned it. Eddie doesn't have the heart to tell him, flopping back into the crisp, cracked leather seat beneath him. A circle of his face is sticky where it clings to the couch. It's among the worst feelings of this earthly plane, grim as ice cream dripping down your hand on a hot day, or perpetually gutting heartbreak like he suffers now.

"I think I'm seeing things," Eddie says.

"Jeff has stuff for that."

Eddie groans loudly. With the way he feels it's not melodrama. Just pure human anguish. He groans again when nothing changes, fisting his hair in two aching hands. He's clenched and unclenched his hands for hours all day, trying to force the hurt away from his chest, chasing breathlessness to the tips of his fingers. Pins burn his palms.

He knew in the back of his mind that you weren't going to want to date him. Realistically you have options, even if you think you don't, and his being your only option wouldn't inspire romance anyways. Being someone's last resort isn't love. None of it was love, you aren't in love, but Eddie thinks he could've been. He was halfway there, falling, whatever the poets might say —Eddie wants you. Wants to do stupid shit with you. He can picture the scene like he has before, that first bouquet of flowers, lilies with big white petals and purple sunspots. The cellophane would crinkle in trembling hands pressed to his chest, their stems leaking dew into his hardly worn button up. He'd pass them to you with more confidence than he feels and tell you that you're pretty. You're always pretty.

He's not pretty, he's barely funny. He was stupid for thinking you'd like him too.

The string is pale pink. Eddie loops it around his finger thoughtlessly, worsening the sting of pins and needles.

There were times…

He clutches his chest. The nausea he's feeling can't be understated.

There were times when you could've been in love with him, he thinks. Splitting a cigarette you had no business splitting on the steps of Jeff's porch, your vanilla chapstick softening the filter. Holding his hand for support as you made the hike down to the lake, your fingers curled around his like you worried you might hurt him. In the passenger seat of his van on the way to your house, laughing as he sang along to a Van Halen guitar solo. You could've been in love with him.

But Eddie didn't ask you out. He didn't do what Wayne said, because goodwill is not dinner, and now you're probably happily sequestered in Wilson's BMW. He jumped the wrong gun and he blew it.

"Seriously, Munson, are you good?"

"Peachy." Eddie holds up the sign of the horns, pinky and index finger up, thumb holding his marriage and middle finger down, face buried in an old cushion.

"Let me go get you a joint."

"I gave it up."

"Dude. Pizza it is."

Eddie waits for Manny to leave before he turns onto his back. Last night in the shower after a knowing shoulder squeeze from his Uncle and a frankly overflowing bowl of microwave spaghetti, he pressed his forehead to the tile and let it all ache. He might have cried or water may have streamed from his hair, he genuinely doesn't know, but he knows he's in danger of another round of the same if he keeps thinking about you.

He's a big boy. He can cope with your decision.

"Eddie, what are you doing?"

Eddie sits up with a handful of clicks. "Robin?"

"Hey," Robin says, "whaddya know, I followed the smell of sadness and rejection and here you are."

She's dressed fancy, her hair in a rare updo, faux pearls dangling from her ears to kiss the collar of a leather jacket. "Shit, you're so cool, Buckley."

"Thanks. You okay?" Robin asks, sitting on the arm of the couch.

Eddie's stomach churns as her perfume reaches him, the sweet, subtle smell of vanilla under white musk. He leans his face against the starched denim of her jeans. "Who told you?" he mumbles.

"Steve. Who else?" Robin pats his head. "But Jeff told him. And I was talking about your bruise."

Eddie waves off her concern. "Where is Steve in my hour of need?"

"Smoking a not secret cigarette with Jeff," she says, a melodic cadence to her usual light rasp.

"I wouldn't risk Jeff's cigarettes."

She snorts a laugh, "Steve would risk his life for a cigarette. He loves to say that quitting was easy, but he drinks half a beer and starts gasping like a fish." Robin mimes Steve's apparent desperation, to Eddie's delight.

She smiles as his laughter peters out, tilting her head to the side. "So… was it bad?"

"I don't know." He rubs his eyes. "The last time I got rejected was in senior year, and it was– I didn't even like her, you know, thought she was pretty, but this is different."

"Sorry, Eddie," she says, pushing her bottom lip up into her top one, a bubbled pout that betrays how out of her depth she feels.

Eddie isn't trying to make it awkward. "That's okay. I liked her, she doesn't like me, it's cool." The string flails. The music from upstairs gets louder. "What the fuck is happening? I thought Macy said it was a quiet one."

Robin and Eddie start up the basement stairs to the main body of the house. The air is warmer and thicker, the faint smell of hotdogs and burgers grilling in the backyard filtering inside through the patio doors. "You know," Eddie says, glaring at the sudden crowd, "there's an atari down there."

"Sorry, I think I'll have to keep my idiot out of trouble." Robin points at Steve near the stereo with Jeff, the two of them laughing hard enough to bruise as they mess with the pitch of the music. "Steve! You'll go deaf in your good ear if you don't stop!"

"What?" Steve shouts.

Robin rushes over to drag him away from the stereo. Eddie doesn't want to be your best friend, but if it was a friendship like Steve and Robin's he would consider himself lucky to have it, smiling as she wraps her arms around his chest from behind and pulls him away, sniffing at him, her nose wrinkled as she gives a reprimand too low for Eddie to catch. "I'm serious," she says as they grow closer, weaving around the living room coffee table and retreating back into the slim hallway leading to the basement stairs, "where are your earplugs?"

"In the car, Rob. I'm fine, I promise."

"Sure. Alright, Eddie, would you keep him away from the stereo?" Robin shoves Steve toward him. "Thanks so much."

"I'm not high," Steve says as soon as she's gone.

"While that's uber convincing, honeybear, I don't care if you are," Eddie says lightly. "Not a cop. Wanna go get a burger?"

They move away from the living room and into the kitchen, where Steve nearly trips over the door jam and Eddie forgets for the first time in days how awful he feels.

He sits Steve down at the glass table next to Macy herself and a younger friend of Manny's. Jamison and Gareth stand at the grill arguing about who's doing what, but Jamison proves to be the better grillmaster and the better friend, dropping two burgers on paper plates in front of them not more than twenty seconds after they've sat down. "For you, my poor little Munson," he says, smacking the ketchup and mayonnaise down between them. "Eat up."

"I can't get the cap off," Steve complains, welding a bottle of mayonnaise at him like a dagger.

Eddie sighs. Steve is definitely high. "You know Jeff doesn't smoke plain rolled cigarettes, right? Like, you knew it was weed?"

"Whaaaat?" Steve asks exaggeratedly. "Open my mayonnaise."

"Plausible deniability," Eddie says. "I like it."

He finds that taking care of Steve is a good distraction, but there's only so much care a grown man needs, high or not, and Eddie's gaze is pulled to the string. It's impossible to stop thinking about you on the other end of it. He tries not to look at the string at all, but he can't, being as permanently tied to his finger as it is. What's worse is seeing people tread on it. The colour fades slowly, once a strong red, now a meek pink. At this rate it'll be bone white by the end of the night, like a vein with no supply. Maybe that's how this ends. You stay kissing Cory Wilson and the string dies.

As he thinks it, the string tightens. The pink turns rosy, turns healthy, red as a rose, vice-like on his finger. Eddie knows without knowing that you're near. He could've guessed without the string's shifting, your presence the antonym of sixth-sense chills. He turns back toward the house and catches a glimpse of you as you walk past the patio door in your black velvet jacket, those tiny sparse stars like needlepoints from this far away and glinting as you turn to let Robin pass.

"Holy fuck!" Robin mouths, Steve's earplugs in a small pouch meant for coins in hand as she speed walks down the short path to the table. "She's here!"

"I can see that."

Robin sits on the chair next to Steve's. He passes her the last half of his burger and takes the earplugs from an outstretched hand, shaking them from their pouch. You'd never look at him like this with mayonnaise on his top lip, thigh to thigh with loser-sweetheart Robin Buckley, and think he'd be violent. He isn't, truly, his hearing loss the result of getting his ass handed to him hard, and the motivation of a pacifist who wears ear defenders to the movies.

"You're gonna have to speak up," Steve says, pushing the plugs in.

"Yeah, man." He doesn't have much to say anyhow. His stomach is curled in knots, the string a tightrope without walkers between him and you in the kitchen. You're talking to someone, walking one way before rushing the other. "What the fuck?" Eddie asks, sitting up.

Macy stands as somebody gasps. Eddie's quick to follow, Gareth jumping back out of Jamison's reach as the grillmaster swings a long pronged fork his way. "What?" he asks cluelessly.

Eddie follows the string to you, stepping over the patio doorjam and into the cacophony of the kitchen. Blaring rock music vibrates through Eddie's worn shoes, but it doesn't occlude the vehemence of Cory Wilson's slurring. "I should've known," he hisses.

Eddie would stand in front of you, he should, he's going to, but he doesn't and he can't fathom why. He's glued to the spot as you defend, "I didn't know. And I didn't do it on purpose."

"Are you fucking with me?"

"No." You sound startled rather than scared, but the cagey way you've moved back and the curl of your hands into fists says otherwise. "No, I didn't kiss you to–"

"To what? Guess it doesn't make a difference. I should've known. Two guys in one night's a good night for a girl like you, huh?"

You flinch away. It could be the pull of the string or the panic on your lips as you struggle to speak, or maybe Eddie's done being a coward who half-asses his life even if you're not gonna kiss him like he wishes you would, whatever it is, it has him standing in front of you unafraid.

Cory Wilson is rough. Eyes bloodshot, evil on tequila sliders from the sugary brown stain on his collar, he takes one look at Eddie and starts laughing.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, a girl like her? Why don't you explain it?" Eddie asks, his voice burnt, almost acrid in his own mouth. "What, you plant one on her and you think it's alright to talk to her like that?"

"Eddie," you say.

He reaches back gently, his fingertips brushing your abdomen.

"You're a fucking classless act, Wilson, you always have been. You don't talk to her like that."

"Why don't you stay out of it, freak?"

"Dude," Jamison says. "No way. Get the fuck out of here."

"You can't stay out of it, can you? It makes sense now I'm seeing it," Cory rails.

This is so teenaged angst and Eddie's over it. You'll have to forgive him but he's feeling territorial. This is Macy's house, they're your friends, and Cory was a dick before he kissed you. "This is embarrassing, dude," Eddie says over the island, meeting Cory's eyes straight on. "Don't do this shit."

"It was you, right?" Cory asks, nodding, mind made up already. He peers around Eddie's shoulder to stare at you incredulously. "Him?"

"It doesn't matter!" you insist, stepping forward. "Why does it matter? I said no, I don't wanna go home with you, I'm sorry, I told you more than you needed to know because I thought it would help you get it, and I'm sorry I let you kiss me! I'm sorry, I thought it was best to be honest with you."

Eddie's thinking you don't have to say sorry for anything. Cory's thinking about the milling crowd of young adults haunting the corners of the kitchen and pressed in from the hallway, rounding the island with his chest puffed up.

"It was Munson, wasn't it?"

You take a step back into Eddie. "It's fine," he says to you quickly, because coward or not he'd never let someone hit you, but you're pushing him behind you. You're protecting him.

"Yes, it was Eddie!" you say. "So what? It has nothing to do with you."

Macy cuts in, all red hair and glare. "Okay, enough. Cory, you have to leave, man. You can't yell at girls in my kitchen because they don't want to sleep with you."

Eddie stares at the back of your head.

Did you kiss him? That second kiss, that was with him?

"You kissed me?" he asks quietly.

Your lips part as you look at him from over your shoulder. Macy and Jamison argue with a red-faced Cory, Steve asks Robin what someone just said and Robin shouts the answer, but Eddie couldn't tell you what anyone's truly saying if you paid him to, his attention on the pillow of your bottom lip and searching upwards as you exhale.

"Eddie, you kissed me." Your eyes are soft, the starts of your brows hooked together. "You really don't remember?"

"I kissed you? When?" He grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. "At Gareth's place?"

"I took you home," —you drop your chin, a new panic about you as your voice drops, waning, tenuous as spider silk— "you were wasted, you'd been drinking Macy's wine and Mr. Lashlee's bourbon and I didn't mean for it to happen. I wasn't trying to get you to kiss me, Eddie, I just asked why you were upset."

"What did I say?"

"You said that I was beautiful. That you wanted to kiss me, and then you did."

Sorry, he'd said, you're just so fucking beautiful.

"And then you freaked out like you'd been laced about string between your fingers. I took you to your room and told Wayne you ate a bunch of hotdogs on the turn." You won't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I never meant for it to go that far."

A glass smashes. Eddie takes your hand, pulling you away from the scene and through a curious crowd to the back door. He closes the patio doors behind you and half jogs you down past the smoking barbecue and all its leftovers, chairs pulled out haphazard from the garden table and food discarded.

He has to be quick, he doesn't know how much time he has before everyone comes flooding back out of the house.

You're strangely timid, shame having sewn your brows together. "Eddie, I'm sorry," you say, your hand wriggling weakly in his to be let go. He lets it fall.

"Sweetheart, stop. Just stop. I'm the one who's sorry… I think I–" He sighs, you're so fucking beautiful on loop in the back of his mind. "I remember. I know I made a move. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I should've stepped away faster. I wasn't expecting you to kiss me."

"I shouldn't have kissed you."

"It was just a peck, Eddie. It's okay, 'cos it's not that I don't want you to kiss me ever, but you were drunk. I should have–"

"You didn't do anything wrong," he insists, cutting you off before you can criminalise yourself with a vehement shake of the head. "But that's– that's–" He chokes on his question. "What did I say about the string?"

"The string?" you ask, and fuck! Fuck, you look beautiful now, beautiful still as the night moves forward and the day's last lazy dregs of sunlight dapple your skin through the hanging branches of the surrounding sycamores. You stuff your hands in your pockets and pull your jacket around your tummy to hide from the cold, the string tugging with you. Your eyes are wide with confusion. "You wouldn't stop talking about it. That's when you hit yourself, your bruise?"

"After I kissed you, or before?"

"After, but… why does it…"

"I'm going to sound crazy."

You laugh softly. "No different than usual, then."

Eddie opens his hand and holds it out for yours. The string on his finger is loose but not long, moreso when you give him your hand. "I know you can't see it, I get that it's ridiculous, but there's a string tied from my third finger to yours. This red piece of thread like my nanna would use. I woke up yesterday morning and it was there. I thought maybe I was going crazy, because I like you," —he swallows air, no idea why this is so hard— "and I saw you kissing that loser and I figured it was some quasi manifestation of how much I want to be near you, like torture, but it was after I kissed you. It appeared after I kissed you."

"So we're connected by a string?" you ask slowly.

Eddie's genuinely ecstatic that you'd even entertain it. "Yes!"

"Show me," you say.

"I can't."

"Well, where is it?"

The string is tight as a wire again. Eddie runs his finger along it, hoping that'll help. You can't see the string but you can see the ease with which he follows it, how his finger slides from one end to the other seamlessly. Inspired suddenly by the memory of your bedroom, Eddie grabs the string near the middle and pulls.

The string deigns to do his bidding, yanking your hand forward.

You pull it back instinctively. "Is that a trick?"

"There's a string. I've been losing my mind trying to show people, I tried to cut it off. It's impenetrable." Eddie stamps down his excitement in the face of your less enthusiastic frown. "It runs from me to you."

You rub your marriage finger, the string a strong and shimmering crimson at your touch. "I can't feel it, but you pulled me." Your eyes are shiny. "Eddie, you like me?"

"Yeah, I do." He can't believe he's admitted to it out loud. No escaping it. Of the two secrets he just told you, it's the least terrifying. He wants to say more and he wishes he could take it all back, your confusion tangible in the lines of your frown, your gloss-sticky lips drawn thinner.

He's interrupted.

"Hey, Y/N!" Macy calls, slipping through the doors, Robin on her heels. "You okay?"

Eddie steps back from you guiltily.

"I'm fine! I'm fine, Mace, I was trying to let him down easy and I kept saying the wrong thing." You drop your hand out of the air. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's okay, I don't care. I don't want people yelling at you, that's all." She spies on Eddie out of the corner of her eye.

"I'm not yelling at her," he defends.

"Yeah? You should both come back inside, then. Have a drink. That's why you're here, right?"

She smiles until Eddie realises, defeated, that she's not gonna leave you alone out here with him. That's fine, he's glad people are looking out for you, but fuck is it annoying. He's finally told you about the stupid impossible string that links you together and you almost believed him, he could see it, and worse, his confession lays at your feet unanswered.

Macy pulls Eddie back by the t-shirt as you walk on ahead, where you're quickly commandeered by a concerned Harrington, a chocolate milkshake in his hand that he instantly attempts to share. "Eddie," Macy says, jaw dropped in emphasis, "you kissed?"

He covers his eyes with his hands, palm out, solid rings digging into his eyelids. "Not really," he says, a pounding headache emerging between his eyes. "No. I guess not."

—

Hawkins library smells musty with disuse. Dust motes swim between beams of light shining down through dirty windows, an aged yellow colour painting the pages of the book splayed in front of you. You'd originally retreated into Hawkins library in the pursuit of one thing alone: resolute, guaranteed solitude. You'd considered disconnecting your phone, but your address isn't a secret. The only sure fire way to be alone was to leave, and to hide.

No twenty-two year old Hawkinite spends their Sunday mornings at the library. You'd carried a litre bottle of water and a tupperware of sandwiches into the recesses of the old building and dropped into a creaky desk bright and early. For a blessed, blissful half an hour, you set your cheek to cold wood and closed your eyes, content to be unreachable.

It's not that you don't want to see people. Not that you don't want to see Eddie. You don't want to be seen. Not today.

Some mornings you wake up and feel wrong. You can shower, dress in new clothes, wear makeup and nice shoes and pretty bangles, but none of it makes any difference to your poor self-esteem. You figured every woman feels this way —what is there to love in a world that advertises solutions to problems you didn't know you had until they printed it in magazines? But it's been getting worse.

Now you're lonely enough to let acquaintances kiss you for the simple reason that they want to, and insecure enough to attribute that want to a specific motive, but Eddie said he kissed you because he thinks that you're beautiful. Because he likes you. Because a string runs from his hand to yours that can't be severed.

The latter feels as mythological as the former.

It's a mess. You've asked a thousand questions. Would the situation be cleaner if you rejected Cory? Did Eddie kiss you because he realised he could, that you'd let him do it? Cruel. Not his style, and mean to think of him, but a worry nonetheless. From there the questions broaden, immature in root. Does Eddie actually like you? Would he be your boyfriend? Does he want that, do you want that, is he okay? Was he high last night? Was he ill?

You flick through tomes with sweat thumbprints pressed deep into the corners and sides, scanning mildly then feverishly for an answer. Love myths, old legends, everything the librarian can give you on fantastical sweethearts —soulmates.

Eddie thinks that there's a string tied from his finger to yours to torture him as a link to what he wants, but can't have.

It doesn't make much sense. Eddie Munson could have you if he asked nicely enough.

That might be the problem. He's never asked anything of you. Eddie's a giver, constantly, a thousand little gifts. Your hair is nice like that. Do you want to sit here? You'll get the next one, but he never lets you get the next one.

His very best gift was small. Waiting for Gareth to bring the car around and hiding from the early summer rain under the Hideout's short veranda, you and Eddie sitting on a cold wall, his jacket underneath you as he insisted to stop you from catching a chill. You remember thinking he was pretty even with his hair in his eyes, his cheeks hollowed in concentration. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, offering a glimpse of a guitar pick tucked inside of the plastic photo window. "This is my best kept secret, okay? Don't go spreading it around," he'd said from the corner of his mouth, deft fingers folding the length of a receipt into a square. He tore the excess, leaving himself with an incredibly small scrap to start with. From there he made the paper crane swiftly, folding neat corners and twisting the snout, placing the finished craft on your stocking-clad knee. "Here."

"How did you do that?" you asked, awed.

He made you a square of your own, shuffled closer to you on the wall, the heat of his hands near yours to correct you and his patient demonstration booting your heart into overdrive. You remembered every step of his origami even weeks later, folds of paper brushed by the soft memory of his fingertips on the back of your hand, accidental touches, and the smell of him, so close.

Those paper cranes in your room, tens of them sewn like popcorn strings at christmas…

You shake the thought from your head and close the book. Maybe you do like Eddie. Maybe you have all along (tenuously, waiting to get let down, and thinking there wasn't a chance in hell he could ever like you back). And now he likes you back?

This obsessive retrospection is bad for your head. Sighing, you stand from the desk you've monopolised and stretch your arms over your head, taking a breath to peer down at your fruitless investigation. The string is in his head. He punched himself pretty hard the night you took him home —he's reeling from the after effects of booze and a mild concussion, no doubt. His mind is playing tricks on him. As far as you're concerned, there's no string. (But your hand moved when he pulled. But you want it to be real.)

You pull the books to your chest and ferry them back to the lonely shelf they came from toward the back of the aisles near the audiobook stand.

Fuck, you think to yourself, kneeling by the mythology section to begin putting your books back in a vaguely organised manner. Your reading provided no answers, and you're starting to worry it's none of the scenarios you'd contemplated, but a mean-spirited joke. What would Eddie ever want with me? you think, neatening the edges of the books slowly.

Realising you like him, his chaste kiss, the red string, it's a lot to take in. You aren't sure what you believe, but you'd love to believe Eddie, in both of his confessions.

You're standing and dusting your knees when you see it, a small cloth bound book shoved between encyclopaedias on the shelf above. It's more like a personal notebook than a novel. You reach for it on a whim. The cover is selenite white, slightly coruscating in the light and broken only by the weighted lines of Chinese characters painted with the bristle of a squirrel mop brush. You trace the last of the characters mindlessly, the English translation beneath it reading, Chinese Folk Mythology.

You open the book to the first page, blank; the second, the titular; and the third, contents. You flick through creation myths and cosmology, defeated before you've even begun. You really want Eddie to be telling the truth about this —if he is, it means he's telling the truth about liking you, puts real feelings behind his tipsy kiss.

The first and last burst of colour stops you short.

The red thread of fate.

A red line furls from one corner of the page to the second page opposite, shot through phrases, your eyes catching fast on choice words. Invisible to the mortal eye. Marriage of two souls. Tangled, knotted, but never broken. Fate.

You sit on your knees on the floor of the library, the pages spread flat under your hands and their minute trembling.

—

Eddie checks his hair in the rearview mirror again. "Loser," he says, looking himself straight in the eye. Then he smiles with teeth, kicks open the driver's side door, and drops out of the van with a crushed bouquet of flowers held to his chest.

Today's been a nightmare. Between you (always you, his only thought of the growing mess he's made) and Wayne, he's been flayed.

"Your room is a pigsty, Eds, I'm not happy," his uncle had said, glaring at him over the lip of his coffee mug. Garfield absent and replaced by genial Odie, Eddie still felt abjectly judged.

"I've been busy!" Eddie defended, too worried to eat and instead working his way through five pieces of nicotine gum at once, his jaw aching with each magnanimous chew.

"Yeah, busy turning down shifts and spending all your money on burgers and beer."

"I'm way too old for this," he said through gum bubbles.

"Exactly! Too old to need reminding. If we get bugs I'm kicking you out."

Wayne would never kick Eddie out, but that wasn't the point. "Wayne, I'm having a crisis. Could you have, like, a modicum of compassion for me? Your only nephew? In his time of need?" He clutched his chest. "Christ, man."

Wayne leaned backwards in his chair to fish the trash bags from a miscellaneous drawer. "This is compassion. Don't be gross."

His room was chaos rather than gross, knick-knacks in their wrong places and two hampers worth of laundry piled behind the door. The whole time he cleaned, he debated if it was appropriate to call you, and when he finally bit the bullet and picked up the phone you didn't answer. That's fine, except he called Robin (who was predictably nursing a rumpled Harrington back to health but had enough wherewithal to ask for the hot gossip), Macy (who told him to leave you alone if he was causing trouble), Gareth (who laughed), and Shauna (fucking Shauna) in search of you, and nobody knew where you were.

It got to the point where he couldn't not check on you. Couldn't stay stuck in the narrative anymore of your will we won't we. It hurt his chest too much, a real anxiety with claws to match. He hit Bradley's for a bouquet but the flowers they had were wilted slim pickings, and then he raced to the bakery before he thought about it too much and left empty handed.

Imagine buying a girl baked goods for her to reject you. Eddie in the rain with his paper bag of croissants and dying flowers.

He couldn't find you through the phone, but he has a secret weapon: the string that leads from him to you tied tight to his finger, a compass without magnets. He followed it in the van to this secluded spot overlooking Hawkins town, and knew he was in the right place when he found your car parked on the hill.

His palms clam on the way up, pine needles crushed to mulch under his cons. Dirt crusts their white toes and puddle water splashes over the tongues, seeping into his socks. The rain slows to a pittering that beads down the arms of his jacket and along the ridge of one finger, welled cold at the line of a titanium ring.

The string is trodden and dirty on the ground. Eddie toes at it as he goes, the thread red but not taut, leaving you closer than he expects you to be, perched on a picnic table with an umbrella held loosely on one shoulder.

"Hey," he says, tensing as you tense, softening his voice appropriately. "If you don't wanna see me I understand, and I'll leave, but I wanna talk to you… If that's cool."

You peer down at the umbrella handle under your fingers. "Sure, Eddie. You don't have to leave." He counts his lucky stars, more when he sits on the bench beside you and you ask, "Are those for me?"

He fights through nerves, flowers squeezed to death in his grip. "They're for you. I had to buy a couple of bunches. These are the best of the worst." He offers you the flowers, cellophane crinkled in his hand, not half what he pictured but somehow better for being real. "I'm sorry."

"Don't say sorry for giving me flowers," you murmur in your way, not mindless but small. Not tentative, just careful.

"I'm not sorry for giving you flowers, I'm sorry that they're wilting. I wanted to get you a bunch from Leaven, you know, impress you even if it was too late. I'm sorry for a lot of things, actually. Mostly kissing you without asking first." He doesn't mean to say it like that— oh woe is me. "I want to be honest with you," he confesses, quieter. "Stuff feels weird and awful."

"I know what you mean," you say.

"But talking to you isn't like that. Talking to you is..." He scratched his neck sheepishly. "This is going way worse than I pictured."

"Yeah. Yeah, it's pretty bad." Your voice is calm against his awkward panic. You aren't ridiculing him, the opposite. You're in the same terrified boat. It's reassuring at least to know he's not alone.

You put your hand out without turning his way. Eddie stares at it with another gasping round of chest pain but takes it swiftly in both hands, too much. Why are you this fucking weird? he asks himself.

"I think I believe you."

Eddie bites the inside of his lip. Your hand is marginally smaller in his, softer by yards, and easy to pet at your admission. He feels this bone deep longing to stroke the back of it and he does, the side of his thumb tracing the faint indentation of bones beneath your skin with the care of someone handling a more delicate artefact, the string shortening, shortening, until it's all but disappeared. You're hardier than a rough hand-hold, he's wanted to do this for so, so long.

"About what?" he asks. The string? Or his affection?

"About the string." You struggle with the flowers and the umbrella in your other hand but make no attempt to take the first back from his grip.

He waits for you to say more, seconds turning to minutes, his palm growing sweaty in yours. Eddie wants to be cool like a rockstar who knows you want him and doesn't care, and he wants to be sweet and gentle and give you the respect you deserve, but mostly he wants to make it out of this conversation with you at his side. He's not sure how to do it, but holding your hand as you want him to is a start.

"I have to ask you something," you say finally, as though the words have been dragged from the root of you. "This string… this isn't all a joke, is it? That would be– that would be sick. If it's not real."

"No!" Eddie interrupts. "It's not a joke, I get if you think I'm crazy but I'm not trying to mess you around–"

"I don't think you're crazy. This whole situation is crazy. It doesn't make sense."

"But you believe me?" he asks. What he's really asking is Would you believe me, please? He's so tired of being alone with this.

"I found this book at the library." Your hand livens in his, your fingers pushing between his to twine together solidly. "Talking about the red thread of fate. There's a myth that people who are destined to get married have an invisible string tied from their fingers. It gets bigger and smaller, and you can't cut it no matter how hard you try, but I still didn't know if I believed you. You could've read the same book."

Didn't know. Past tense. "What changed your mind?"

"How would you know where I was if you were lying? We're twenty minutes outside of town."

"I could be a stalker."

"Do you want me to believe you?" you ask with a laugh.

"Of course I do," he says warmly, spurred by your laughter, pulling your arm bodily into his and encouraging you closer. "You don't have to believe that we're destined to be together, but the string is real."

"And you like me."

Eddie's turn to laugh. "I do, yeah. So much it's embarrassing."

"Everybody knows but me?"

"Kind of."

"Oh." You lay your cheek against his shoulder. Almost like you're testing his limits to see if you're allowed.

Rain dots lightly on his jacket arm, the chill of the weather sudden and obvious. He covers your wrist with his hand to hide you from it, knowing he should offer to take you somewhere warmer but needing to stretch this moment, his chest alleviated of anxiety pangs for the first time in almost a week.

"You really think I'm pretty?" you ask quietly.

Eddie stares at the top of your head. "You're the sweetest thing I've ever seen. Even if you don't believe it yourself, you're beautiful."

It's not that Eddie thinks you're going to cry but you come apart, slow fissures in the last of your strength. He takes the bouquet from you to lay on the table behind and closes your umbrella, letting the drizzling rain kiss the tops of both your heads. You look as nervous as he feels. "Come here," he says, desperate for you to feel better. "C'mere."

You sew your arms under his as he wraps his around your shoulders, the string stretching so as not to hurt you. Your voice comes rushed and low, honesty now that you're no longer face to face, "I like you too, Eddie. Ever since you made me that paper crane, I think."

He rubs your back. "You don't have to sound upset about it," he teases, trying to rescue you from tears. He'd hate to see you cry.

"This has all been such a mess."

He hugs you harder. "I know. I promise I'll make it up."

"But it's not your fault."

"Maybe, but that's kind of the point of being with someone. Looking after each other, cleaning up messes. I want to."

"You're with me," you repeat carefully.

Eddie pulls back, taking your face into his hand. The string lines your cheek like a teardrop curved down the slope of it. He strokes the red thread gently with his thumb. "I want to be. You think that could work? Us?"

Your fingers curl into the crook of his elbow. You nod into his touch. "If this isn't a trick."

"It's not a trick. I'm in love with you," —he wants to lean in, and he can't, not yet, not while a fraction of you still thinks he couldn't want you sincerely— "everything about you. I think I have been for a while."

"In love…" you murmur into yourself.

You lean forward slowly, stilted, and when Eddie leans in to meet you your eyes flutter closed. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thinks. He might have kissed you before but he doesn't remember it anymore than a phantom, a ghost, the echo of a memory. He remembers what he said and the blooming pain of his hand kicking back into his eye a thousand times clearer than how your lips felt, he has no idea what you like, where to put his hands—

You kiss him first. You lean in, and you kiss him gingerly, waiting for an impending cruelty or rejection that's never going to come. He keeps it gentle, holding his breath as the tip of his nose slides across yours and his head tilts to allow better access, a proper, full kiss.

For someone who hasn't had very many, you're a good kisser. A little too still. Eddie sees no harm in it, moving back a millimetre to wade in again immediately, his left hand rising to join the right on your warming face and prompting you into a braver reciprocation.

He smiles at the feeling of your bottom lip pressed against the seam of his mouth. His jacket sleeve creaks as your grip tightens.

It's a lovely kiss, even if it's tenuously taken. It's everything. For a while the rain doesn't matter, steams off of him, but it must fall too harshly for you to ignore, peeling away from him, so, so carefully. He meets your softened gaze with a similar expression. For once, you seem completely present, and better, your smile is real.

"Was that okay?" he asks, sliding his hands down the lines of your neck, feeling for nothing in particular. Feeling to feel, wanting to learn every hill and bow of you.

"It was better than the first two," you say, an endearingly bashful answer.

"That's not difficult. One was from a wet-nosed, mouth-breathing imbecile and the other one was from Cory Wilson."

You laugh without restraint, a full-bodied sound that echoes down his arms. "I think you mixed that up," you say nicely.

Flirting! Eddie could burst into tears. "You think? How about slimy, frizzy loser?" His hand lives a life of its own, squeezing your shoulder as he suggests, "Desperate and unobsequious uggo?"

Raindrops catch your forehead as you tip your head back briefly, laughter bubbling on your lips, your relief a palpable saccharine. "In what world are you an uggo?"

"What, do you like me or something?" He takes another kiss, lips lingering, longing for just a few more seconds. "Notice how you didn't disagree with 'desperate'? 'Unobsequious'?" he murmurs, a quarter inch from your mouth.

"You're not desperate," you murmur back, almost inaudible under the patter of rain.

"But?"

"But I don't think unobsequious is a word."

"No?" he asks, kissing you again. The awkwardness is gone, replaced by a melding need. "You don't think so?"

"No," you defend. He can hear your fondness.

Eddie presses a tight kiss hard enough to feel the impression of your teeth over your lips before tearing himself away. Kissing you isn't a tenth of what he wants from you; there's a lot to tell you. He needs to start now.

Your lips part as though you've a question to ask, too, but you bring a distracted hand to his hair. "Your hair's getting curlier in the rain. It's…"

You falter.

"I'm drowned, huh?" he asks.

You try to say no. Your hand wavers shy of a coil, listless, "No way," you whisper, eyes on your hand now, on your marriage finger and the red string playing at your knuckle, shimmering with a fish-scale sparkle as you pinch it between your thumb and forefinger on the opposite hand. "I can see it."

"You can see it?" Eddie asks, leaping onto his feet.

Your face is transformed, infinitely, impossibly prettier by your beaming smile as you clamber to stand in front of him, stretching the string between your bodies experimentally. "I can see it!"

"You can see it?" he asks, vaulting his weight into you, his arms working around your back in a squeeze.

You pull your arm up between you both and twist your wrist this way and that, the string following your whims as you lean back in the circle of his arms. Your eyes flicker between him and the string, as though you're working out which one is an illusion. Eddie and the string are both real.

"We're really soulmates."

Eddie doesn't know if he believes in soulmates, but he believes in the hopeful colour to your voice as you say it, and the tacky skin of your cheek as he leans in for your fifth kiss, your sixth, each one better than the last.

If his soulmate were going to be someone, he'd want nothing more than for it to be you.

—

"Come on! We're so late!"

Steve detaches himself from the frankly killer novel in his lap to turn, his sunglasses casting you and Eddie in a sepia tone as he drags you bodily down the path to their picnic spot. You giggle girlishly at Eddie's telling off and the bodily nature of his pushing, flopped like a fish out of water in his arms.

"I'm hurrying, Eds, you're just faster than me."

Eddie pretends to drop you, to your roaring delight, your laugh echoing across the park and drawing the eyes of Steve's summer club.

"Here comes happy and happier," Robin groans.

"You wanted them to date," Steve says, turning to his best friend where she lays on the blanket beside him, his jacket a pillow under her neck. "You have sleep in your eyes."

"I'm tired," she defends, struggling into a sitting position. She wipes her eyes with the bottoms of her palms, mean, words stretched with a yawn as she continues, "Please tell me Eddie has the basket."

"Nope," Max says, slamming down on her knees next to Robin, her jeans already grass-stained.

"Y/N has it," Lucas clarifies, sitting down with them in similar fashion.

Steve's daunted by them when they're together, but he leaves his commentary at an unintelligible curse word, his head tipped back in annoyance. They're constantly pulling the carpet from under him, practically manufacturing flaws to tease him about, Max whip-smart and Lucas loyal to a fault.

Still, he likes them.

More than he likes Dustin when the curly-haired boy sits down next to Steve and takes his hat off. "Feel how sweaty this is getting."

"Rather not, dude."

Eddie speaks, closer now, and Steve misses the words but not the tone of them. Dripping, almost sleazy affection, the kind that knows what it is unabashedly. You stand on toes to kiss the highest point of his cheek as quickly as you can, your hand on his trap.

"Hey!" Eddie shouts to their turned head, waving a hand of rings, calluses and bandaids. "You guys look like meerkats."

His cheeks are rosy red with blush despite the moderate temperatures today, the sun set to come out in an hour or two when the cloud cover moves. Said meerkats make room for you on the picnic blanket, where you share the bounty of your basket, sandwiches and cut fruit. "There are chips in the car," you say.

"You cut up fruit?" Robin asks.

"Eddie did. I watched."

"And ate the best cuts," Eddie says proudly, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to drown you in a hug. You slink an arm begins him to hug him in return, your face pressed with delight to the curve of his neck. "As is her right."

"Don't be disgusting!" Mike calls, a baseball bat in unconfident hands.

"You sure you know how to use that thing?" Eddie calls back. "Lucas, I thought you were helping him, man? Help him!"

"Some people are beyond help."

"Shut up, Dustin."

Despite an abundance of company and a ton of shit to do, you and Eddie are distracted by one another, and Steve isn't stupid enough to not get why. They didn't see you both for a week, and then you emerged from your self-imposed quarantine as grossly in love with one another as Steve has ever seen two people be. Like, maybe the happiest couple ever. In some loud ways but mostly quiet ones, hands held, fond cheek kisses to say hello, these weird paper birds you make for each other whenever there's a scrap of paper left lying around. Eddie's doing it now, having stolen the sticky note Steve was using as a bookmark to craft a teeny tiny crane, Steve, their called cranes. One second it's a pink diamond and the next he's performing an intricate twist, four last folds, and placing the finished product on your knee.

Steve's sort of jealous, but you guys are too in love, honestly. It's nice if you're in it but too intimate if you aren't (nothing maliciously done, of course), so he rounds up the troops for the first round of baseball to give you guys some privacy.

If he's expecting you two to start French kissing when he leaves, he's not correct. He wouldn't know it, back turned to you as he takes first bat, knees bent and waiting for Erica to serve, but you guys talk. Talk talk talk. Eddie can talk for Indiana and you listen in your way, wryly amused, promising any minute now that you're gonna get up and spread out on the field.

"Is this a bad idea, sports? What if it beheads someone?"

"It knows how to behave," Eddie assuages, hand on the blanket next to your thighs, turned toward you, effectively locking you in. "We don't wanna get that involved. You look too good right now to ruin."

Nothing can fix the insecurities you hold instantly, but knowing someone wants to kiss you regularly has helped. Eddie's constant compliments have done even better. He's easy about it, no fuss, no bravado, praise said like fact. Come here, pretty girl, I got a present for you. Hey, gorgeous. You should do my hair, yours always looks so good. And the photos —he has a disposable in the glove box, and insists on taking photos of you when you're especially happy. Now that he's your guy, that's often.

"You're saying I wouldn't look good if I sweat this off?" you ask, gesturing to your face and your makeup.

"I know you'd look good." He dips down for a kiss, as if daring you to suggest otherwise. It's a touch rough, twice as devoted. Things are heady for a time, the two of you stealing another short moment to add to the list, your kiss made of twin smiles. "Maybe we can use it to our advantage," he suggests, pulling back to stroke your cheek.

"The string?" you ask.

Eddie steals a last quick peck before his hand climbs onto your leg, giving your denim-clad thigh a pat. "We'll use it to trip people up. Come on, it'll be fun. We'll get Harrington flat on his ass," he says, clambering onto sure footing.

"No way," you say, leaning back to see him, your hand nudging aside a plate of sandwiches. You shield your eyes from the sun as it comes out, sunlight like spun gold spilling down your arm. "I'm not helping you hurt your friends."

"What, those guys? They're just my D&D subs."

You shake your head at him in disapproval.

"I'm kidding!" he says, reaching down for your hands. "Get up, sweetheart, we'll only trip someone if we need to win. Stop fighting me, you know it's useless. I always win."

"You cheat," you sigh, letting him help you onto your feet.

"I cheat," he agrees, kissing your cheek, then the opposite, before holding them in both hands and leaning in. "I love how you sound when you know you're losing–"

"Shut up–"

"You get all breathless," he says, his face drifting closer, and closer, "all shy on me."

"If I knew you were gonna try and embarrass me this much I never would've said yes to being your girlfriend," you say, half-glaring at him with a wave of affection brimming behind your poor acting.

"Really?" he asks. His voice is low, a little rough.

"No. But you have to stop, okay?" You laugh, nudging him in the stomach with your knuckles. "I wanna play baseball."

Steve waves Eddie over from home base to field on his team while you join Max, Robin, and Lucas in line to bat. "This isn't enough people for baseball," Eddie says, crushing emerald green bluegrass beneath his shoes. The rainfall last week made for lush vegetation.

"Yeah, which is why you were supposed to invite more people," Steve quips.

"I was busy." Eddie rolls his shoulders. "We don't need more people to win. We got this."

"We do not got this! And no going easy on Y/N, okay? I don't care if you're together, we need to play to win. Loser's buying the winner's pizza and I just got Sheila out of the shop."

"Are you kidding?" Eddie asks, stretching his arm behind his head, his eyes across the field where you laugh at Robin's side. "Obviously I'm not going easy on her. Why would you think that?"

"Seriously? This is the worst honeymoon phase I've ever seen. I figured you guys wouldn't even be able to play on different teams, like, major separation anxiety."

Eddie does this thing with his hand, his thumb plucking an invisible string. "I don't need to worry, man. I know exactly where she is."

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading, especially if you got all the way to the end! hope you enjoyed ♥

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4

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highvern · 6 days

Text

Between the Titles

Pairing: Min Yoongi x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, smut (mature/18+)

warnings: egregious caffeine consumption, yoongi smokes cigarettes, reader is about the same height as yoongi (its me hello im almost the same height as him), gay taehyung, volunteer jungkook, silver fox yoongi (he just has some gray hair bc hot) smut warnings: making out, grinding, fingering, oral (f. receiving), semi-public sexual acts, bathroom sex, protected sex, praise kink

Length: ~9.5k

Note: no thoughts, just big brain yoongi in a sweater smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. btw almost all the books in this are real but i haven't read them so if you have lmk if they're worth the read lmao. thank u to my dearest @gyuswhore and @idyllic-ghost for beta-ing this

Summary: Five days a week in the library means you're very familiar with the senior research librarian. It also means he has no qualms about making his own book recommendations either.

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This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

The sweet aroma of old books and strong coffee infiltrates your nose as the heavy doors into the library swing open, offering reprieve from the storm raging on outside. It’s far too early for anyone to be here beyond staff and a few other morning birds. You glide right to the circulation desk as if fatigue doesn’t pulse through your veins, barely quelled by the second cup of coffee you sip from.

As always, the same familiar head of dark hair with sparse silver streaks waits at the circulation desk. He’s the only person working this early despite being the senior research librarian but you never hear any complaints louder than muttered annoyance under his breath when he thinks no one is around to hear. Bent over his laptop, Yoongi doesn’t even bother to look up as he slides a heavy stack of books to the edge of the counter.

Eleven total, ten heavy volumes on ancient fertility cults across the globe, and one book you know he’s mixed in for his own amusement.

It’s become something of a game between you two. At first you thought he was mixing your materials with someone else’s, but every time you brought the additional copy back to his desk, Yoongi insisted he had no idea what you were talking about and questioned your reading choices. Each time the titles got more ridiculous: Castration: The Advantages and the Disadvantages, How to Enjoy Your Weeds, Amish Vampires in Space, the list goes on and on. But after he slipped Why Fish Don’t Exist into your stack a few weeks ago, you decided to start responding.

You left the stack at his desk like usual, ears perked for his reaction to Fishes I Have Known. An amused snort rang out just as you opened the doors to leave for the afternoon. The sound was so unlike the stoic man you’d become accustomed to over months working on your thesis; not that you heard him talk much to begin with.

Since then you’ve made a point to match every book he leaves for you. Yesterday, Yoongi chose I Could Pee on This: and Other Poems by Cats. At the end of the day, you spent thirty minutes searching shelf after shelf for an appropriate response, every book failing to meet your expectations. It wasn’t fair he knew the expansive collection like the back of his hand but nevertheless you found something up to par.

Yoongi rolled his eyes when you passed your books over the counter, a copy of Staying Dry: A Practical Guide to Bladder Control, like a shining star on top. A brief pink of his tongue flashed across his lips, a feeble attempt to muffle an amused smile. It was the most obvious reaction since the first time you responded.

Smiling like the cat who ate the canary, you left on clouds last night.

But this morning you have notes to write.

Snagging the collection, you make your way deeper into the building. Your unassigned-assigned desk tucked away on the fifth floor, far enough away from any noise so you can fully immerse in work without the threat of distraction. An uninterrupted view of the courtyard below is an added bonus.

The wooden table top is covered in a neat collection of pens and sticky notes in minutes; your laptop and the foot tall collection of references you devour over the next eight hours taking up the other half.

A few titles you request over and over sit on top, too valuable to be checked out for long term use so you settle for keeping them in constant rotation since no one else bothers to read the dusty yellowing tombs. For now, you focus on the new pieces you hope hold the information you need.

Earth rites: fertility practices in pre-industrial Britain, Archaeology and Fertility Cults in the Ancient Mediterranean, Metamorphosis of Baubo: myths of woman's sexual energy—

I’m in Love with Mothman…

Well there it is.

You thumb across the glossy cartoon cover, failing to bite back a smile. Yoongi has a penchant for tossing in the most outlandish romance books he can find. Maybe because he knows you spend just as much if not more time than he does between the stacks. The suggestion box at the desk was full of cards stained with your penmanship asking for longer hours; several of which you’ve seen Yoongi rip in half as he pointedly met your gaze.

Tossing it aside, you pull forward one of the more musty books and start reading.

When you finally manage to resurface from laborious tales on several cults of Aphrodite, the rain is long gone. Even the darkest corners of the old building seem to glow gold in the evening sunset filtering through the glass doors. They're the only thing standing between you and freedom in the form curling up on your couch with a glass of wine and a new episode of your favorite reality dating show. But first, Yoongi needs his books back.

His desk chair is abandoned and the return cart is gone as well which means he could be anywhere in the building. Disappointment leaches into your spine at the fact you won’t be able to witness his reaction to the twelfth book in your pile; the one you spent an extra fifteen minutes looking for in the corner of the third floor.

A thick piece of library paper lists the materials you’ll need for the next day lays atop the neon green cover of Pest Management Solutions: How to Manage Your Moth Problem. They decorate the corner of the desk until Yoongi returns to find them. Hopefully he appreciates your humor.

Yoongi isn’t at his desk the next morning when you come in either. Instead, a doe eyed man with a lip piercing occupies the chair, clearly playing some game on his laptop.

Approaching the counter, you begin to ask, “Where’s Yoon–”

“Staff meeting,” he interjects like he’s already answered the question a million times despite the library opening only five minutes ago. The white of his teeth threaten to blind you. “But I can help you!”

His name tag isn’t the same engraved golden metal Yoongi’s is, it’s a plastic sleeve with a paper insert with barely legible handwriting you decipher as “Jungkook” and below “Volunteer.” You’ve seen him before from a distance. Usually trudging through the shelves with the book return cart in tow, occasionally taking a quick read inside before putting them in their rightful place.

“I need to pick up some books. I gave Yoongi the list yesterday.”

“Sure.�� Jungkook jumps up, approaching the shelf lined with piles for other patrons. “What’s your last name?”

He combs through the list after you answer, finding your stack easily enough.

“Alright so Yoongi left a note that the encyclopedias you wanted are on the usual desk you have upstairs. But other than that I’ve got: Historical Studies of Changing Fertility, Sacred Mushroom and The Cross, Archaeology and Fertility Cults in The Ancient Mediterranean…” Jungkook lists off the titles, checking to make sure they're all in order. “And, um, this one isn’t on the list.”

It must be Yoongi’s choice for the day.

“What is it?”

Jungkook looks like he’s trying to hide his own amusement as he slides it over for you to read.

If I Were a Bird, You'd be The First Person I'd Shit On.

“Huh,” you blush. “Wonder how that got in there.”

“He must have left it by mistake. I can put it ba–”

“No, I’ll take it.” You toss it on top of the other, less embarrassing books in your stack and gather it into your arms before Jungkook can get in another word. “Thanks for your help!”

Scurrying towards the hallway housing the elevators, you attempt to juggle the pile of books, your stuffed bag, and coffee without taking a spill. It’s one thing to have your silent battle with Yoongi, but having someone else witness it makes you feel downright silly. And for the first one witnessed by others to be such an absurd and downright passive aggressive selection sends embarrassment through your veins.

As promised, three encyclopedias sit neatly on your desk; the volumes so thick they protrude from the table top like a small mountain. No wonder he left them there instead of making you carry them up in individual trips. But Yoongi’s goodwill clearly ended there. A sticky note on top of the stack pens his discontent at your selection.

I had to spend 3 hours in the basement to find these. If you need them again, don’t.

Even though he hadn’t signed it, you know it’s from him. The tight script fits his personality; thin lines of annoyance bleeding through the ink, not just his words. A waft of musty old paper and dust breezes through your nose as you open the first copy. They must have been housed in a forgotten storage area. At least his bird book makes more sense now.

You don’t dig into the heap until after the sun is halfway through the sky but when you do it only proves to unravel your wits. Reading on, the wrinkle in your eyebrows deepens further. Page after page of conflicting knowledge passes by, each sentence more confusing than the last; minutes negating months of research. The thick pages hardly provide a soft landing for your head as you allow it to thump forward in exasperation.

The scrap of chair legs alerts to a new presence watching your meltdown in real time.

“Something wrong?” Yoongi asks.

With a heavy sigh, you respond.“I want to die.”

“Get in line.”

Shifting in your seat, you peer in his direction. A different day but the same wardrobe: dark button up, glasses, same unapproachable facade. But what Yoongi is doing sitting next to you is new.

Yoongi makes himself comfortable, picking at his nails as he waits patiently for an explanation.

“Everything in my thesis is either wrong or the world authority on fertility in Europe is full of it.”

“Bummer.”

“Your sincerity is overwhelming.” You snap.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. Boredom seeps across his face but he doesn’t move to leave, just sinks deeper into the chair. “You’ve read almost half the collection since you started coming here, why are some old dusty books such a big deal?”

“Because all of those books cite these books which means those books are wrong and all my work is in the toilet.”

“Those books are from the seventies, the information is probably out of date.”

Slamming the copy serving as a pillow shut, you take a second glance at the title: Encyclopedia of Women and World Religion, Volume 7.

“Yoongi,” you sing.

Yoongi’s gaze flashes to yours, a trickle of confusion flashing across his eyes.“What?”

You stack up the books and push them across the desk with some effort. Just to savor the satisfaction of besting Yoongi, you indulge a long sip of now cold coffee before speaking again. No one else is around to witness your victory but that won’t dampen the high.

“Looks like you’ll be back in the basement because you brought me the wrong editions.”

He opens his mouth to argue, snatching one of the books to investigate but you beat him to the punch.

“I asked for the twenty-fifth edition, not the seventh.” You smirk. “I think you're losing your touch.”

He watches you over the rim of the cover. A fleeting glance in your direction but it makes your heart squeeze with need.

“Well, I guess you’re right,” Yoongi sighs, standing. “Do you still need them for anything or can I go ahead and take them?”

With your approval, he heaves the heavy tombs on to his cart. The strain of his forearms, bare from rolled up sleeves, catches your attention. Veins raised under creamy skin, lean muscles leading down to hands you’ve noticed since the first day you started visiting the library.

If you keep staring, you’re likely to start drooling. So you dive back into one of the useful books littering your desk and pretend to read until he’s disappearing down the hall.

On your way out, leaving much earlier than a typical day due to Yoongi’s mistake, you drop the remaining books off at the circulation desk. Along with a copy of Avian Hunting Techniques. He’s absent again but it doesn't matter.

You continue out the doors and down the sidewalk only to spot him leaning against the brick exterior further down the street. Even from a distance you can make out the natural scowl he’s constantly sporting. Except this time his lips pout around a cigarette.

Of course he smokes.

The quasi-mysterious librarian who flirts with you through book titles, smokes cigarettes and looks hot doing it.

“You know those things will kill you, right?”

“That’s what the box says but they aren’t holding up their end of the deal,” Yoongi responds, flicking the ash before looking at his watch. “Wow, out before six. I’ll alert the press.”

“Well, if someone gave me the right books then maybe I’d stay longer. But I’m not about to wait around while you get the ones I need.”

Yoongi takes another drag of his cigarette before responding, “Are you trying to say I forced you to take a break?”

The realization dawns on you. Yoongi is the senior research librarian. He’s never given you the wrong books, even when you request the rare copies needed to be loaned from a different part of the country. The few times you’ve offered understanding if he couldn’t get them were met with a challenge in his gaze and smug satisfaction when handing them over a week later.

“You brought me the wrong copies on purpose!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He’s lying. You know it. Yoongi definitely knows you know by the way he smirks. But he’s already crushing the filter under his shoe and moving back towards the library by the time your brain catches up to your mouth. “Have a good night, Y/N.”

With a scoff of indignation, you stalk towards your car.

The next morning, you march straight through the class doors to where Yoongi sits, fueled by snowballed annoyance from the previous day. Waking up on the wrong side of the bed is an understatement. If there are any gods, Yoongi should pick one and pray.

Your free afternoon of yesterday was spent dealing with the chaos your apartment has become over the past few weeks. Unfolded laundry, stacks of random papers, out of place books, and errant dust bunnies all became new victims to energy usually reserved for a full day of research. Taehyung practically shit himself when he woke up before dinner and found you scrubbing the bathroom sink.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, hand to his chest like a flustered old woman.

Bleach curled in your nostrils. “I live here.”

“Not between the hours of eight and seven.”

But after the mess was dealt with, aggravation set in. How dare Yoongi purposefully meddle in your work. Well meaning or not you were an adult and could decide when enough was enough. The purposeful mishap hadn’t set you back far, one afternoon but a drop in the bucket in comparison to the months you’ve already spent chasing new leads. But the principle of the matter is that it’s none of his business what you do and when you do it.

Yoongi slides a slimmer stack over when you stop in front of him.

“Encyclopedias are on your desk,” he announces through a sip of coffee. He continues to type away, feigning disinterest as you sort through your stack with measured annoyance.

“Are they the right copies this time?”

“Double checked them myself.”

You open your mouth to verbalize your doubts but Yoongi’s pick of the day catches your eye.

Surviving Your Stupid Stupid Decision to Go to Grad School.

Scoffing, you flip the book around and shoot daggers into his face with your eyes. “Do you think you’re funny?”

The corner of his mouth twitches then becomes a full blown smile. Leaning over the desk, he drops his voice, “I think I’m hilarious.”

Remembering you are, in fact, in a library, you manage to muffle a frustrated groan. You dump the supplementary reading back on the counter for Yoongi to deal with and head upstairs.

Unlike the usual days where you put off finding a response to Yoongi’s extra copy until the waning hours of the afternoon, you drop your bags and head straight for the shelves. The fifth floor houses a collection of textbooks and other reference material. It’s why it's always deserted unless some poor fool stumbles on it by accident; the perfect place to work uninterrupted for hours.

You head down stairs, circling the fourth and then third floor like a shark in a feeding frenzy. A few covers spark interest but nothing captures what bubbles in your veins: annoyance, anger, confusion. A brief flutter of interest as to why Yoongi decided to mess with you but those feelings are more dangerous than the acidic ones.

Row after proves unfruitful in your quest for passive aggressive revenge. None have the same bite as his book, or seem to curb the homicidal thoughts raging in your head.

Until a little white book peeps back at you from the end of the aisle.

Yoongi jumps when you slam Bitter Is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smartass in front of him. A feat in and of itself to sneak up on him given the loan desk has a perfect view of the entire first floor but whatever he’d been clicking away at on the computer was distraction enough.

“What's this?”

“Thought you might like some new reading.” You flash your teeth.

His chin jerks towards the glossy cover. “I already gave this two stars on Goodreads.”

Of course he has.

Face prickling in embarrassment, you turn back the way you came without a word.

Hours later, when half the day has ticked by and the ache for more caffeine burns your eyes, Yoongi stops by your desk. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try and gain the attention you pointedly withhold. He sets a paper coffee cup on the corner of the tabletop and leaves.

You snatch up the cup after he rounds the corner out of sight. The lack of sugar leaves much to be desired but free coffee is free coffee, especially to a PhD student with limited means.

It isn’t much of an apology but guilt blooms down your spine anyway. He meant well. You aren’t known for giving yourself breaks; unable to quit while you’re ahead. A voluntary day off is less likely than winning the lottery. You’re a busy body and the constant work keeps you from dissolving into chaos.

You don’t see Yoongi again until every book at your desk is exhausted, begging for a break from your manhandling. Double and triple checking notes and citations are the poor excuse you implement to delay the inevitable. At some point you’ll have to go downstairs to face the music.

He’s waiting like always, scanning the mountain of returns littering the counter from a long day. Each step closer withers something in your stomach.

The copies in your hand shift onto the wooden surface, joining the stack for him to work through. Yoongi flashes a polite grimace when you catch his eye before immediately diving back into his work. Hopefully he understands why you chose Thank You for Smoking. And why you covered the second half of the title with a sticky note.

Jungkook’s smiling face greets you bright and early. His name tag has been upgraded from flimsy paper to a plastic one and a printed label with his name.

Handing over your library card, he quickly scans it and grabs the books meant for today’s dissection.

“Yoongi wanted me to tell you that if you want more coffee while you’re working, you can go to the staff lounge on the second floor.”

“Oh.”

Jungkook continues sifting through your requests, making sure each is correct. “Between you and me, the coffee down the street is better. But don’t tell him I said that.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a coffee snob and thinks his shit—sorry—stuff is the best.”

“Okay,” you say, grabbing your pile. “Thanks.”

You set up your station like always, sorting through each book and devising a mental to do list. The desk resembles a feast but instead of food it’s encyclopedias, printed articles, and dusty manuscripts Yoongi wrangled from who knows where. On the outer board of your work station rests the feature of the day: How to Beg for Cigarettes.

A few hours pass between the pages. Your previous research is confirmed by the significantly less dusty encyclopedias this time, corroborating the basis of your thesis. A new work you haven’t seen is cited in the back, piquing your interest for more evidence.

Instead of bothering one of the staff, you use the library website and find it in their catalog. It’s somewhere on the second floor where Yoongi offers free coffee. Two birds, one stone; a new book and a new cup of coffee.

The layout resembles all the other floors. A collection of study tables in the center crowded by bookshelves on all sides. One person, an undergrad by the look of pure dread on their features, occupies a table but that's it. Glancing at the note with the call number, you start towards the stacks on the left.

You find the correct area, eyes scanning up and down the different shelves to no avail. Hundreds of books, different sizes in an array of colors, flash by but none are the one you need. You’re about to call it quits when you spot it on the top shelf, just out of reach.

Call it a moment of stupidity, a brief blight of recklessness, but the book sits only a few inches beyond your fingers. You look around to make sure no one is around to witness the brilliantly flawed idea crest in your brain. With the coast clear, you hoist yourself up the shelf.

A deadpan voice nearly makes you fall.

“Looking for something?”

Yoongi stands a few feet away, head cocked to the side. Of course he’d find you in such a ridiculous position. Even through the blur of your peripheral vision, the harsh lines of his usual uniform clashes against the back drop of books. Dark jeans fitted over his thighs, dark button down rolled up his arms, and a pair of glasses that make him look hot. But you’re in no position to dwell when the risk of falling on your ass is so high.

“Nope, just getting in some exercise” you grunt, moving your foot to the shallow hold of the next shelf.

Yoongi moseys up behind you before continuing. “And climbing a decades old bookshelf is how you stretch your legs?”

“You smoke cigarettes, I climb old furniture. We all have our vices.”

Your foot slips from its perch, making you squeak before catching your balance.

“Alright spider-monkey, that's enough.” His hands slide across your hip, fingers curved around the softest part of your waist as he helps you down.

Distracted by the weight of him still on your hip, the heat of his chest a scorching across your back, you don’t even think to disparage him for the cheap Twilight reference. The few inches Yoongi has on you allows him to reach overhead to snag the copy you need with ease. But as you watch his hands close around the spine everything beyond fades to black; like the universe pinholes where you two stand.

“This one?” You feel the vibration of his words up and down your spine, warm breath tracing across the shell of your ear.

Body on autopilot, you turn to face Yoongi. His mouth moves, eyes scanning the book cover but every word deafens in a muddy haze. He doesn’t seem to realize his hand is still on your waist, or how he crowds you into the shelves; chest to chest, stomachs barely an inch apart.

“Huh?” you ask, tearing your eyes away from his mouth.

“I said, if you asked for this book earlier I could have gotten it for you.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?” he asks, stepping further into you. “You look a little flushed.”

The bastard smiles. A God’s honest smile like his thigh isn’t between your own, or he isn’t waiting for a reply while his fingers dig in beneath your ribs.

Just when you open your mouth to say something, Yoongi silences you with a firm squeeze of his hand. His head lowers until his breath ghosts along your chin.

Then you’re kissing; lips sliding together easily like he anticipated it. The world shatters all around from just a few passes of his mouth across your own, the weight of his body flattening you against the bookshelf.

The first hint of his tongue against the seam of your lips makes you gasp and Yoongi takes the opportunity to taste you. You melt under his attention. Head tipping back, shoulders bowing to take more, your senses flood with the remnants of coffee and something else; something so quintessential Yoongi your head spins. It lights a new flame in your veins, one burning with pure want.

A handful of his shirt pulls him closer. Yoongi follows easily but gets more than asked for when one of your hands tangles in the back of his hair, tugging until he’s tilting his chin the way you want. It’s a bad habit other dates have subtly complained about but a noise bubbles in his throat at the dig of your nails; responding with his own palm squeezing roughly across your ass until your hips meet his.

The crash of the book near your feet is like a bucket of ice water.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. Jumping back proves futile as the shelf digs further into your spine. “I–”

Puffy lips and lowered eyes stare back at you, clear evidence that you haven’t hallucinated what just happened. Yoongi dips down to kiss you again but you slither out of his grip.

Forgetting the book on the tiled floor, you mumble an apology and flee back upstairs, beelining to the vacant restroom.

To your own mortification, your features mirror Yoongi’s; lips swollen, eyes glazed. Your sweater twisted around your torso clearly betraying your rendezvous in the stacks. Beads of sweat cling to your forehead and neck.

A few splashes of cold water help clear the fog in your brain but as it dissipates embarrassment sets in. Making out with a handsome man is one thing. Making out with the librarian assisting in the most important work of your life is an entirely different ordeal; one that can only spell trouble.

Pacing back and forth, the cool paper towel on the back of your neck helps calm your racing heart enough to leave the safety of the ladies room.

Try as you might to drown under piles of books, it’s useless. You pretend to read the same passages over and over but none of the words register. The kiss replays over and over and over again. You kissed Yoongi. Yoongi kissed you back. He tried to kiss you again when you pulled away.

The end of the day inevitably comes which means you have to face him whether you want to or not. But you won’t allow a single lapse of judgment to affect your work; a moment of weakness propelled by months of abstinence that just so happened to coincide with a surly librarian’s entrance into your life. You just needed to get it out of your system. If it hadn’t been Yoongi it would have been someone else.

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

A glance at your watch informs you that today is the second day you’ll leave the library early. Rather than give into the stubborn instinct to stay, you decide putting as much distance between yourself and Yoongi is far better for your mental health. With squared shoulders and a raised chin, you head downstairs.

Yoongi’s waiting behind the counter. He isn’t typing on his computer or scanning books. He watches every step you take, arms crossed in front as he leans forward like he’s eager for a confrontation.

“Yoongi,” you say.

“Y/N.”

You use every fiber of will to maintain eye contact as you pass your stack over the counter. “I’ll need these same ones tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He nods. “And the kiss?”

“What kiss?” you croak.

Yoongi’s eyes blaze like you’re a new puzzle to be solved, like he wants to take you apart and find exactly what makes you tick. You feel naked. “The one where you—”

“Must have been someone else. Sorry. Have a good night!” You rush for the door before he can say another word.

Another morning is another day in the library, but this time your roommate begs to tag along.

“Look, I’m not getting anything done on my thesis so maybe you’ll rub off on me,” Taehyung says.

Rolling your eyes, you step through the door he holds open. “I think you’ve had plenty of people rub off on you.”

Gasping with fake indignation, he catches up easily. “Are you calling me a slut?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I wanted to make sure we were on the same page. Is that him?”

Yoongi and Jungkook are talking behind the counter. Jungkook’s hands wave wildly as he recounts whatever information to his boss while Yoongi listens with fake interest. Or that's what someone else might think. The subtle signs he cares are hidden in the details; the miniscule lift of shoulders, a cock of his head, and when Jungkook pouts in a way too ridiculous for a man his size, Yoongi hides a smile in the shake of his head.

“Yes.”

“And I’m the slut?” Taehyung scowls as you pinch his shoulder. “What? He’s a nerd’s walking wet dream.”

“And he can hear you, so shut up.”

“Morning!” Jungkook calls on his way past with a cart full of books.

He grins like he knows exactly what happened on the second floor yesterday but that can’t be true. Yoongi doesn’t seem like the type to kiss and tell. Only the type to kiss and tease you relentlessly for it when no one else is around to hear.

Taehyung’s attention immediately locks on him. You love your roommate, always have and, unfortunately, always will; but he is a slut and Jungkook is definitely his type. However, he’s on your turf and knows better than to fuck where you have to eat for the next few months.

“Y/N, Y/N’s friend,” Yoongi says when you approach his desk.

“Taehyung.”

“Right,” Yoongi drawls, blinking lazily before sliding your books over and turning around to sort something on the opposite counter.

Taehyung, ever the gentleman, grabs the pile for you and follows upstairs.

“Well he seems like a cup of sunshine,” Taehyung whispers.

“Just because he isn’t fawning over you doesn’t mean he’s an asshole.”

“I’m very fawn-able, ask anyone,” your roommate argues as you approach the fifth floor. “Wait, what's this… How to Defeat Your Own Clone and Other Tips for Surviving the Biotech Revolution. This is the type of shit he’s giving you? You’re easier than I am.”

“Give me that.” You snatch the paperback out of his grip. “Stop being nosy.”

Taehyung lets you work in peace after that, disappearing to gather more of his own materials. Even in undergrad he’d never been one to sit still for long. But he still managed to get a spot doing an engineering thesis despite the constant changes in his attention.

After several hours of mind numbing typing you need a break, and another cup of coffee on someone else’s dime sounds perfect.

“I’m getting coffee.”

“Bring me some,” Taehyung says without looking up from his screen.

The staff lounge is nothing fancy. A couple small tables with plastic chairs tucked around, a cork board covered with fliers, and a white board stuck to the fridge scrawled upon with black dry erase marker. The coffee pot sits full in the machine, still hot to the touch.

You pour two cups. Taehyung’s gets loaded with creamer cups until it’s closer to white than black while yours is sweetened to sickening perfection. When you try to take a sip, the liquid immediately burns your tongue. Too hot coffee is better than cold coffee but an ice cube would help make it more palatable.

Moving back to the fridge, you go to open the freeze but stop when the white board catches your attention again.

Most notes are chores or friendly reminders about time cards but almost half the board is dedicated to a back and forth.

‘Unofficial Employee of the Month: Jungkook’

A note in Yoongi’s tight script: ‘You don’t work here.’

‘That’s why it's unofficial!’ in what must be Jungkook’s messy handwriting.

‘You’re my official employee of the month. - Namjoon’

At the bottom is a crude drawing of stick figures, two tall smiling ones holding hands under a rainbow labeled ‘JK’ and ‘Joon’ and a comically shorter one with evil eyebrows surrounded by storm clouds and ‘yoongi :(’ overhead.

“Snooping for secrets?”

“Jesus Christ,” you jump, turning to face Yoongi. “Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to sneak up on people?”

“You’re in the staff lounge, there’s gonna be staff here.” Yoongi crosses to the coffee pot on the counter and pours himself a cup. He doesn’t add cream or sugar or anything else to lessen the bitterness. Cliche. “So, was bringing your boyfriend here your subtle way of letting me down?”

“You think Taehyung is my boyfriend?” You whirl around in shock. Yoongi raises a brow, prompting you to continue. “Jungkook is more his type than I am.”

Yoongi releases a pleased hum, eyes shining. “So no boyfriend then?”

“Nope.”

You’re shaking but don’t look away from his hungry gaze. Yoongi takes a step closer, and another and one more until you're pinned to the countertop and his mouth is on yours.

This time, you're more aware of everything. The smell of his cologne, the tickle of his bangs along your forehead, all the tiny details that were muffled before. Yoongi’s lips are firm against your own, a little chapped but it only makes you hotter with each pass.

His mouth is everywhere; your chin, your jaw, peppering down your throat until he pushes aside the hem of your shirt and sets to work on the jut of your collarbone like he’ll never get a chance again.

“Yoongi,” you hum on the first rake of teeth.

He takes it as an invitation to dig in harder, sucking the skin until your spine threatens to break and you say his name again. Desperate for some kind of anchor, you knot your fingers back in his hair and pull.

A throaty noise responds and the need to hear more rears its head. Yoongi who always watches with measured fascination undone by some light petting. The power is addictive.

Legs spread, he presses in flat. The heat of his cock, rigid beneath the fabric of his jeans, teases across the seam of your own. You're technically still in public but the consequences concern you less than the knowledge that you’ll go mad if you don’t feel him. His arms circle your back, pulling you firmer against him, right to the edge of the linoleum counter.

Wedging a hand between your bodies, you manage to get his zipper undone while your tongue traces along his jaw. Yoongi angles his hips to help, curling into your palm when you cup him over the fabric of his boxers. Every press has him swelling harder.

His hands reach under your shirt. Skin on skin, the rough calluses of his fingers trace your ribs, thumbs following the cup of your bra in a tease. It’s a simple touch but your own hands falter when he brushes a nipple. You melt into each other.

“Hey, Yoongi, do you know where—HOLY SHIT!”

Jungkook stops at the door, eyes wide, mouth wider.

“Get out!” Yoongi barks. He’s trying his best to keep your body covered from the younger man’s view but even if Jungkook isn’t getting a full frontal he isn’t dumb enough not to realize what’s going on.

Yoongi shudders a few breaths. Head hung low, he tucks himself back into his pants without moving away. You’re already slipping down from your perch when he looks back up.

“I’m just gonna…go,” you mumble, scurrying out the door.

Jungkook waits outside, eyes still bugging out of his head but at least has the decency to pretend he didn’t catch you in the act.

Tugging your shirt down, you avoid his gaze. How far would you have let Yoongi go if Jungkook hadn’t interrupted?

“Coffee?” Taehyung asks as you approach the table.

You know what you look like without a mirror. The same as yesterday with glassy eyes and bruised lips, clothes wrinkled. Thankfully, Taehyung is more interested in his modeling software than where you’ve been.

“They were out.”

With a sigh like he is personally victimized by the lack of caffeine, Taehyung collapses on the table and plays dead. But he perks up at the sound of footsteps approaching behind you.

“You left this in the break room,” Yoongi says, dropping a cup of coffee by your side before disappearing.

You turn to follow his retreating for until he’s hidden back between the shelves. The back of his hair is still messy despite his attempt to fix it, same with the wrinkles in his shirt from your hands.

“I thought they were out?” Taehyung eyes you suspiciously when you look back at him.

Cradling the still hot cup in your hands, you avoid his gaze. “Shut up.”

“So you do have to sleep with someone to get a cup of coffee.”

“I’m not sleeping with him,” you spit in a harsh whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because…”

Because what exactly? There isn’t a good reason other than the fact Jungkook was the king of cockblocks. You would have let Yoongi do just about anything he wanted and he seemed to be in agreement. But you’d rather die than admit that out loud.

“You are so smart and so incredibly stupid.” Taehyung rolls his eyes, rising to pack his things. “I need to pee.”

You point him in the direction of the bathrooms and get back to work.

When Taehyung returns minutes later he starts shoving his things in his bag. “I’m leaving.”

“Why?”

“This is like the epicenter of hot smart men and I refuse to suffer any longer.”

“You got Jungkook’s number,” you deadpan.

Taehyung can’t hide his own shit eating grin. “Yoongi gave it to me.”

“If you’re leaving, so am I.”

“Why?” your roommate whines.

“Because I got you a hot date and that means you owe me dinner.”

“Technically it was Yoongi but I’ll concede.” Taehyung heaves his bag up. “Come now my dearest, we can still get happy hour if we hurry.”

You reach in your own bag and toss him your keys. “Go wait in the car. I’ve gotta go grab another book real quick.”

“Whatever,” Taehyung says, mumbling something like ‘nerds’ under his breath as he heads downstairs.

You find Yoongi while on your way to his desk, already toting around the cart piled high with returns from the day. Several of the covers are Taehyung’s picks and somehow the knowledge they’ve spoken almost knocks you off kilter. Taehyung is a good wingman and that’s what worries you most.

“Hi,” he says, kneeling to put a book on a low shelf.

It shouldn’t have the effect it does but something about the way Yoongi looks up at you, on his knees, head tipped back, has your mind running wild with the image of him in the same position with both of you wearing far less clothing. Maybe if you weren’t interrupted in the staff lounge you’d have seen it in real life.

“Hi. Mind if I add these to the pile?”

“Go ahead.”

The Stocking was Hung sits on top. You don’t wait around to see his reaction.

The temperature had steadily been increasing over the past weeks but this morning is the worst of all. That inescapable warmth fully seeded overnight and promised the comforting days of sweaters and pants are long gone.

Heat makes you lazy and fitful. In the early hours, long before you actually need to be awake, you stare up at the ceiling of your room. Not even a frigid shower helped the stickiness of your skin or laying still in your bed in nothing but one of Taehyung’s shirts and ratty shorts. It followed you everywhere until you left for the same brick building you spend more time at than at home.

Without thought, you throw on the first seasonally appropriate outfit in your closet; a thin dress that covers enough for the public but promises to keep you cool.

Yoongi seems to be taking the change in weather as well as you are. His usual attire is absent, nothing but a white shirt clinging to his torso. The pale skin of his forearms briefly catches your attention but you focus anywhere else to stop from rounding the desk and finishing what started upstairs.

You steel yourself and approach the desk, determined to act normal.

Familiar dark eyes flash up to greet you but Yoongi’s mouth doesn’t form any words. He just stares at you. You can feel the weight of his gaze on your shoulders, your neck, and then he pointedly keeps them trained on your eyes. Like he's willing to pretend yesterday didn’t happen.

He doesn’t speak when he passes over the same pile of books as yesterday but you can feel him burn a hole in your back. Even after you climb up the stairs and out of sight, the prickling sensation you’re being watched follows.

You don’t get anything done. The words on the page might as well be another language as your mind races.

Yoongi didn’t give you an extra book today.

An endless list of potential explanations race through your mind. Maybe you’d been too forward with your choice. Maybe he’s gotten it out of his system, a quick tryst in the employee lounge enough to satiate his curiosity. Maybe because it’s the second time you’ve brushed him off. Even if it wasn’t your fault Jungkook stumbled in before anything worthwhile could happen.

But he isn’t speaking to you and he isn’t giving you the random book you’ve come to look forward to every morning.

Channeling the restless energy of overthinking, you take a lap around the floor. You pause to flip through random books as you zigzag through the stacks. Anything to take your mind off the unshakable tension sticking in the air like syrup.

Your laptop is in sleep mode by the time you reluctantly come back. Everything is as you left except a book you’ve never seen before sits on top of the open one you’d been reading.

There’s a Boy in the Girls’ Bathroom.

A sticky note sticks up from the inside of the cover. A bolt of excitement shoots down your spine. When you flip it open a familiar handwriting stares back: ‘on the seventh floor’.

You hadn’t been gone too long but the fear of making him wait has you rushing up the stairs. Each step brings you closer to where he waits until you’re opening the bathroom door.

“Yoongi?”

A hand wraps around your upper arm, yanking you in. Another hand silences a surprised shout before you realize it’s Yoongi and not a murderer pinning you to the interior of the door you just came through.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” he breathes. “It’s just not a good look for me to be up here.”

“Oh, really?” You smile. “And why is that?”

“This is my job.”

“Didn’t seem to stop you before.”

“Who says it’s stopping me now?”

He thumbs the strap of your dress, hooking under the thin material and dragging it down your arm. The heat and weight of Yoongi against you, touching you so simply, makes you vibrate. Yoongi moves into your neck, panting with a grind against your thigh. “I swear I don’t usually do this.”

You want to argue that you have two accounts that he does do this often, at least with you. But for someone who says they don’t, Yoongi is surprisingly natural. The tease prickling the end of your tongue fizzles out under his teeth across the curve of your shoulder, goosebumps blossoming along your back.

A whimper unbecoming of an adult woman breaks the lullaby of summer air conditioner singing through the vents. You’re sweating under the cling of your dress, skin hot to the touch thanks to Yoongi’s attention; long fingers curved around your waist, thumbs skimming just under your breast.

“Could have fooled me.”

“This is a very nice dress.” His mouth bites down your neck, taking advantage of the new strips of skin the neckline unveils.

“That’s all it takes?” you pant from the wet of his tongue. “A pretty dress?”

“If you think,” he whispers into your ear. “I’m doing this because of your dress then you really haven’t been paying attention.”

The dark locks of his hair are too alluring to resist, tempting one of your own hands to scratch against the tip of his spine when Yoongi rolls against you again. A firm tug brings him to your mouth, lips molding to one another in a searing kiss. You can taste the coffee from the lounge and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke, like he thought to hide it before asking you to follow him.

“How long? How long have you wanted this?”

Yoongi hooks one of your thighs higher, savoring the heat of your core against the crotch of his pants with a slow thrust. “Since you came in and busted my balls over not having that archived manuscript when the website said we did.”

You remember that day. Patience thin from Taehyung’s loud overnight guest, you stormed into the library looking to take it out on a photocopy of the manuscript only for the only copy to be AWOL. Yoongi became the surrogate for your rage, his eyes burning into your skull as questioned how he could let it happen.

The next day was when he started adding books to your stack.

“That was months ago.”

“I’m a patient guy.”

You want him naked; ache to catalog what he’s hidden underneath bulky sweaters and loose button ups over the past few months. But that idea has to wait for somewhere less risky. You settle for dipping your hand under his shirt, tracing your fingers over the elastic of his boxers peeking from the waistband of his pants.

Attempting to hide the effect he has, you loop your fingers in his belt loops and pull him even closer so your face is hidden in the crook of his neck. “There’s a Boy in the Girls’ Bathroom? A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Like The Stocking was Hung is any better?” Yoongi sighs as your mouth ghosts over the rising vein webbing the side of his throat.

“Hey!” you object, rising to face him. “I thought you’d appreciate it after that mothman book.”

“I appreciate you complimenting my dick plenty.”

Yoongi doesn’t let you go, hands palming at the swell of your ass the entire way from the door to the counter. He’s got one hand curved along your jaw, thumb hooked around your chin and his teeth bruising your lower lip. The edge of granite digs in your spine but not for long as he lifts you and settles on his knees to dive under your skirt.

He kisses up your calf, tongue snaking across the knob of your knee then the plush of your thigh. Just when you feel a puff of breath against the damp crotch of your panties, Yoongi falls to repeat the same path against your other leg.

You don’t suffer for long. Pooling the excess fabric around your waist, Yoongi blinks up from between your thighs. The pink of his tongue follows the edge of your panties, wetting the fabric more until it clings obscenely.

He pushes his glasses up to rest on the top of his head, keeping the mess of gray and black hair out of his eyes before diving back down.

His tongue lathers over your covered slit with a groan. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You thought about this?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about it. On my desk, yours, against that fucking bookshelf.” Yoongi punctures each word with more wet kisses against your core. “In my car, my bed. Everywhere.”

A cool breath has your thighs squeezing around his head thanks to the erotic combination of his spit and your own fluids drenching your panties. “Is this all you think about?”

“I had to come up here and jerk off yesterday because I couldn’t stop thinking about your hands.”

Your panties are pulled to the side before you can indulge in the new visual blooming on the edge of consciousness. “Yoongi.”

Eyes closed, his mouth circles your clit, tongue gently stroking you to life. Every pass against the sensitive bundle of nerves has your thighs squeezing around his head.

The first prod of fingers makes Yoongi’s hold on the crook of your knee tighten. He stretches you back open, eyes following the way you suck him inside; coating his spindly digits with more arousal each time.

“A-ah,” you shake. “Please.”

Yoongi chances a glance up at your face, the needy sheen in your eyes, the way your mouth gapes, and decides to take mercy.

He latches back onto your clit. Yoongi groans as you tug his hair, knocking his glasses to the ground. The pace he works your remains lethargic, savoring the kick of your hips until you grind against his mouth.

Throaty groans vibrate against your cunt, tightening the muscles along the inside of your thighs. Neither of you are doing a good job muffling yourselves but if it’s between getting caught and having him stop then you’ll deal with the consequences when they come.

“Oh, Yoongi.” Your chest pulls tight; spurred on by the sounds of Yoongi bullying your insides, his mouth smacking against your folds. “I’m— oh, oh, oh!”

The rough crook of his fingers sends you flying. Only the pressure of his shoulders keep you from slipping off the counter as you explode against his mouth. Euphoria rushes your veins, licks of pleasure overwhelming. Every muscle quivers as Yoongi works you through until you use his hair to pull him away.

He’s quick on his feet. You’re still recovering as Yoongi pushes your bra down and draws one of your nipples into his mouth, licking and sucking until you pull his hair again. Eyes cinched tight, face wet, you force his pants open then his underwear until Yoongi is almost as exposed as you are; pretty in your palm, sticky and hot to the touch.

But it’s not enough to feel him in your hand, you need to feel him inside. To fill you up where you sit hollow and aching without his fingers to provide a sliver of relief. “Fuck me.”

Yoongi doesn’t tease, has no quip about how needy you are. He keeps his mouth on your chest and uses his hands to grab something out of his pocket. It happens so fast you don’t even realize the condom is on until he nudges between your legs.

Your nails dig into his back, breathing through the initial stretch is the only way you stay quiet. Yoongi hides himself back in your neck, strained noises clawing out of his throat.

Yoongi isn’t gentle. Not caution or waiting. Months of push and pull destroy any desire for him to treat you as something fragile. He rushes into desperately, forcing your palm flat against the mirror behind you for some semblance of stability.

“God,” he grunts. “You’re incredible.”

You whimper a quiet acknowledgement, too fucked out to blush under his praise; pulling Yoongi closer until he’s scooping his hands underneath your ass, thrusting into you over and over. His mouth finds yours. Greedy. Hungry.

It’s Yoongi who struggles to stay quiet. Even through the kiss he moans loud enough you feel it in your throat. You listen to them all, twisting the hand knotted in his hair to hear the whine you’ve quickly become obsessed with.

“Should have done this sooner,” your back arches and Yoongi’s mouth slips back down.

“I tried. But you kept ignoring me.”

“I wasn’t—fuck—ignoring you.” Yoongi is everywhere. His taste on your mouth, cologne burned in your nose. The feel of him all over your body. “Shit.”

He fucks you harder to prove a point, hand slipping down to rub your clit. Your second orgasm glows on the edges. If Yoongi keeps playing with you, stretching you in half on his cock and biting a mark into your breast, you know you’ll come.

You focus on breathing. Letting it come to you instead of chasing it, overthinking it to the point it evades you. It’s easier than usual. Yoongi doesn't leave room for anything else beyond feeling good.

“Oh my god,” you whisper as the cord tightens.

Everything turns white hot, pleasure tearing through your muscles and ripping them to shreds. You convulse in Yoongi’s hold, only pinned down by his hips fucking you brutally. Nerves shot, Yoongi babbles praise in your ear but it's indecipherable from the headrush.

Yoongi follows you over the edge a few strokes later, twitching inside you until he stills. His hips give a few arrhythmic bucks as he fills the condom with his load.

There's something nastier about clothed sex. The way sweat makes your clothes cling tighter, the rush of needing each other so badly you can’t be bothered to do more than pull things to the side.

You feel dirty but in a good way. Yoongi kisses across the apples of your cheeks, your chin, your forehead, even your brows, but never returns to your lips. Each leaves you more frustrated than the last, muscles twitching beneath and head turning at the last second to try and meet his mouth.

Tricking you with a brief connection, he laughs when you chase his lips as he dodgers back. But a pout and whine bring him back into your orbit.

He cleans you up with paper towels, wiping away the mess between your thighs with something akin to disappointment. But he doesn’t complain as he fixes your clothes and then his own. Muscles like jelly, you fall into his side when he helps you down from the counter.

With a kiss to your temple, “Let's get out of here.”

“Morning, Yoongi.” You smile as you walk up to his desk.

A set of dark eyes rise to greet you, taking the cup of coffee you so graciously offer before smiling as well. “Good morning.”

Jungkook gawks like he’s never seen you two speak before. Round eyes bounce between you and Yoongi as if it’s a tennis match instead of a normal conversation. Probably because Yoongi was less than subtle when he pulled you out of the building yesterday, telling him to call Namjoon if anything came up.

Or maybe because you’re wearing one of Yoongi’s shirts.

You discovered much about the mysterious librarian overnight. He’d taken you back to his apartment; a perfect extension of himself decorated with dark furniture and more books than anyone could possibly read. Yoongi owned a collection of vinyl records that rivaled his book collection, he was a great cook, and he was studying to take the entrance exam for law school.

After you were wined and dined, Yoongi dedicated hours between your legs. On his couch, against the massive bookcase in his living room, between the sheets of his bed.

He also had a kink for eating you out while you explained your thesis in precise detail.

You’d only been allowed to leave when Yoongi was getting ready for work, not that you'd put up much argument.

You make a scene of sorting through the stack he slides over. It’s not that you don’t trust Yoongi. But now that you’ve had a taste, you’re addicted to his presence. But he unfortunately can’t follow you upstairs so you savor the time now.

“One of my books is missing,” you say.

“Oh, right.”

Yoongi passes over an unfamiliar copy.

Maybe He Just Likes You

And the blue sticky note attached, with his handwriting. ‘Dinner when you're done?’

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#kvanity #ksmutsociety #yoongi x reader #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi smut #min yoongi fluff #min yoongi angst #min yoongi #yoongi smut #yoongi fic #yoongi fluff #bts smut #bts fluff #🫡 highvern

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acourtofwhatthefuck · 7 months

Text

Practice On Me — Part Four — Azriel x Reader

Summary: It’s Solstice! Reader decides she should probably be honest with Azriel about some stuff. Things don’t quite go to plan.

Oof. Okay. This could be uncomfortable reading for some. There are some hints and depictions of domestic abuse and also of alcoholism, so if that’s something that might trigger you, please, please do not read this. The last thing I want is for my writing to be harmful to anybody. Read with caution. Take care and put yourself first. Lots of love.

Also, please don’t hate me for this 😭we know I’m a hoe for angst and it wouldn’t be one of my fics if there wasn’t some sprinkled in there lmao.

Word Count: 5k.

Warnings: Depiction of abusive behaviour. Heavy drinking. Some violence.

On a brisk winter morning, when the sun hasn’t yet graced the sky, the last place you wish to be is at the Windhaven crèche, watching over a group of tired, grouchy younglings. Every second thought that passes through your mind is a longing one, lamenting on how desperately you wish to be back in your bed.

But alas, you owe your friend, Vegha, a favour, making you the sole minder of ten restless little girls, all annoyed that their brothers get to join their fathers for training, while they have to stay back and be…girls. A downfall, according to most Illyrian males.

You’re supposed to be watching over them for a couple of hours while Vegha runs an errand. And that time is going very, very slowly.

You’re in the middle of reading a storybook — and, yes, doing all the voices — when the door opens behind you. You feel a glimmer of hope that perhaps Vegha is back earlier than planned, but when you swivel on the child-sized chair you’ve perched yourself on, it’s Azriel who looms in the doorway.

And you…your heart does a silly little thing in your chest.

“Don’t let me interrupt.” He says. “I can wait.”

Your eyebrows flick up in amusement. “Come take a seat, then. It’s story time.”

His lips twitch, and he goes to reach for one of those infant chairs — which you’re not at all sure can handle all his muscle — but this sparks a flurry of complaints from the girls, who all insist that they want to sit with Azriel the most, and within seconds, he’s cross-legged on the floor with the children somehow managing to settle around him without bickering, and they’re all able to command his attention at once.

Happy mediums, and all that.

Your gaze lingers on him as he does all the right things; leaning his head down so he can appear less…huge, while listening with rapt attention to one of the girl’s chattering; steadying another one as they climb over him to get themselves seated; gently telling them all that they have to be quiet if they want to hear the rest of the story. That, of course, achieves immediate near silence.

And thus begins an entire performance of you continuing the tale, and the girls — and Azriel — responding in all the right places. They howl when they’re supposed to make the sound of a wolf, and roar when it’s a mountain cat, and you don’t miss that Azriel helps the tiniest of the girls to remember which animals make what sounds.

Most males in this gods-forsaken place are an intimidating presence to these children, frightening them into silence whenever they’re around, because girls are supposed to be seen and not heard. But Azriel is always gentle, always kind, and they adore him for it.

It’s a combination of all these things that force you to face a truth that’s been rapidly snowballing inside your mind and heart for the past four days — something has changed. Shifted. Has been shifting and changing for a while.

You laid awake for hours that night in the dormitory, listening to Azriel’s breathing as he slept deeply, happily sated from the pleasure you’d given him. Your mind had been too much of a war zone for you to drift off.

Nine years, you’ve called this male your closest friend. Ever since the very first day you’d met him, when a group of males had pushed you to the floor and kicked mud at you, and he’d jumped in and defended you for no other reason than that he’s good to the bone. Nine years, you’ve been by each other’s sides, and it’s been comfortable and familiar and just…right.

But now — now, you think you may have jeopardised that all by going along with Azriel’s request for help. Help with kissing. Touching. Experiencing.

You’ll always want to help him in any way that you can, of course. But you didn’t quite anticipate the predicament you now find yourself in. That you want all of those things and more, not just under the ruse of building your friend’s confidence. You want to explore more with him, feel more with him. You’ve been able to think about nothing else for days.

And it might make you a total wretch, but you want Kaeda to be a distant memory. The thought of Azriel taking what you’ve shown him, shared with him, and putting his all into somebody else…it sours your stomach. Makes you feel sick.

Makes your heart hurt.

And, well, you’re fucked, really.

It’s a kind of hurt that won’t go away on its own. It isn’t avoidable nor ignorable. And so your only option is to confront it, be honest about it. Whatever the outcome may be.

The story comes to an end, and the girls are calmed and sleepy enough that they look ready to curl up on the floor and doze off. Azriel peels himself away from the cluster of clingy children and stands up, strolling over to you.

“Well that was fun.” He comments quietly, taking the book from your hands. “Who knew I was so adept at doing animal impressions?”

“One of your many talents, I suppose.” You smile, drinking in the sight of him. He looks tired this morning. Tired, but beautiful. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His expression sobers slightly, and he tells you, “We’re leaving this morning. For the training exercise.”

Immediately, your stomach churns. Being away from your friends sets you on edge. Windhaven is a lonely, lonely place to be without the love of Rhys, Cassian and Azriel to warm you. And not even Rhys’s mother is here to make it a little more bearable.

Az immediately recognises the bleakness that passes your face. He steps closer, his hand a gentle brush against yours. “I’ll be back for Solstice.” He reminds you yet again.

“I know.” You attempt to force an easy, breezing smile. “What’s the plan for Solstice, anyway?”

Normally, Rhysand’s mother would cook a meal in the cottage. You wouldn’t be able to attend, given that you’re always stuck at home with your father, but by the time he would pass out drunk, you’d sneak out and make it to the cottage just as the games were starting. Some of your happiest memories are of being curled up on one couch with Az, Rhys and his mother on the other, and Cassian stood in front of you, making a terrible attempt at playing charades.

But it’ll be different this year. With the High Lord keeping a tight leash on his pregnant mate in Velaris, there will be no meal, no charades. You, Azriel and Cassian would most certainly not be welcome at their intimate family celebration.

“Rhys will spend the day in Velaris.” Az tells you. “Cass and I will be getting drunk. There’s a celebration being held at the dormitories in the evening, so I suppose we’ll all end up there.”

You dip your chin. “I’ll come and find you there, then.”

His responding smile is a gentle one; one that says he sees right through you, right through to the panic that’s eating away at you, and he understands.

There’s no way he sees everything that you’re feeling, though. Perhaps that’s a good thing.

Your body goes slightly rigid as he dips down and presses a kiss to your forehead. His hand squeezes yours, and then he’s pulling away. “See you on Solstice.”

He bids a quiet goodbye to the dozing girls. It’s as he’s heading for the door that you find yourself stepping after him. “…Az?”

He turns, hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

“There’s…something I need to talk to you about, when you get back. Something I need to tell you.”

Okay. Shit. You’re really doing this.

Azriel’s eyes rake over you, and then he smiles. “We’ll talk on Solstice.”

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Your head’s not all there today, as you stare out of the window of your father’s forge. Azriel and the others have been gone almost a week, and you’ve spent every one of those days thinking about how you’re going to tell him…whatever it is you’re going to tell him.

You’re not even certain, yourself.

Just that…that things are different. That you know, to begin with, that this was about him and Kaeda — but it’s shifted in your brain at an alarming rate, and now that you’ve shared something so…so meaningful, with him, you’re not sure you can go on acting as though it was all just a favour.

Yeah. That should do it.

And it’s a huge fucking risk, of course. There’s every chance he won’t return the sentiment, and then a giant wedge of unresolved feelings will exist between you.

But you need to — perhaps selfishly — confront this before things between him and Kaeda progress. In case there’s a slight chance that it’ll alter the path it’s heading down.

And you haven’t thought any further than that.

The snow has started again, and you watch the flurries sweep past the window and join the thick layer on the ground. You’ve become so accustomed to the noise of the forge that you hardly notice it anymore — not the constant clanking, nor the heat that the fires swathe the shop in. You used to beg your father to teach you his craft, to allow you to get stuck in and get your hands dirty, but he’s always stubbornly maintained that it’s a male’s job, and that he needs you for the bookkeeping. You’re surprised he trusts you with that.

You breathe a soft sigh, your thoughts once again flitting back to Az. To what he might be doing, thinking, feeling. Whether he misses you as much as you miss him.

But before those thoughts can take a hold of you and sink you deeper into your predicament, the door opens, the bell above it ringing and a gust of cold air momentarily biting you.

It’s rare for females to come to the forge. Very rare, indeed. Which is why, for a second or two, you just stare.

That — and because she’s incredibly beautiful.

Her eyes — the colour of emeralds — sweep the workshop, before landing on you, and she smiles. She has the telltale tanned skin of an Illyrian, but instead of the dark hair that’s so typical around here, hers is red — not orange, not auburn, but blood red. You’ve never seen a shade quite like it.

And if that’s not enough to completely bowl you over, your gaze rakes over her clothing, and you stop, stunned.

Females around here wear homespun dresses of simple brown shades. A few, like yourself, favour basic tunics and breeches. Clothing is just a necessity, not something you lend much thought to.

But this female wears Illyrian leathers. Never, in your life, have you seen females wear Illyrian leathers. It’s simply not a done thing.

But she looks resplendent in them.

They cling to supple curves and accentuate a figure that you don’t think you’d ever be able to achieve with any amount of training. And perhaps the most shocking thing of all — and the most enviable — is the presence of brilliant, beautiful wings at her back. Unclipped. Untouched. Unruined.

How your wings might have one day looked, had your father not destroyed them.

You’re not entirely convinced that an angel hasn’t just stepped into your father’s forge. Or perhaps this is the Mother that everyone worships. Part of you wants to worship her, too, and beg her to bestow upon you her blessings—

You snap yourself out of it before you can fall head-over-heels in love with her. She’s just a customer.

A very, very beautiful customer.

“Good day to you.” She says, approaching the counter. Her voice is like pure music.

You incline your head in greeting. “And to you. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m interested in having some gifts made for my father and brothers. For Solstice.”

Once again, you’re gawking.

Another thing that’s unheard of; females liking their family members enough to have gifts made for them.

You clear your throat, blinking out of your thoughts. “What…what kind of things were you looking for?”

“Personalised daggers.” She answers, and then she grins in a way that makes you want to tell her your life story, and leans closer. “A male can never have too many daggers, right?”

You breathe a laugh. It doesn’t sound natural. “Absolutely.”

“I’ll be needing three. One for my father, and one each for my two brothers. Can that be done in time for Solstice? I can pay extra…”

This female has beauty, leathers, wings, a relationship with her family members, money. She’s magnificent. A few exchanged words, and you’re awed by her.

Who is she? How have you never seen her before?

“It can be done.” You tell her with a flustered smile. “I’ll just need to sit with you and get some details of exactly what you want made, and then my father will get straight to it. I imagine they’ll be ready for collection by Solstice Eve.”

Her eyes light up in a way that reminds you of sunrise. “That’s perfect.”

There’s a second or two where you just…can’t help staring. Her beauty has knocked you speechless.

But once again, you snap yourself out of it and try to retain some semblance of professionalism.

“Can I take your name down?” You say, and clear your throat again. Gods, you hope you’re not blushing. “For the order.”

You grab a piece of parchment and a pen, hoping you’ll remember how the fuck to write.

“It’s Kaeda.” She says, and the pen nearly slips from your hand. “Kaeda Baralas.”

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Solstice morning sweeps in just as abruptly as the fresh onslaught of snow that once again batters the camp.

It’s going to be a rough one. You can feel it in your bones.

You dread it every year, but this year is made even worse by the constant stream of thoughts that have been plaguing you over the last week. About whether telling Az about your feelings is a good idea. Not just because of what it could do to your friendship, but because…

Because you can’t deny that since seeing Kaeda in the flesh, you’re doubting yourself more than ever.

Of course, you can see why Azriel would want her. And why he’d want to be good and experienced for her. And you…you’ve been facilitating that. You’re the practice dummy. Kaeda is the real thing.

At least the chaos of Solstice keeps you busy.

You wake early, and from the noise and foot traffic outside your bedroom window, you know Az’s unit has safely returned from their training exercise. Your relief is short-lived, replaced by the dread of your father hitting the bottle.

Every year is the same. You spend the day trying to focus on your preparation of the huge meal you’re expected to cook, while your father knocks back drink after drink and gradually gets rowdier. You tell yourself that the more he drinks, the better — he’ll fall asleep eventually, and you’ll be out of here.

But then the front door bursts open.

It’s four of your father’s friends who pile into your cramped home, singing at the tops of their voices and reeking of booze. You’re only just able to stop one of them knocking a pot of potatoes off the counter with a careless, wayward wing. They barely acknowledge you, filing through to the sitting room to greet your father. Their voices get louder, and an ache is building behind your eye.

Day bleeds into late afternoon. You try to ignore them, to focus on the task at hand. Cooking is usually enjoyable for you, but with an unwelcome party happening in the next room, you find yourself getting more and more stressed.

By the time your father bustles his way into the kitchen and begins sniffing around the food, you’re close to losing it.

“Isn’t it ready yet?” Your father rudely demands.

You stare out of the kitchen window, at the dwindling light of approaching evening, clenching your jaw. “It is. I’m waiting for your friends to leave.”

“They’ll be eating with us.”

You whirl on the spot. “We don’t have enough food for that.”

“I told you we’d have guests.”

No, he absolutely hadn’t. This is a power play. He does shit like this all the time. Backs you into corners.

“I bought food for two people.” You snap, unable to stop yourself. “Not six.”

Your father’s nostrils flare. You know that look on his face a little too well — the one where his cheeks redden and his eyes turn cold. It’s always, always made your stomach lurch.

He steps closer, and you press your back against the counter, trying your utmost not to look intimidated.

“You’d better rectify that, hadn’t you?” His tone is deceptively gentle. “Be a good girl and find a way to make the food go around six people. You wouldn’t want to ruin Solstice.”

It’s a veiled threat. One you’d be wise not to ignore.

So you stare at him and he stares at you. And when he eventually nods and leaves the room, you turn and try to work out how to make a meal for two a meal for six.

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The mountain of a male beside you jostles your chair so violently that you almost fall out of it.

His hand grabs a roast potato from your plate. He shoves it into his mouth, chews, and grins. “You weren’t going to eat that, were you?”

The entire meal has been like this.

Perhaps it’s your ice-thin temper that has you staring him right in the eye; a thing many Illyrian males consider a great disrespect from females. “Would it matter if I was?”

He swallows and swipes the lone, remaining potato you hadn’t planned to touch. “Not really, no.”

The dinner is usually the only part you enjoy of Solstice. A meal that you spend hours perfecting, of slow-cooked meat and roasted potatoes and a colourful array of different vegetables that are cooked to perfection. It’s the one part of the day where you can just sit and breathe, because even your father doesn’t usually have a bad word to say about the meal you’ve presented.

This one has been pure, unadulterated hell.

To accommodate your unwanted guests, you’ve skimped on your own food, barely affording yourself a couple of mouthfuls. Wine and ale has been spilled across the table, and the conversation around it has only grown more and more uncomfortable — and vile — as the night has worn on. You want nothing more than to get out of here and find your friends, but your father and his cronies show no signs of slowing down.

You sit, staring emptily at the plates, the little remaining morsels of the meal you spent all day cooking. You try to block out the laughter and jeering, the disgusting comments, the blatant disrespect, but it’s all getting to you, riling you up. You’re not sure how long you’ll last without snapping.

Your answer comes when your father looks at you. And he snaps his fucking fingers at the finished plates.

“Clear this up, Y/N.” He says.

You know your father. You know what he can be like, the damage he can do. Your ruined back is evidence enough. And you know the wisest and safest thing is for you to comply and rant about him to your friends later.

But you’re far beyond that point.

You meet his gaze, and your jaw ticks as you shoot back, “Why don’t you clear it up yourself?”

You regret it the second the room falls deathly silent. All the noise is gone in an instant. Every face is looking your way.

But it’s your father’s face you’re concerned with. The expression that tells you you’ve made a grave, grave mistake.

“What was that?” His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

You look away. Wish you could cram the words back down your throat. “Nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing.” The male beside you sneers. “You speak to your father like that, girl? If you were my child, I’d string you up by the remains of those wings you never should have been born with.”

“I’d do a lot worse than that.” Another one remarks, a sickening laugh in his voice.

Throughout it all, your father is staring at you. Saying nothing.

“Did it hurt, anyway? Having them ripped off like that? I bet it did. I hope it did.”

Your final straw is when the pig at your side has the audacity to reach around and touch your back. You tense immediately, and you’re shooting up from your chair, knocking it over as you do.

“Don’t ever lay a finger on me again.” You will your voice to be stronger, firmer, but it won’t comply. You shake as you gather the plates up in your hand. “I’m cleaning this up.”

That’s met with a chorus of laughter, a pelting of comments. You tell yourself to block it out, block it the fuck out, balance as much as you reasonably can in your hands and book it into the kitchen. You dump the plates onto the counter and grip onto the sink basin, trying to draw in deep, slow breaths.

But then there are footsteps behind you. And the kitchen door closes. And you know that’s not good.

“Y/N.”

Your eyes shutter. You release one of those useless breaths before you dare to turn and face your father.

And when you do, his face is…soft. Eyes filled with concern.

But you’re not stupid enough to buy it.

You’re taut as a bowstring as he approaches you, stopping inches away. He drinks in the sight of you, tilting his head. You wait for him to tell you that you look just like your mother — a fact that only contributes to his vitriol. As if it’s your fault that she abandoned him, abandoned both of you.

He thinks it is.

His hand touches your cheek, his thumb sweeping the skin there. You swallow, hoping he can’t feel the way you tremble beneath him.

“What’s gotten into you, my girl?” He asks quietly. “What did I say about not ruining Solstice?”

You swallow. Lower your gaze. “I thought it would just be the two of us.”

“Do I not have the right to invite my friends into my home?”

“I’m just saying that a little bit of warning would have been appreciated. I didn’t spend hours cooking a meal just for your friends to come along and ruin it.”

“Your attitude has become insufferable. Perhaps it’s those three males you’ve been spreading your legs for. Giving you too much of an ego boost.”

You almost want to laugh in his face — laugh at his cluelessness. But your anger wins. Maybe you’re more like him than you ever thought.

“Or perhaps, father,” you snap, “it’s an accumulation of anger and desperation after twenty years of living with a repulsive, sanctimonious—”

He strikes you so hard that for a moment, you’re simply stunned as to why you’re suddenly on the floor. But the thwack of his hit rings in your ears, echoes through the kitchen.

And then the metallic taste of blood is coating the inside of your mouth. It’s streaming down your chin, and you’re not even sure where it’s all coming from, only that it hurts and your eyes are stinging.

Your father stares down at you. And in that moment, you realise that the eeriest thing of all is that he never glares at you. You think you’d prefer that.

He always stares with that emptiness. That icy vacancy. It makes his actions more unpredictable, more dangerous.

He lunges down so suddenly that you flinch, yanking you up by the front of your shirt. Your legs don’t want to comply as he shoves you towards the door.

“Get the fuck out of my house.” He hisses at you, ripping the door open. “Go on. Fuck off, just like your mother did.”

And then he’s shoving you into the snow, a plume of it erupting around you. You hardly notice the cold. You’re too stunned.

Not stunned enough, though, to refrain from biting back at him. Just like a threatened animal would.

“Fuck you.” You sneer, the words contorted by a mouthful of blood that you spit onto the snow. “Fuck you, father.”

The bastard laughs in your face. Just as he’s always laughed in your face. And then he kicks snow at you because he can and steps back into the house.

When the door shuts behind him, you push to your feet. You’re trembling all over. It might be the cold. It might be the shock.

There’s only one person you want to see right now. So you wrap your arms around yourself and head towards the dormitories.

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Halfway through trudging across the camp, your shoes sodden with snow, your lip still bleeding, the emotions begin to hit.

You resent them. You resent feeling anything at all towards the male who is your only blood relative in this hollow, hollow place. The one who took your wings. The one who has tried to keep a firm grasp on the control he has over your life.

But you do feel things. Hurt and rage and humiliation and — bizarrely — betrayal. As if some small slither of hope had followed you from childhood into adulthood — that your father would one day miraculously awaken as a different person. A family member worth holding onto.

He never would.

No, your true family has always been the small, loving group that crams themselves into a cottage across the camp; a place of warmth and welcoming.

Rhysand and Cassian and Azriel. Rhysand’s mother, too. They are your family. They have always cared, since the moment you met them.

It’s for that reason that you persevere with your walk, even though you’re frozen to the bone. You think you might be crying. You’re not too sure anymore. Your friends will make it better. They always make it better.

The dormitories glow in the distance; a welcome sight, for once. You kick through the snow with desperation, and you’re definitely crying, definitely shaking all over, but the sounds of the celebrations coming from inside are a relief. Playful jeering and someone strumming a lute and off-kilter singing.

You push your way through the door. Inside is as crowded as you expect it to be, but you don’t even care. Anywhere is better than at home.

Your eyes — not really taking in much at all — scan the corridors, the common area, looking for any of your three closest friends. You see none of them, but a hand lands on your shoulder, and you turn to find Vegha there. Her eyes widen immediately at the state of you. You dread to think how bad you look.

“Y/N, what the fuck?” She blurts. “Why are you bleeding?”

“Fell over.” You know how stupid it sounds. “I…I need to find Azriel. Have you seen him?”

“Oh, I think he skulked off to his room a little while ago. Everyone knows he hates big parties like this—”

Perfect. You’ll hole up in his room together and block the rest of the world out. You’re already turning and pushing through people. You’ll apologise to Vegha for your rudeness later. Right now, you just need Azriel’s comfort, his love. The conversation you planned to have with him tonight is now a distant memory, an issue to confront later. You just…just want him. He always makes everything better.

You don’t notice the drink that gets spilled on you, or the disgruntled groups of people you have to shove through. None of that matters. Azriel is your family. He matters.

Finally, you make it to his room. The soft glow of faelights shine beneath the door — an indication he’s inside. You almost sob with relief as you grab the handle and burst in.

Two faces immediately look round at you.

Azriel’s.

Kaeda’s.

Kaeda lies on top of him, hands either side of his head. Her lips are swollen and inches from his. Azriel is palming at her waist, holding her against him. They’re both fully clothed, but…but you get the sense they wouldn’t have been for much longer, had it not been for your interruption.

Azriel drinks in the sight of you, his chest heaving. He blinks. You…you’re rooted to the spot.

And you fucking wince as Kaeda sits up slightly. Az’s hands fall back to his sides.

The beautiful female eyes you, tilting her head. And you want to get out of there, to fucking run, but you can’t do anything but stand and blink as something shatters inside of you.

“The shop hand from the forge.” Kaeda states in surprise, as if it’s ludicrous to consider that you might sometimes venture outside of your father’s workshop. “What happened to your face?”

Azriel is finally springing into action, then, sitting up and scooting out from beneath Kaeda. “Y/N…”

You cannot bear the gentleness of his voice. It may just finish you off.

All of this might. Staying here a second longer might.

So you, for some reason, shake your head and back slowly out of the room. Azriel lurches up, but you’re grabbing hold of the door handle firmly.

“Sorry for interrupting.” Your voice is all wrong and fractured. You quickly shut the door before it can morph into a sob.

You think Azriel might call after you, but it’s probably wishful thinking. You don’t know. Don’t know anything. Don’t know what to do next.

So you simply walk away.

You suppose you’ve taught Azriel everything he needs to know.

azriel tag list: @hanasakr @positivewitch @ruler-of-hades @brekkershadowsinger @nightscourtt @imperfect0angel @luna-1-3-5 @hyacinthoideshispanica @lucyysthings @lahoete @littlemoonash @blacksstarrynight @azriels-mate123 @ghostly-poetic @frieddesigninspiringquotesslime @a-frog-with-a-laptop @illyriansimp @morrie-rose @passingthroughfireandshadow @illyrian-dreamer @azrielsbabyg @96jnie @mich0731 @mulansaucey @truthtellerfanclub @acourtofbooksandmagic @insightsonmylife @basicbittywitty @curbside-cyanide @acourtofchaosandmess @123345566 @starrynights-frostbites @eos-princess @thesillyyogourt @ona-raising-07-l @acediahamartia @dontfollowmepleaseitsannoying @polli05927 @asdfjklbooks @azriel-luvr @amysangel @humanpersonlasttimeichecked @wildflowernightmere @audie-writes @aaronwarnerswifereal @starxqt @lulufairbank @laurzwrites @livelaughlovenestaarcheron @girlwith-thecinder-blockgarden @jjlevin @smitty-werbenjagermenjenson @spikertrash @kindagoldylocks @barbiezambie @kht1998 @soupghoul @nyctophiliawitch @gracie1234567891011 @gaymistakeboi @luvmxo @rinalouu @microwaveallthedemons @starlightshowdown

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chvrryzpop · 2 months

Text

RIDE ME

c.sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: who could’ve thought that a cowboy hat could turn your night with Chris into something more fun.

warnings: sub!chris, smut, praise kink, p in v, pet names, breeding kink, use of y/n, swearing, creampie, masturbating, unprotected sex, (please, don’t!).

Based on this request.

not proofread!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You and Chris have been dating for five months and made it public to the fans a week before their first tour.

You went on tour with him and his brothers. Chris was doing a live on Instagram in the hotel room that you guys got together in on the last day of the tour.

You were wearing a pink cowboy hat that a fan had given to you earlier, “We are so grateful for all the support that you guys have been giving to us since day one.” Chris says to his phone screen as thousands of comments pop up on the chat.

Everyone was complimenting the both of you, how cute you guys looked. It made Chris smile more than anything else in the world, he never thought that he would get this much support from the fans about his relationship. “And…yeah I guess that’s pretty much what I wanted to say in tonight’s live!” He chuckles a little as he turns to look at you. You were fidgeting with the knot that connected both strings of the cowboy hat, you looked back at him and smiled, Chris giving a reassuring smile in response.

“Here!” You took off the hat and placed it on top of Chris’ head and giggled at how it looked for a few seconds, “This is going to mess my hair so bad, y/n.” He laughs as he fixes the way the hat is on him. “It doesn't matter, you look so cute!” You kept giggling at the sight of Chris with a pink cowboy hat.

Chris chuckles as he returns the hat to you cluelessly, causing the comments on his live to go wild, thousands of comments popping up per minute. "Oh my-" Chris says in complete shock, tapping on his phone desperately.

“What’s wrong?” You ask turning your sight to peek at his phone.

“I don’t have any clue.” He replies, his lips forming into a thin line, turning off his phone and tossing it somewhere in the bed.

“Well, I guess that was it…” You patted his shoulder as you stood up from the bed and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind you.

Chris POV

As you were in the bathroom taking a long and relaxing bath, Chris on the other side was lying down on the bed that you both will be sharing, scrolling down through his phone to check if there were any comments about how his instagram live unexpectedly ended.

But he didn't see any complaints, mentions about that. Only thousands of videos about a specific part, to be more detailed the part where you gave him your hat. It seemed that everyone was freaking out about it.

Why would they freak out about a meaningless action?

It didn't mean anything.

Right?

Chris couldn't help but check the comment section. "What the fuck-" he murmured to himself as he read each one of the comments.

ᯓ★

"What the fuck is the cowboy hat rule?" Chris murmurs to himself.

He kept lurking about it, and the more he found out the more he realized that it was just some stupid booktok thing.

It was an invitation to fuck.

He left his phone on the bedside table and lay flat on his back looking at the room ceiling.

As long as you didn't know about it, the less he had to worry about it.

Right?

Perhaps, the idea sounded...a little tempting for Chris, maybe too much for him to admit. The image of you riding him was traveling through his mind, making his cock twitch a little.

Shit.

He looked up checking if the bathroom door was still closed, the one room that you were in.

More thoughts crossing his mind about you.

How your naked body probably looked, how your boobs would bounce each time you would bury his dick deep inside you.

You guys never had sex before but that didn’t meant that you both talked about your past experiences before you even started dating.

But he never felt this needy for someone ever.

He needed you, he was craving to get a taste of you.

And that's when he felt the bulge on his pajamas grow even more, the throbbing sensation being painful to resist.

He had to do it.

As he snaked down his hand, getting it under his pajamas and underwear, feeling his precum leaking slightly, and using it as a lube to satisfy himself, the friction of his palm against his tip made him throw his head back. He then wrapped his hand around his base.

Chris began to motion his hand up and down at a frantic pace, whimpers coming out from his mouth.

Closing his eyes, the image was back again. You are on top of him moaning his name out loud.

“Oh f-fuck! C-Chris”

At this point, his hand was working at an ungodly pace, each time the dirty thoughts were building even more on his head.

“f-fuck…y-y/n” he groaned, feeling his high getting closer and closer, whispering your name as if were his daily mantra.

The ecstasy was too much for him, too much that he didn't even notice that you were now there. Looking at him pleasure himself.

“Chris!!” You snap him back to reality, the wave of ecstasy washing off of his body.

Y/N’s POV

After what seemed like twenty minutes of relaxation for you in the bathtub you felt more than ready to finally get out and dress up. You were exhausted and all you needed was to head to bed and cuddle with your boyfriend.

As you get out of the bathtub you pick up your towel and dry yourself off, feeling the warming sensation hug your skin for a while before the bathroom starts to cool off.

You toss on an oversized shirt and some white-laced panties, looking yourself in the mirror before heading out of the bathroom. You heard noises coming out from the other side of the door.

It was Chris’ voice, you could recognize that voice miles away from you. You opened the door and got out of the bathroom to only be met with the sight of your boyfriend jerking off.

Moaning your name.

The scenario made you wet, clenching your thighs. The sight of Chris arching his back every time he felt his high getting closer was just hypnotizing for you. The way his shoulders tensed at the contact of his hand wrapping his dick. The way his jaw clenched every time he added more speed to his hand.

You couldn't bear the need to fuck this man anymore, it was something you'd been craving since the day that you lay down your eyes on him.

“Chris!” You brought his attention by calling out his name. Making him look up in panic, like when a little kid breaks something up and feels guilty about it.

“Shit, y/n, I’m so sorry!” He sits up, removing his hand, and his face getting flustered with each passing second.

You could barely talk, speechless thinking about the way he was moaning your name as if you were the air that he needed.

Yet, he looked so embarrassed about he fact that you saw him.

Little did he know that you needed that too.

You stepped closer to the bed where he was lying, looking blankly at his lap fidgeting with his fingers as guilt washed over him.

You grabbed his chin in your hand, “Look at me.” You taunt him.

Those puppy eyes, begging for your forgiveness made you wetter within seconds. “What are you sorry for, hm?” You asked, gripping your hand around his jaw a little harder. “I-I don't know…” He answers hesitantly.

You caressed your thumb against his lower lip, “Seems like you still have a problem to fix down there, don’t you?” You tease, your free hand traveling down his bulge, squeezing it making Chris gasp. Taking it as an opportunity, you smash your lips against his, swirling each other’s tongues in each other's mouths.

He didn't hesitate to wrap his arm around your waist and sat you on his lap, both of your legs now resting on each side of him, grinding your wetness against his crotch. A few whimpers escaped out of Chris’ mouth between kisses as his hands roamed all over your body and were now situated under your shirt, massaging your nipples with his thumbs.

He then lowered his hands helping to take off your shirt “Can I?” He mumbled.

You nodded in approval as you lifted your arms and he finally tossed your shirt somewhere in the room, looking down at your breasts he grinned “God, ma.” Shaking his head he looked back at you and smashed his lips back into yours. His hands stroking your tits delicately.

He then proceeded to lower his kisses down to your jaw then your neck and stopped at your collarbone, nipping at the skin and leaving a few hickeys before he moved down to your boobs, sucking the left one while he rubbed his thumb on circles on the right one.

Your head rolled back at the sensation of his tongue swirling around, your eyes squeezing shut at the sensation. “F-fuck.” you breathed out.

Chris kept working with his mouth, changing momentarily to do the same thing with your right tit, your back arching, “G-god Chris.”

His lips traveled now over your collarbone to be met with your lips, crashing his into yours.

His lips connected to mine into a sloppy kiss, “Ride me.” Chris mumbles between kisses.

“What was that?” you tease, making him sigh in frustration.

“Ride me, please.” He pleaded pulling away from your lips, caressing the sides of your inner thigh. “I need you so bad, ma. It’s killing me.”

You bit your lower lip, as you lowered your hands to guide Chris’ hands to the waistband of your panties, whispering at him “Take off your pants, now.” You demanded him.

He bucked his hips off to pull his pants alongside his boxers, his cock hitting his happy trail. He then moves one of his hands to pull your panties to the side, teasing his tip against your wet folds, groaning at the friction of your wetness against his tip. With no hesitation, he buries deep inside you as you moan out loud, bucking your hips back and forth. “F-fuck! Chris!”

You thrust slowly, feeling the stretching sensation inside you. He was big, more than you could ever imagine. Or even more than your previous boyfriends.

His eyes darted where the both of you were connected, “Ma…” he let out in a husky tone, groaning at the sensation of your walls clenching slightly around him. His eyes are squeezed shut and his head rolls back, resting it against the headboard, his fingers burying into the sides of your hips.

The pace was increasing each time, his hips bucking up as you felt his tip kissing the right spot every time he did. “Y-you’re doing s-so good…” The words escape from your mouth with difficulty. Feeling the wave of ecstasy wash over your body, your senses get numb until all you feel is pure satisfaction. Your nails dug into his shoulders as you felt the well-known knot building up in your stomach.

Chris whimpering and calling out your name countless times. “I-I’m s-so fucking close, m-ma.”

“Cum inside me.” You command him, as you kept pumping his dick in and out of you, each time hitting the right spots. “Don’t fucking hold it back.” You breathed out as you felt your walls clenching around him, your moans getting louder and louder as your release was getting closer and closer.

Your climax reached, feeling slightly sensitive as Chris kept moving your hips until he could reach his release. Tears slowly formed in your eyes as he kept thrusting inside you.

Painting your insides white, he released, whining as he did so, the both of you panting heavily “That was amazing.” You mumbled, resting your head on his chest, kissing it intently.

He kisses the top of your head, “I guess, after all, we used the cowboy hat rule.” He muttered chuckling. As a response, you furrowed your brows, “What do you mean?” you ask confused.

“I’ll explain it to you in the morning.” He looks down at you and smiles.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

a/n: there you go! I feel like this sucks 😭 Also, thank you so much for the HUGEEE support that you guys have been giving to Brutal, it’s insane that it already has like 600 likes 🫶🏻🥹

Tag list: @sturniolossss @tillies33ssss @chrisloyalgf @alorsxsturn @sturnioloslurps @cindylcuwhoknows @3mm4yung @mattsfavwh3re @blahbel668 @lov3bug @ilovethesturniolotriplets

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plasticferal · 3 months

Note

hey queen! can you pls do an angst story with chris. where they get into an argument and chris said things he never meant. then he apologizes to her afterwards. ( basically angst to fluff)

damsel in distress | chris sturniolo.

i added my own twist to this ask. it's my favourite prompt so thank you! 18+ protective!ex-boyfriend chris x fem!reader. fighting, touches on themes of unwanted attention, mentions of alcohol, explicit language. reader discretion is advised. p.s inspired by the unreleased olivia rodrigo song 'prison for life'.

the house is filled with familiar faces and strangers. a small gathering turned into a full blown house party from the moment the word got out. where the sturniolo triplets are, a flock follows. you sigh, pushing and shoving your way through the unwanted crowd.

all you want is to make it into the kitchen, miraculously being the only place no one wants to linger. the last person you need to see right now is your ex lover. chris is standing ahead of you, leaning on the kitchen counter, alone in the room. you shut the doors behind you, needing to escape. even if it means with him.

“if you wanted to get me alone, you could have just asked." he speaks smug, before taking a sip from his red solo cup.

“i'm not in the mood,” you dismiss. you open the fridge, eyes scanning the shelves but nothing calling your name.

you know you're not actually looking for anything, you just don't want to look at him. the entire night has you shaking with anger. from the mess in your home, the lack of care everyone is taking, the noise complaint you know you'll be getting later, and worst of all, that one guy who won't leave you alone.

you've never seen him before tonight, you don't even know his name, but all he's done is make you uncomfortable. try to dance with you, try to give you drinks. he brushes your waist every time he walks past.

all of your friends have been encouraging you to go for it, to get over chris. and honestly, you consider it for a moment. just to finally move on, but you can't bring yourself to. at least not with some random creep.

the break up is still raw. he tells everyone it was 'mutual' but it was a part on your request. he'd never throw you under the bus like that. he knows why you made your decision, he's never questioned it.

chris feels like it's unrequited love. although, you haven't lost any love for him, no matter how much you try to push him away. he has every right to despise you, but he doesn't.

every time you close a chapter with him, you find yourself in a sequel. it's like you're re-reading different stories, but the ending stays the same. your heart wants him, your brain wants to hate him.

"what's wrong?" he asks, sensing you're genuine in your frustration.

"nothing." you refuse to let him know what's happing in your world, let alone your mind. you don't need to let in him anymore, even though you want to let it out. he's the one person who could just sit and listen to you for hours on end.

"alright, just askin" his words trail off into a hush. he switches the tone, not wanting the conversation to stop.

“your friends are nice” he speaks in a sickeningly sweet tone, because if anyone knows how to kick you while you're down, it's him.

"you would think that" you scoff, implying that you've seen them throw themselves at him all night. him pouring them drinks, smiling and frothing over the attention he's receiving.

"the fuck is that supposed to mean?" his temperamental side seeps out, and you grow only more irritated.

"chris, can you get out please?" you huff, hands crossing over your chest. an unintentional way to seperate yourself from him, a metaphorical wall being put up.

"such a party pooper. you really gotta let loose, relax a bit." his words come out a lot more nasty that you hope he meant them, and it makes your face hot.

you give him the benefit of the doubt and think he's speaking with resilience, at the fact you keep shutting him down.

"i wonder why we ever broke up." you reply sarcastically, a fake smile on your face. he rolls his eyes, finishing off his drink and letting out an audible "ah," like a child finishing a juice box.

"i haven't seen you all night, y/n" his voice softens, and it becomes clear he's speaking for the sake of talking to you. he always wants to talk to you.

looking at the counter quickly to place his cup down, he looks back at you, tilting his head to the side slightly. he's not being horrible to you, he never has been. he's still in your life whether you like it or not, despite your hostility.

"sorry. i'm just tired." you lie. he knows it.

"your poker face isn't very good. i learnt that the hard way," he bounces his eyebrows, biting the tip of his tongue, eyes a bit wider as he stares at the ground and you can tell he's having a flashback.

you chuckle at the reference. the one time he caught you faking an orgasm didn't end very well, and he's been able to catch you out ever since. he's never been afraid to pull you up on your own fibs.

"sorry, again." you hug your body tighter, avoiding his eyes. he pushes himself off the counter with a stretch like hum and walks over to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

"stop apologizing, you sound like matt," he rolls his eyes lightheartedly, and you let out a small laugh. that's always his intention, to make you smile.

"c'mon princess, let's get you a drink. seems like you need it." he nods toward to the door, rubbing your shoulder enthusiastically.

you let him try to fix your mood, because god knows you do actually need to stop stressing. you can't control what happens, just how you react. that's what chris always used to say when you were together.

feeling safe in his embrace, he security guard style moves you through the party. he hollers "excuse me!" and "coming through!" and everyone just listens, parting like the red sea. he's not the biggest guy in the room, but he sure is the most assertive. especially with you under his arm.

when you finally get to the drinks table, he makes you a vodka lemonade, saving the rest of the can for himself to finish off. it's not the most thrilling drink, but enough to keep you settled. ease the tension a bit. plus, it tastes good. no harm, no foul. as chris is mixing the liquids into cups, you feel an unwanted hand snake up around your hip.

"there you are. are you hiding from me?" your stomach drops at the voice of the mystery man towering over you, and you look ahead to watch chris's eyes snap up instantly.

chris lowers the cups, holding his eyes on the man behind you. you watch as he kinks his neck and his jaw tenses, taking a step closer. you shake your head at chris, holding a hand up subtly to tell him not to come any closer.

turning around, you stare up at the man. his breath reeks of liquor, and his shirt is drenched is sweat. it makes you sour your face and tense your entire body.

"i don't know what you want from me, but it's not gonna happen. i think you should leave." you speak sternly, trying not to let your voice shake with pure nerves. not even liquid confidence could help you right now.

"the party's just getting started," the man smiles, stumbling toward you in what you think is an attempt at a hug, but you begin pushing his body away from yours with a shove.

"dude, she doesn't want you. walk away." you hear chris's direct voice over your shoulder.

the last thing you want is negative attention on chris in a room full of people who would spread the news like wildfire. you never want that for him.

"it's okay, i got this." you dismiss chris in the nicest possible way, but you're being serious.

"come on, we'll have fun," the man hiccups through his words, mumbling them and tripping over toward you again.

"get the fuck away from her." chris's breath hits the back of your neck as he moves even closer to you.

"christopher, i'm serious. stop." you speak through grit teeth, so people can't read your lips, as he lingers next to you.

you try to be as inconspicuous as you can in your rejection to his advances, but he won't give up. the man appears more annoyed, and he grabs your wrist with a tight grip.

"let go of me." you grab the mans hand, trying to pry his grip without making it obvious.

you’re shaking at the thought of attention drawing. not for you, but for chris. eyes are already on you, being his ex. it's not what he ever wanted for you either. if he could make it all disappear, he would. it becomes more difficult when chris notices, and this time, has no intention of backing down.

"i'm not gonna repeat myself, back the fuck up." chris walks around your body, face to face with the guy who has a hold on you now.

"please, chris." you beg, voice quivering.

you know his temper can change in the blink of an eye. him and matt both have that in common.

"she doesn't need your help, pretty boy." the man splatters his words, a malicious smile on his face as he leans toward chris, almost nose to nose.

chris smiles criminally, flashing his teeth.

"you're right," chris puts his hands up in defence, a downward smile on his face as he chuckles darkly, taking a big step backward.

there's a feeling of relief, and intense fear as he actually does start to back away. but you know chris. unfortunately, it's unavoidable.

you try to catch his eyes, and speak through a begging stare without using words. he looks at you with sadness, and you mime the words, 'please don't'.

the moment the man tugs your wrist as if to leave with him, making you wince with the grip he holds. you regret your counteraction instantly, because chris reacts viscerally.

he flares his nostrils and squeezes his nails into his palm, balling up his hands by his hip. his knuckles are turning white.

before you can get pulled away, chris lunges forward with a tight fist, throwing a strong, perfectly aligned punch to the mans cheekbone. it throws the man to the ground in the blink of an eye, relieving the pressure on your skin. you stumble backwards, out of the line of fire.

chris steps heavily forward, shoving a foot into his ribcage before straddling his legs, completely overpowering him. the man projects forward to swing and hit chris's mouth. chris doesn't even flinch, like it was painless. you watch chris raise his arm up again to pummel down onto the now defenceless stranger.

the surrounding crowd gasps and yells, clearing the space that chris has created with his actions. iphone cameras flash, making you feel sick. the whispering and gossip you can already hear pounding in your head is overwhelming.

you feel so futile. chris is too in his own world to even realise the repercussions. you're not saying the guy didn't deserve it, you have no care in the world for him. you care about the aftermath.

in a fantasy world, a daydream, a fairytale even, this is attractive. a knight in shining armour, fighting for his lady. a world where there are no consequences, or social media, or fear. a reality chris has suddenly forgotten about.

he looks natural doing it, too. the veins in his arms so prominent, his tight mouth and huffed breaths as he gives it everything he's got.

you're frozen in shock, watching chris pelt another punch into the man, and you want to pull him off, you know you need to, but all your body can do is watch. watch the two men roughhousing and exchanging blows, chris taking every hit with pride.

you're numb to the feeling, screaming in your head.

appearing out of thin air, nick and matt are in your line of vision, hiding the chaos ahead of you. his brothers move into action before anyone else needs to.

they've obviously been summoned, but there's a part of you that believes they could just sense it. like they telepathically knew chris was getting himself into trouble by the lack of surprise they express.

nick grabs chris by the collar of his shirt, pulling him off. matt grabs his wrists, to stop him from using his fists. the fight comes undone, finally, but chris is disoriented. he spits onto the man as he's being escorted into the kitchen by his brothers.

your eyes burn with tears that refuse to fall, and matt sweeps your hand up, guiding you with them in a hurried manner. matt is trying to snap you back to reality, but it's just white noise.

chris hits his palm aggressively with frustration against the door frame of the kitchen as you all walk through, and you take a deep breath to compose yourself. your eyes are still welling as you choke back a sniffle, and you're not sure if it's shock, hurt, or anger anymore.

you're in a trance as you walk over to the freezer. your body is in autopilot, moving without you even knowing. you grab a frozen bag of vegetables out of the tray.

"so fucking stupid," you say nastily under your breath, slamming the door shut.

walking over to chris who's sat up on the ledge of the sink. you throw the packet at his chest, and he grabs it, questioning you for a second before matt walks over and shows him to place it on his bruised and red raw knuckles.

the room is filled with tension.

matt is biting his nails, you're leaning against the closed door, and nick finds himself squatting on the floor.

"what the actual fuck was that?" nick is too stunned to even yell, he just speaks aloud.

"i asked you not to, chris. i could have handled it myself." you shake your head, vision blurry as you stare vacantly ahead. you want to lash out at him, but for some reason you can't.

"yeah, it really looked like you had it under control." he crushes the frozen packet harshly against his hand.

"we'll leave you two alone." matt cuts through awkwardly, shooting nick a warning glare.

matt knows it's not his place to go off at chris right now. he'll do that later.

"but-" nick begins, and matt snaps toward the door. you hear nick sigh, knowing he would love nothing more than to stay and listen to you tear into chris. alas, they both leave promptly, matt flashing you a sympathetic smile on the way out.

you can hear from the other side of the door, both nick and matt are hustling trying to kick everyone out. it’s a weight lifted off your shoulders. the literal mess being left behind is the least of your worries now.

you're alone with chris in the kitchen again, the second time not being anymore pleasant than the first. you blame yourself fully for dropping your guard, even if for a second.

“i begged you not to, chris.” you repeat with a stern tone, laced with betrayal and genuine hurt.

he’s silent for a moment, staring at you from across the room with no emotion on his face. you know he feels terrible, he doesn’t have to show it. or tell you.

“did you think i was just gonna stand and watch?” he rebuttals.

“i would have preferred that, honestly.” you don’t understand how he can’t grasp the intensity of the situation.

"did you want him? go back out there then." he's bitter, pointing at the door. you roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief.

"chris," you start. he keeps talking.

“because i’m sure he’s still laying on the floor. go ahead. he might have a hard time talking now, though.” chris shrugs, speaking in a provoking manner.

“you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t press charges." you apprise.

“he should feel lucky i didn’t do worse.” he takes another step toward you, presumptuous in the way he carries himself.

"you've done a lot of stupid shit, chris. but that," you raise your hand as you speak, laughing in shock.

"that was unbelievable." you pinch the bridge of your nose, taking yet another deep breath.

"you know what's unbelievable is how you haven't even thanked me once" he ignores your words and bites back with irritation, face growing more twisted with upset.

"thank you?" you repeat, jaw dropping. you step toward him this time. you feel dejected trying to get him to understand.

"thank you for what? for causing a scene? for putting yourself in danger?" you step forward again, feeling like you could drive your heels into the ground beneath you.

"you're acting insane" he brings his hands to his head, tugging at his own hair with despair. his words sting, despite the back and forth arguing.

"you're the one that lashed out on that guy with no consideration for anyone else around you. that's insane" you speak with physical gestures unconsciously.

you're trying to reason with him, but with the state he's in, it's like trying to put a brain in a statue. you examine him, trying to search for his eyes but his body won't keep still, twisting and moving around.

"fuck, okay, i get it! i get it, y/n. you're not happy with me. you never fucking are apparently," his words trail off and he waves you away, turning his back to you. he sounds desperate for it to end.

you want to scream at him at the top of your lungs, and quite frankly, you could. your face burns and steam is about to shoot out of your ears.

"you don't need to protect me anymore, chris."

"i saved your ass out there." he speaks with his hand, four fingers direct to your chest. his words are like salt being rubbed into an open wound.

"saved me? that's a fucking stretch. your brothers saved your ass, because you don't think before you fucking act!"

"this is about YOU, y/n! what i did for you!" he slaps the back of right hand into the palm of his left.

"i'm not some damsel in distress that you need to sweep up and put in a tower, chris"

"yeah well at least in a tower you can't attract trouble." he speaks as if it's your fault, and of all the things he's just spit out, that's by far the worst. the most menacing and cut to the bone tone he's used.

"that was low, even for you." you huff, emotions at an all time high.

your breathing feels tight, but instead of reacting, you force yourself to seperate your emotions from the reality of the situation. you're both feeling very intensely, and expressing it the same way.

in hindsight, you could have redirected some of your emotions, but you also wish chris would take back some things he's said. there's no excuses.

chris re-collects himself and turns toward you again. he shrugs his shoulders, like he has nothing left to say. no fight left.

the closer chris is standing the more prominent his face is, and more specifically, his busted open lip.

you gasp in a mix of being upset, and shock. it feels like a piece of your heart is breaking off, seeing his delicate, pale skin so sore.

"your lip, chris." you exhale, stepping toward him.

he flinches when your hand raises to touch his face, and you know now that you've acknowledged it, it's hurting him. neither of you paid any attention to it amongst the turmoil.

"come here." you sigh, pulling his arm, bringing him over to where the paper towels are, in the corner of the sink.

tearing a white square into your hands, you rinse it under cold water lightly before squeezing the saturation out, leaving a damp cloth in your hand.

turning into chris's body, he looks down at you. he's still at last, and looks like he has no thoughts behind his now seemingly innocent eyes.

you cup his cheek gently, to turn his face downward. you bring the towel up to his lip, wiping his stained chin and mouth. he lets you, and doesn't even wince. he visibly gives into your touch. he's content.

"i need you to promise me you'll never do something like that again." you pull back, folding over a clean side and then wiping his lip softly, trying not to cause him pain.

"i can't promise that." he speaks in a whisper, as if he doesn't want you to hear his word.

with his lip no longer being red, you toss the damp and crumbling paper into sink, making it a problem for another time.

"why?" you look into his eyes, wiping your hands on your shirt.

his blue eyes are big but blameless, pupils dilated. holding his stare as your arm lowers.

"because if anyone lays a hand on you again, i'm going to prison for life." the piece of your heart that broke off earlier reattaches at his words alone.

chris's much shorter hair is spikey around his ears, and wet at the ends, turning dark brown from his sweat. you caress his messy curls, tucking it over the curves of his ears and taming the wispy strands. you hold his head in your hands, tiling him up and your mouths are inches apart.

"how hard did he hit your head?" you ask against his lips. he chuckles, genuinely.

he's an idiot, undeniably. but the gut wrenching, lawless love he has for you makes him that way. his low, smooth laughter, makes your heart skip a beat.

"i mean it, y/n."

"but i know, i know it was stupid." he admits.

"yeah, it was." you agree, shaking his head around slightly.

he grabs your hands with his own, engulfing them and holding them in his palms. he squeezes your hands, bringing them to his lips and kissing your knuckles.

"i'm sorry." he speaks on your skin.

"like really fucking sorry." he strains his head back with remorse, making his adam's apple more prominent, and he swallows hard. like he's swallowing his guilt.

"i said some nasty things. i wish i could take them back, y/n. i really do."

"i know, chris."

"no, you don't. i'll apologise to you everyday for the rest of my life if i have to. i've been horrible tonight."

"chris, enough," you hush him, the calmness in your tone making him understand you hear him. loud and clear. you need some time to forgive, but you absorb his words.

"i don't know how you didn't smack me in the mouth." he jokes, and you giggle through your breath.

"there's still time," you joke back. and he knows it by your tone.

"i could never bring myself to do that. as much as you deserve it." your banter eases the pressure, and you feel chris squeeze your hands in his again.

you rub your thumbs over his knuckles, looking at the little purple marks forming. he notices your face drop with stress, and he slips his hands away, moving to your hips instead.

"hey, i'm fine. i don't care what happens to me, i just need you to be okay."

"i am okay," you reply. he drops his face with a look that expresses he doesn’t believe you. you give a light eyeroll, and small smile.

"i mean it, i swear.” you raise your pinkie finger to him, to keep your promise. knowing it’s the only way he’ll actually believe you.

chris smiles, weak with his bruised lip, and wraps up your pinkie with his own, wriggling your hands around.

"i'm always gonna want to protect you." he pulls you toward his body. he's so warm, and radiates a magnetic energy that makes you want to collapse into his arms.

you know you don't need him to, but deep down, you would like his protection. his unconditional love. selflessness.

"i'll be sure to send you love letters in jail" you grin up at him, and laughs from the chest.

his voice is like a scratched record, fatigue taking over his body. you swallow hard, all of your senses coming back. he feels so real standing in front of you all of a sudden, like it's not just a dream you're about to wake up from.

"stay the night." you speak mindlessly.

chris brushes your hair from your face, cupping the back of your neck lightly to pull your forehead to his lips, kissing just above your eyebrows gently. he rests his chin on the crown of your head, pulling you tight to his chest in an embrace.

"i'll stay forever if you ask me to."

this is the feeling he fights for. requited love.

#chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo angst #chris sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo fic #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo blurb #sturniolo triplets #damsel in distress

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reiderwriter · 4 months

Note

I’d love if you could do a very fluffy-smut with Spencer, like you had a tough case and the day after he calls asking you to go to his apartment and you see he has made food & made a fort to watch movies with fairy lights and just everything really romantic & it ending with very slow/soft sex🩵

A/N: I loved writing this one! Spencer is absolutely the type to build a perfectly engineered pillow fort just because you're having a bad day 😭😭 I hope you enjoy it!!

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, soft sex, oral sex (f receiving), slow/ gentle sex, multiple orgasms, implied creampie/ no contraception mentioned :) tee hee

There was something about the cases that took you to the other side of the country that sunk the ache into your bones just that little bit more.

It didn't matter if you were going for a kidnapping or a serial or a spree, you always returned more weary than before. The weeks work that you endured was never as tough as returning home to your empty apartment, to the cold floor and the lonely bed.

This time, your case had a happy ending. You weren't sure how many more of them you were going to be able to live through before the bad endings rendered them null and void. It didn't matter how many people you saved some days because your brain was crowded with the names and faces of the ones you didn't.

The drive home from Quantico was unsurprisingly quiet. Having landed in the dead of night, there were never going to be too many people on the roads to your apartment.

You weren't sure if it was fate, or the fact that you hadn't eaten anything in the last 18 hours that made you pull over to the side of the road to pick something up from the 24 hour drive thru, but in the end you were glad you did.

The second you pulled your car off the road, taking a breather and deciding to stretch your legs a bit before going in to order, your phone screen lit up.

“Spencer,” you answered the phone, “what's up?”

“Y/N, hey, I just got home. Listen, remember last month I was talking to you about that one indie film that I couldn't find anywhere? Well, a friend of mine from college just sent me a file entitled ‘the movie.’”

You weren't sure if it was Spencer’s enthusiasm or just the way you were always ready to drop anything to do something with him that had you giggling and nodding along. You didn't remember the discussion, let alone the movie he meant, but you liked hearing him talk about the things he was passionate about.

“So I was thinking, we're both probably not going to get much sleep anyway since we clocked out only 23 minutes ago - movie night?”

“You couldn't have called at a better time, Spencer. I'm grabbing food, text me your order and I'll see you in 15.”

-X-

The drive to Spencer’s apartment was clear, but the hum in the air was lighter than the silence of before. By the time you pulled onto his street, your mood had already brightened significantly.

You trudged up to his apartment softly so as not to cause any complaints and sent him a text to let him know you were waiting outside.

You knew instantly that he'd received and read it - the garbled sound of the large man tripping over his feet in his attempt to rush to the door were the same every time you arrived. Stubbing his toe on some pile of books or the other was practically ritual.

“Hi,” he whispered, opening the door just a crack and giving you a bright smile.

“Hi,” you smiled back. “I bought food.”

“Perfect. That's perfect. You're… come on in. It's cold, right?” He guided you into the small entryway in his apartment and let you drop your keys with his as if they were supposed to be tangled together.

“I have a little surprise.” He said, suddenly sounding bashful as he grabbed for your hand in the dark - you hadn't realised as he'd led you in but there were no lights on in the small apartment on at all, as far as you could tell.

“What? Spencer-”

“You'll like it, I promise, you just have to trust me.” You relaxed as he wrapped an arm around your waist and tugged you with him into his living space. His hand was warm as it settled against the small on your back, and his chest was surprisingly broad and firm as you brought up your hands to steady yourself against him.

“Okay, now close your eyes.”

“The apartment is pitch black. Why am I closing my eyes?” You giggled a little, surprised that your whole body felt so light and calm now, when it had felt so terrible only half an hour before.

“Trust me,” he said, and you did. Truth be told, your eyes were already shut before the words had even left his mouth.

“Okay, you can open them now.”

He must have flipped a light switch the second you opened your eyes because your vision was blurred by the dazzling light when you did.

Blinking through the adjustment, you started making out shapes and couldn't stop the small tears that pricked the corners of your eyes.

He hadn't just invited you around for a movie night - he'd built a fort. Held up by a few chairs and piles of books, he'd managed to prop up at least three layers of blanket to surround the most comfortable looking floor you'd ever seen.

You didn't even know he owned this many pillows, but when he tugged your hand down as he began to move into the fort, you didn't need to care.

Not with his fingers gently laced with yours and the fairy lights he'd surrounded everything with, giving his skin a golden glow. You didn't need any explanation. You just needed him to hold you.

“Spencer this is beautiful,” you whispered, sound dampened by the lump in your throat that you tried to swallow, to no relief. “This must've taken so much time. How did you even-”

“PhD in Engineering. I don't get much use out of it these days, but it certainly comes in handy.”

You couldn't help the laugh that burst from you, the tears finally flowing as tears of joy.

“Spencer, what is all this for?”

“It's just because. You looked like you had a hard day, and I enjoy spending time with you.”

They weren't the most romantic words in the world. They probably didn't come close to some quotes he could recite as easily as breathing. But they hit you hard and fast.

You knew you were in love with Spencer Reid long before this moment, but there was no holding back the flood after hearing the sincerity in his voice.

You slowly stretched your neck up and pressed your lips against his. It was fleeting, a small moment that if this didn't pan out, you could brush off as a friendly show of appreciation.

You pulled away to gauge his reaction, but you didn't get to. His hand on your neck had pulled you back to him for another slow, but deep kiss, and it was as if your entire body was on fire in those sheets.

You weren't sure how long you spent breathing each other in, exploring each others lips softly. You just knew you were growing desperate for more. You didn't notice that you'd climbed into his lap until your eagerness knocked him onto his back, forcing you apart.

Your chest lay atop his as you both gasped for air, legs tangled, eyes locked as both of you feared talking first.

After almost too long without anything said or done, Spencer chose silence again, flipping your positions so you were the one on your back on the pillows as he hovered over you, lips meeting yours again.

This time, you made the conscious decision to wrap your legs up around his waist, hand tangling in his hair as you smiled and giggled against his kisses, so obliviously happy to be there with him.

“I love you,” you whispered between kisses, not even hesitating for a second to contemplate whether he felt the same.

“I love you more,” he said as if it were a competition where you both won in the end.

You became more talkative after that, responding to every touch, every kiss with praise and a confession, a moan as his fingers pushed under your shirt, a shaky breath as they unbuttoned your pants.

“Fuck, Spencer, please touch me more,” you begged as his hand toyed with your nipple, having discarded your shirt and bra quickly after receiving permission to do so.

“I will. I want to know all of you,” his voice was strong even in a whisper, as he dropped his head to your other nipple to begin suckling and teasing you.

You always thought his hair would be soft, had been tempted on multiple occasions to tuck a strand behind his ear, or just run a hand through it, and now you held it firm, pushing him further into your chest as you arched into his mouth.

“I want to feel m-more of you, Spencer.”

He raised his gaze to you as he let go of your nipple with a pop and quietly complied with your will. Trailing his head lower, he kissed across the expanse of your stomach, biting and sucking here and there to leave a path of markings in his wake before arriving right where he wanted to be.

He made quick work of your pants and panties both, surprised that a man who never failed to bump into things in his own living space could be so graceful when it came to divesting you of your clothing.

You couldn't ponder for too long as he dived between your legs, spreading you open like a book he needed to read and memorise. His to guess hit your clit quickly, and a few twitches and moans here and there showed him how you liked it, where you needed him and his tongue.

You again got to grasp his hair pulling him further into your wet cunt as you chased your high, needing so desperately to ride out an orgasm against his face.

When his two fingers stretched you open, you practically drowned him, thighs clamping shut as your brain emptied itself of stress.

You calmed down and watched him come up for air, fingers still slowly and gently pumping inside of you, reminding you that this wasn't over.

“You taste sweet.”

“I know how much you like sweet things.” Your juices glistened on his lips and chin, a few drops running down his neck as you stared at him with pure desperation in your eyes.

“Spencer, please, fuck-” his fingers picked up speed every time you tried again.

“Spencer, fuck me, please just fuc-”

“As you wish, Y/N.”

He didn't bother removing his own clothing, though you desperately wanted to see his entire length and explore him just as he had with you.

But after cumming on his face already, you decided you'd let him go with whatever he wanted.

Shifting up behind you as you laid there, he gently rolled your body onto its side as he pulled your back towards him, giving him better access to your cunt as you arched into him again.

He sank in slowly, almost as if he was scared to break you, but didn't stop until he was almost fully inside of you, practically sheathed.

He adjusted his hold on you, wrapping both arms around your waist and pulling your back flush against his chest as he pressed open-mouthed kisses against your neck.

With deep, slow strokes, he made love to you. You weren't sure if it was the fairy lights, or if it was just that good, but you saw stars, saw them burnt into your eyes, watched them every time the pleasure felt too good and your eyes rolled back into your head.

The second orgasm came slower than the first, but it was just as hot.

“Y/N, look at me - you're so beautiful, I want to watch you cum.”

“Spencer, love- I love you, I love you, fuck, oh my god, I love you so much.” You reached for his lips but he pressed his forehead against yours as he whispered in your ear a final time: “cum for me now.”

Your body wasn't one for taking your queues, but it responded to him as if he'd been the missing part you'd missed this entire time.

Your cunt tightened around him, milking his cock as he moaned and released seconds after you did.

You lay tangled in those blankets and pillows for hours after, and you weren't afraid or lonely anymore.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you

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takenbypeter · 4 months

Note

Hi!!!! I Hope You’re doing okay and having a wonderful day/night. I was wondering if you can do a Wonka x reader fluff where basically the reader works for slugworth and is supposed to you know hate wonka but both wonka and reader have feelings for each other. And maybe it can center around the reader trying to confess their feelings to Willy but slugworth is always getting in the way of it. (So cock blocking 💀). But In the end it’s Willy who confesses to reader.

The Chocolatier and The Receptionist

Willy Wonka x reader

Words: 3981

Authors notes: I am so sorry this fic is a lot longer than I expected. I usually like my fics short and to the point but with this one I just kept going and going anyways I hope you enjoy reading it cause I had fun writing it 😉

All you wanted was a simple job. One that was routine and easy, but of course no job was that simple.

Slugworth’s assistant, Miss BobBon, had gained much responsibility in the past few months and due to that, Slugworth decided to hire a receptionist and that’s where you came in.

All you did was respond to a flier but Slugworth seemed to like your quiet demeanor and he gave you the job easily.

At first being Slugworth’s receptionist was easy enough; take calls, write down messages. Slugworth was nice enough being that you got the job done. He didn’t talk to you much, other than a simple approving smile when you’ve done your job correctly.

However, with all this recent news about Wonka, an opposing chocolatier and his rising chocolate popularity, Slugworth’s irritation has begun to be…noticeable.

“Miss BonBon, when is my appointment with the chief of police?” You heard Slugworth ask his assistant as they walked right by your desk. You watched as she rifled through her binder. You, of course having organized that meeting yourself, answered him, “it’s at 3:30 Mr.Slugworth,” you chimed.

Mr. Slugworth turned around, a curt smile on his lips as he retraced his steps back to your small desk. “I’m sorry, are you my miss BonBon?”

Your eyes immediately went down to your desk realizing the sort of mood he was clearly in, “no.”

“Well then why are you answering receptionist?!” He said before turning back around and walking off leaving you to grumble to yourself as soon as he was far enough.

God, how you hated working for that man, if not for the pay then who knows where you would be by now.

After spending the last few hours pouting at work you called it a day and began your journey home.

Your abode was only a mere twenty minute walk and while some would hate the journey you didn’t really mind it at all. Sometimes it gave you just the amount of time you needed to clear your head.

Currently, it was giving you the time to grumble as you walked. As you strolled along you noticed the tiny delicate snowflakes as they began to fall. And with that beautiful sight taking place, your complaints stop as you come to a street bench. Sitting on it you look up and close your eyes letting the flakes decorate your skin.

The flakes melt at the contact against your face, causing you to become more relaxed, calm. You were so occupied by that feeling that you hadn’t realized a boy had come to sit at the other end of the bench.

“Rough day?” Asked the boy and your eyes shot open just now noticing there was someone else there. You glanced at him before deeming him harmless enough and shot him a small smile, “just the usual annoying day at work,” you reply.

“Hmm,” you watch as he looks down, his lips pressing together in a quick thought. “Well I’ve got just the thing to cheer you up!”

You observe as the young stranger quickly pulls out a jar and from the top he takes a small piece of candy and holds it out towards you. “This here is a Choco-Vanilla Spring Wafer, first an outer layer of chocolate, then vanilla, before you get to the wafer which is made with the flour of a special flower on a lone island not too far away. One bite of this and your mood will turn right around,” he exclaimed with a smile appearing on his face.

Your expression turns sour as the gears spin in your head while he sits there hand still out towards you, and after one more glance from his candy to his face it finally clicks. “It’s you!”

That exclamation made him jump a little in his seat before he looked around to see if you were talking about himself or someone else.

“You’re that chocolatier,” you clarified. His smile confirmed your statement. “Wonka. Willy Wonka is the name, chocolate is the game, except chocolate is not a game. It’s serious.”

He fails to make a change of expression on your face but only because you were too busy looking at the man. This was the first time you were seeing him and given how much he was affecting your boss, you expected him to be…older…and more sinister looking.

He gives you an odd look as you’ve just been practically staring at him. And once you don’t move he holds his hand out again motioning for you to take the chocolate but instead you jump up from your seat. “Are you kidding me? I can’t take chocolate from you! You’re the reason my job is so terrible!” You shout accusatory.

“Me? What did I do?”

“You and your chocolates are ruining my life,” you continue, ranting as you throw your hands in the air exasperated.

“How so?” He asks, voice genuinely concerned.

“It’s just…ooh you just…” you raise a hand palm open wide before curling it into an annoyed fist. I mean it wasn’t his fault exactly, all he was trying to do was sell chocolate and make a living, just as you or anybody else would. You sighed a dejected sigh and gave up, “nothing, it’s nothing.”

You stand there while he sits, both quiet, until he asks, “chocolate?” He repeats, his proposal from before still standing, but you hold your hand up rejecting the offer.

“I can’t, my boss would kill me if I had your chocolate.”

“You really care about this boss of yours,” he states and you scrunch your face in annoyance.

“I do not, for all I care he could catch a cold for a week,” you say nodding at your own sentiment while the boy called Willy Wonka grins laughing a little at your words which still seemed kind to him.

“I just need my job, that's all.”

“I really doubt your boss would mind.”

“Oh I know he would mind, in fact I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now.”

You turn around and continue your walk causing Wonka to leap up from his seat in order to catch up, “wait, you can’t talk to me?”

“My boss really, strongly, dislikes you,” you explain, eyes focused forward as the boy followed beside you.

“Fine,” he did as you did, taking steps while facing forward, “then I won’t talk to you, I’ll just talk to the air that's beside you.”

A smile breaks way on your face and he catches it, smiling as well.

“Goodbye Mr.Wonka,” you say, pulling the collar of your jacket up for two reasons; to keep you warm and to hide your grin.

He seems to catch the message as he stops in place while you continue on leaving him standing in the snow.

That night you can't help but ponder on what might’ve happened if you set your loyalties and fears aside and just took piece of the chocolate but oh well maybe in another universe.

The next morning on your way to work, you notice a spectacle taking place nearby. Curiosity taking over, you approach and as you near you recognize the voice.

Wonka.

There he was in front of a small stand with his name and a few jars of chocolates.

“—Today I will be showcasing my new product. These are what I like to call Choco-Vanilla Spring Wafers.” he repeats his pitch, glancing around at the various faces in the crowd and as he does so he spots you. His smile widens while the crinkles around his eyes deepen, but he continues on professionally. “On the outer layer, chocolate, before a simple but delicious vanilla flavor, before you get to the wafer which is made with the flour of a special flower on a small, lone island not too far away from here.” He makes his way through the crowd making sure to make eye contact with each and every person. “One bite of this and your mood will turn right side up. Don’t believe me? Try one,” he comes to a stop right in front of you as he says so, and holds out a piece of the chocolate.

Now, you know what you said the other day and you know you work for another chocolate company, but after spending the night pondering over what that chocolate would’ve tasted like, you couldn’t stop yourself from growing more curious and right now what you wanted more than anything was a piece of that candy, so you took it from his fingers unwrapped it and then gently placed it into your mouth.

Willy watched as you chewed on the chocolate and a smile spread on your face, “it’s delicious.”

He smiles a smile of relief before turning around, “you heard it here folks it’s delicious, now get one of your own to try this new delicious chocolate.”

The crowd rushes forward as they all hold out their sovereigns wanting to try it themselves and with a single wave and a smile you depart leaving Mr.Wonka alone with his booming business.

He was right though, your mood did seem to turn right around.

Once you got to work you went straight to your desk pleased that Mr.Slugworth had yet to arrive which meant peace for at least a few minutes.

Which only felt like seconds today.

“I can’t believe the nerve of that Wonka boy!” Shouted Slugworth as he entered the building followed by his assistant. Your ears perk up as he walks by and you notice he has a familiar jar in hand. “How dare he sell chocolate when the police specifically ordered him not to. Ooh he’s becoming a real pain.” You watch as he opens the jar taking a piece out, “what good is his chocolate really anyway?” He pops a piece in and you can tell he adores it just by the expression on his face before he conceals it, “It’s just wretched,” he says entering his own office.

Oh that stubborn boss of yours, you thought. Thankfully that Wonka’s chocolate seemed to be working as your boss’s words had no effect on you whatsoever.

The day went quickly and soon you were on your way home just as the other afternoon.

Now, you weren’t looking for Willy Wonka but you couldn’t say you were upset when you had crossed paths again.

“You’ve really got to get a new hobby besides following me around,” you joked, starting conversation.

“But why would I do that when our afternoon discussions are my favorite time of day.” You didn’t know what response you were expecting, but that was a little more forward than you anticipated, but you met him at the same level.

“Really? Even more than making or eating chocolate?”

“Almost. Not entirely but it’s getting there.”

You turned to look at him, the smile on your face lessening once you recognized how his expression displayed a true small appearance of contentment, which seemed to throw you off guard.

You blink twice avoiding the sudden weird tension you were beginning to feel. “So what did you want this time? I’ve already tried your chocolate.”

“Ah,” his mouth gaped as if just realizing something, “yes you’ve eaten it but what did you think about it?”

You found the question silly given that you’ve said it earlier, “I told you, it was delicious.”

He shook his head, “not good enough . What about it was delicious? What was your favorite thing about it? Was there anyway it could’ve been better?”

“You’re really asking me for my thoughts?”

“Of course. Every customer's opinions are important to me.” That was true, but more than most of the time the customers' opinions were positive. And if he were being one hundred percent honest, he seemed to already care more about your opinion than any other customers.

“Well like I said it was delicious,” you repeated as you walked on and he nodded for you to continue. “The chocolate layer was the perfect taste of milkiness that stayed in the back of the mouth, and when the vanilla hit it was a swirl of the both and it felt like they were working together until the two tastes became singular. Then, of course the wafer was the most important part adding the crunch to bring your attention back to the taste. So yes it was delicious.”

You had been lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t noticed Willy stopped a few steps behind you, his expression gentle.

“What is it Willy?”

He shakes his head, his brown curls bouncing as he does so, “you have a way with words unlike any other.”

“Ha okay, thanks I guess,” you say laughing more to yourself at the odd compliment you’ve never received before.

“You’re welcome.” He says joining your stride again.

“You have a way with chocolates.”

“Thank you.”

You two continued in comfortable silence. The sound of the snow crunching underneath your feet. And that was the end of that.

Except it wasn’t.

Wonka and you had spent the next couple of days chatting just as you had been. He’d always meet you somewhere along your way home and you two would just talk for a bit, honestly it was actually becoming one of your favorite times of the day. You were beginning to grow curious of the man and his qualities and frankly you found yourself wanting to know more.

Which is why one day on your strolls you plainly said to him, “while I do enjoy our late afternoon chats, I do sometimes wish that we could converse more during the day?”

Willy’s eyebrows raised in what looked like excitement but someone else voice rang out before his own.

“Wonka!”

Turning around your shoulders cave forward as you notice Slugworth walking in your direction. He came to a stop in front of you and gave you a look before turning to Willy, “may I steal you away from my, oh so loyal employee, to share a word with you?”

Willy, brain seeming to connect the dots glances between you and Slugworth as you give him a knowing smile.

You chime in seeking for an exit from whatever was about to take place, “of course. We were done anyway. Goodbye Mr.Wonka,” you said, turning around giving the two their time.

As you finish your walk home you realize how wrong it all must’ve looked, you spending time alone with Wonka of course it would be inappropriate. But still even with those thoughts, you go to bed unable to keep the young chocolatier out of your head. You both hated and yet felt, for the way he was making you feel.

The next morning when you arrive at work Mr.Slugworth is already there, his buttock planted on your desk and he seemed to be in a weirdly strange mood.

“Oh hello, lovely receptionist…” you give him an odd look before filling in the blank for him by giving him your name, “ah right! Of course. Don’t you look lovely today.”

“Thank you?” You say questionably while setting your coat behind your chair.

“Of course, of course…ahem,” he cleared his throat and you expected what was to come next, “I was just curious about this Wonka fellow,” there it was. “What were you two um…chatting about?”

“Hm, nothing really, just chocolate.”

“Chocolate? Hm, his or ours?”

“Just in general,” you say, trying to be vague.

“Ah, in general of course,” he says, finally removing himself from your space while you take your seat.

He walks around behind you to push your chair in for you and while he does so he leans down to your level.

“Just remember where your loyalties lie in this business,” he says, his voice low, before returning to his office leaving you to your work.

That afternoon Willy waits outside across from your office doors and once spotting you he bounds over. “Willy?” You ask, confused that he’s met you so early in your walk.

“I was going to meet you further on but I had recalled that we hadn’t yet finished our discussion from yesterday.”

Your eyebrows raise, “right, our discussion yesterday,” your eyes peer up and Willy follows your gaze as you make contact with Slugworth who’s shamelessly watching the scene from his glass windows.

“Um yesterday, right,” you took your attention off Slugworth and back to Willy. “…yesterday I actually was going to tell you, it would be inappropriate to continue spending time with you…goodbye Mr.Wonka.”

You give one last look upwards and notice Slugworth smirking beyond that glass, oh how you would love to punch that smirk right off. But instead you walk away quickly.

Willy stands stunned before he too looks up glaring at Slugworth before chasing after you.

“So that's it? We can’t talk anymore because you work for Slugworth? Is that what you want?”

Now being a good enough distance away from your office you turn around to talk to him face to face, “no it’s not.”

“Come work for me,” his chocolate eyes stare deeply into yours as he seems to beg for you to take his sudden offer with just a single look.

“Are you crazy? I mean I wish I could but do you have a factory? Can you promise a stable income? What even is the job?”

With each question you take note of how he looks down, refusing to answer because he essentially can’t.

You intake a deep breath, your chest rising as you do, “I wish I could but I need a steady job. I’m sorry.”

You turn back around as you were but he speaks again, persistent in continuing conversation, “when I make it big and official, you have a guaranteed spot in my factory, whichever position. What do you want to be; a taste tester, chocolate maker, or you could remain receptionist.”

“Willy…” it sounded nice working alongside him but who knows when that would be, “It’s a nice dream Willy, but that’s all it is…a dream.”

You both continue on his step now further behind yours as he seems to recall something, “someone special once told me that every good thing in this world started with a dream. She told me it was important to hold onto mine, so I am.”

“She?” You asked, curiosity increased.

“My mother.”

“Well your mother sounds like a wise woman.”

“She was,” he says he doesn’t say more but he doesn’t need to, you can tell by his expression that she was no longer with the living.

“…I’m sorry.”

He gives a saddened smile, “it’s alright, I’ll see her again.”

You gave an encouraging smile, unsure what he meant by that before moving forward with your conversation, “your mother sounded like a wise woman, and I admire her positivity…But sometimes a dream remains just that. A dream and for now that's all it is…a dream.” You say matter of factly, before uttering a final, “goodbye, Willy Wonka.”

Two days go by and you hear nothing from the young chocolatier. And with no news of Wonka you’ve noticed the change of attitude in Slugworth as he seemed to be oddly chipper than usual, but of course you chose to ignore the strange feeling you got from that man, he always kept secrets from you so why care about it now, you were just the receptionist.

That afternoon as you return from work just about to unlock your front door your attention gets grabbed by a young girl who strolled next to you. Upon taking a glance you realized, “I know you…?” You said recognizing her features to be one of Wonka’s helpers that you’ve seen in the crowds before.

“Noodle,” she said and you repeated it, (a trick you’ve learned to memorize names).

“Willy asked me to escort you to the old fountain only a few roads down. If you’ll agree of course?”

You contemplated your options; entering your place and spending a cozy night in, or accepting the man’s invitation and joining him in a who knows what adventure. At one last gnaw on your lip you agree to follow the girl.

Traveling slightly behind her, she leads the way, “how do you know Wonka?” You asked curiously.

“Willy?” The young girl asks, “he’s a close friend, we’ve sort of become close to being in the same predicament,” she explains.

Your mouth opens into a small ah as you nod showing you understand, but truly you didn’t, “what sort of predicament?” You asked, but before you could get your answer you had arrived. She guided you and motioned for you to go towards the fountain and you did.

It was fairly secluded especially considering the fact being that it wasn’t very much to look at, it was an old run down fountain and there were much simpler ways to get to town.

The girl walks away and you wait, finding this all to be unusual. As you wait you notice the fountain light up from underneath before it goes into a pattern of changing colors. Flowers aligned along the bottom of the fountain begin to bloom, one by one a variety of colors. You don’t know how he did it but it was sight to see, you honestly weren’t even exactly sure what was going on.

You followed the trail flowers with your eyes as they led all the way around and as it came to an end, that's when you noticed he was standing right beside you.

“Willy?!” You asked shocked and concerned as he stood there with his hand palm up as a small white box with a ribbon bow lay in it.

“I want you to try this.”

“All this for me to try chocolate?”

“He opens the box revealing a round chocolate. This is my new product called the Dreamscape. One of these and you’ll feel light and content. It’s a good dream wrapped into a piece of chocolate.”

You don’t know what to say, you admire his uniqueness, his charm, and his creativity in this whole plan and it honestly left you quite speechless.

“You said all of this is a dream. Well if being here with you is a dream, then I don’t want to wake up.” He holds the bite box out further to you and it takes all of your facial muscles not to react to his cheesy yet sweet phrases, “will you dream with me?”

Your brain tried to intercept and remind you of your work and what would become, but your heart was in play too as they both battled for the main position.

Willy stares, on edge, as he tries to gauge your reaction which was taking more time than he expected.

Until finally, eventually, you breathe out,“you really know how to win someone's heart.” With that sentence you pick up the piece of candy and take a bite out of it. “But I’m still working for Slugworth, so don’t make a big deal out of this.”

He raised his hands declaring a truce.

But with that single piece of candy you found yourself becoming happier with each second that was passing as you stood there, and so did Willy.

You didn't know what the future would hold but you were certain that if anyone could make their dreams come true it was him. And sure enough, days soon to follow after, Wonka and his team devised a plan to beat the Chocolate Cartel. (You may have given Willy some assistance in telling him where Slugworth would be located for the day).

Because of the disappearance of the Chocolate Cartel, Willy Wonka was free to finally begin his dream of making chocolate in his very own chocolate factory. Except, this turn out was slightly different from his original dream. This dream was sweeter, because it had you in it.

#willy wonka x reader #wonka x reader #willy wonka fanfiction #wonka fanfiction #willy wonka fanfic #wonka fanfic

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jeonghantis · 1 year

Text

✧ — IN ALL HIS GLORY.

PAIRING ⇝ kim mingyu x reader.

SUMMARY ⇝

waking up next to your lover, you can't help but admire his unearthly beauty and consider yourself unbelievably lucky that he's all yours.

TAGS ⇝ established relationship, romance, suggestive, Fluff (yes, capital F Fluff), domestic-ish.

WARNINGS ⇝ language, gn!reader, fluff (lol), nudity, makeout scene, alludes to sexual content (MINORS DNI!).

WORD COUNT ⇝ 1.2k words and some.

note: yeah, this was a draft i had originally scratched for mingyu's birthday because i was unsure of its direction, but the innisfree behind got me scrambling the pieces back together. this was meant to appreciate mingyu and his beauty and i hope i did him justice.. (and if you can't tell when you finish reading, i am still mourning the loss of his long curly hair). anyway, i hope you enjoy reading <3 p.s. this is 1 out of 2 fics i have to celebrate mingyu month. stay tuned. <3 p.p.s this so not proofread i am so sorry

reblog if you are terribly in love with kim mingyu too (and to support me).

explicit warnings under cut.

EXPLICIT WARNINGS ⇝ nudity, implications of top!mingyu, implications of bottom!reader, mingyu was Rough, mentions of oral (reader receiving).

The first glint of sun spilled through windows, swathing your lover’s slumbering figure in its golden light. His lips were parted, a hand rested atop his chest that rose and fell with easy breaths. His hair that he grew out was a dark halo from where it splayed over the pillow, so vividly stark against the paleness of it. But unlike its sable tone, Kim Mingyu still had his radiance, even in his sleep, that could set light to the darkest dark.

From where you lay beside him, you reached out, gingerly brushing away the lone curl that had tumbled over his still face. Sleep had long left your body, waking dazed with ease and warmth. The outcome of the passion that had stretched all throughout the night clung onto your bones heavily, straining you from making any big movements. But you did not mind. Though you ache all over, you could lay perfectly still without complaint if it meant not interrupting this peace.

But Mingyu woke up, blinking life back into his eyes. Then, he found you.

“Good morning, my love,” he mumbled, lips curled into a drowsy smile.

You mirror him, a hand cradling the side of his face. “Good morning, my heart.”

Then you’re reaching for each other, lips naturally finding one another.

It’s innocent at first, a tad bit clumsy with movements still sluggish, his from slumber and yours exhaustion. Airy giggles pass between you two at the lumbering bumps of noses and teeth, but eventually, a steady rhythm comes with practiced ease, a slow pace of melding lips that’s nothing short of passion. Nothing really ever is when it comes to being with the love of your life.

It’s Mingyu who grasps for more first, a palm resting atop the small of your back to draw you even closer, your body pressed flush against his. It’s only then do you remember how you both did not bother with clothes after last night’s events. And he seems to have just remembered in the moment too because he’s now groaning into your mouth, his face slanting to deepen the amorous exchange in search of more of you. You’re very quick on the uptake, the fervency of the kiss heightening, as you pour all of yourself into him and he drinks it up with an unquenchable thirst, every slip of breath, every movement of lip. You tug on the soft pink flesh of his bottom lip for him to part open. When he did, your tongue slinked in, licking into the wet cavern of his mouth with languid strokes. Mingyu is all too ready for it, welcoming your voyage with another moan and a wet caress of his own tongue over yours, as his palm smooths over the underside of your thigh, hoisting it up to lift it over his waist.

The blankets twist around your tangled limbs. Mingyu shucked it off. The cold air sends a shock through you and instinctively, you’re seeking the warmth of your lover with a tug on his shoulder. Mingyu gives in easily and shifts his body around until the upper half of him rests on top of you, pushing himself impossibly closer.

The added weight of him was not something you had considered in your daze and you’re sparing yourself some breath as you ease back with a gasp. But the man is just as lost in his daze and chases after your retreating mouth. Mingyu managed to swallow down a couple of your breaths with fervid lips until you had to stop him with a hand pressed firmly against his shoulder.

“Stop, wait - ” you exhale with a staggered laugh, gently urging your lover back. “You’re heavy, Gyu. I need to breathe.”

“Yeah, and I need you,” he whines petulantly like a child, though he is pulling back anyway until he’s back laying on his side. “Which, arguably, is more important.”

“Can’t exactly have me if I stop breathing,” you counter with a playful roll of your eyes. “I’m already exhausted from last night trying to keep up with your insane stamina.”

A prideful look crosses his face. “I did go pretty hard on you.”

You smother the urge to smile as you give laudatory pats on his chest. “You did and I do love you for it, but now my entire body hurts.”

“Want me to help make you feel better?”

“Please.”

Mingyu grins. “I have to fuck you again though.”

“Thought so,” you snorted and slapped his chest, but you were smiling.

“Or I make you breakfast,” Mingyu laughs and reaches to hold your hand, interlacing your fingers with his. “Then I could give you a massage. How’s that?”

“Heavenly,” you hum.

Mingyu props himself up on one arm, staring down at you with glittering eyes. “Then give me a kiss before I go?”

You laugh softly and cast your gaze up at him, a hand already reaching to pull him down by his nape.

But you still.

Kim Mingyu was beautiful. This was a fact you knew. A fact that you should be accustomed to. But no matter just how much you set your eyes upon his perfectly sculpted features, your breath catches in your throat every time.

Mingyu was outlined against the risen sun; his radiance coming to full glory as the light kissed his bronzed skin to gold. Each dip and curve of his toned body, each sharp and soft line of his handsome face appeared meticulously carved onto skin, like marks of a sculptor’s tenacity. Even the moles adorning his face—one flecked on the tip of his nose and the other on his cheek—looked thoughtfully placed, somehow adding their own strange allure to his already captivating charm.

The mole on his cheek twitches when a smile pulls at the corners of his lips.

“What is it?” Mingyu whispered, his dark eyes peering. “What are you staring at?”

You had not known you were staring for so long, but who could blame you when he looked the way he did? When you love him the way you do?

“I was just thinking about how beautiful you are,” you answered honestly, brushing back the raven strands that had fallen over his eyes. “And about how I am absolutely in love with you.”

“Suddenly?”

“I’ve always thought so,” you smiled.

Mingyu regards you for a silent beat, the faintest blush dusting his cheeks. Then he’s dipping down and capturing your mouth with his in another heady kiss.

“Fuck breakfast and a massage,” he grunts against you. “I am going to fuck you.”

“Gyu,” you start to groan, which should have been a warning but it comes out half-hearted and laced with desire instead.

“Or I can use my tongue on you instead,” he offers as his mouth already strays away, mapping down kisses down the column of your throat. “Please?”

“Just because of what I said?” You try for a laugh and it comes a bit breathy.

“All because of what you said,” Mingyu says and draws back. He’s peering at you with those big, sparkling eyes again. “Because you’re beautiful and I’m absolutely in love with you too.”

“Charmer,” you huff, a smile itching your lips. “You’re still making breakfast and giving me a massage right after though.”

Mingyu smiled as blinding as the first glint of sunlight. "Deal."

#seventeen smut #svt smut #mingyu smut #mingyu fanfic #svt fanfic #kim mingyu smut #seventeen fanfic

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widowbitessting · 6 months

Text

Bedtime? What Bedtime? A Sugar Mommies Drabble

Prompt: Reader/baby reacting to getting a bedtime after not resting enough in one of her exam periods.

Word Count: 908

Rating: General with fluffy scenes. SFW!

Dom!Natasha Romanoff, Dom!Wanda Maximoff, Dom! Carol Danvers x Sub!Reader

“A bedtime?” You say, eyes nearly bulging from your head. “What am I? 4?”

“The way you’re acting right now, yes, yes, you are.” Natasha replies.

“I am not going - no! No way! That’s ridiculous! Wanda, back me up here!”

The older woman just shakes her head and holds her hands up in a mock surrender.

“Normally I would, but this time I actually side with Carol and Natasha; baby girl.”

You glower at her. How could she?

“I am not having a bedtime.”

“How much sleep did you get last night, detka?” Natasha asks. You open your mouth to reply, a cocky response on the tip of your tongue, your inner brat riling up, ready to swing; but when the red head raises her perfectly sculpted eyebrow, your brat vanishes in a puff of pathetic smoke.

“I - why is that important?”

“Because your dom is asking you, that’s why.” She replies. “Now answer the question.”

“...I don’t see why I have to…”

“5.”

“What?” You stare at Wanda.

“4.

“What is she doing? Why is she counting?”

“3.”

“...Wanda…”

“2.”

“Answer Natasha’s question, Y/N. Your final warning before things get ugly.” Wanda says, her glare fixed just on you.

“I don’t know…I finally…I…crashed around 3…maybe 4am?”

“When did you wake up?” Wanda asks, stepping towards you. You automatically try to step back but Carol is there behind you, blocking your body from any chance of escape.

“7…”

“That had better be PM babygirl.” Carol whispers into your ear.

“A-AM…”

“So last night, you’re telling me, you slept for 3 hours?!” Natasha shouts, she really doesn’t mean to, but she knows for sure people at the local Starbucks heard her.

“Maybe? I mean…it was like a nap…”

“Not helping your case there, bunny.” Carol murumers.

“Yeah, I didn’t think that through.” You try to move from around Carol’s body but her grasp tightens around your wrists and she doesn’t let you budge.

“Oh no, sugar.” She smirks. “You’re not getting away that easily.”

“What are we going to do with you?” Natasha sighs.

“Oh I know perfectly well what to do with her,” Wanda glares at you, causing you to let out a pathetic sound and burrow into Carol.

“Save me and I’ll do your chores for a month, Danvers.”

The blonde cackles, momentarily letting you go, and you take your chance. Making a dive for freedom that is short lived. Carol snatches you back up and holds you in a hold so tight that no amount of wiggling will set you free.

“Nice try, baby, but you aren’t going to bribe me that easily. Now be good, accept your punishment like a good little brat.”

“But -”

“No buts, unless it’s yours.” Carol says.

Your grin slides off your face when you make eye contact with Wanda.

“Now, whilst we discuss your brand new and very permanent bedtime, you may go to your corner and kneel, and think about the apology letters that you will be writing to each of us.”

“Each?!”

“With no complaints.” Her tone is firm and you really have to fight the urge to roll your eyes at her. Instead, you just gape at all of them.

“I - what…?”

“Off you go, sweetness. The grownups have some stuff to discuss.” Wanda tells you, squishing your cheeks as you pass her. “You know what to do and what position we like. I’ll come and tap your shoulder when you’re done; understood?”

“Yes.”

Her fingers squeeze just a little harder.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, mommy.”

“Good. Off you go.”

That night, at 9:55pm, you’re lying in bed with Wanda as she reads to you another chapter from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. You lie there, facing her, head cradled against her chest as she reads some of the dialect from Albus Dumbledore and you can’t help but shake the exhausted feeling in your body. Your eyes are heavy, burning with sleep and you fight with them to stay open. It’s when you yawn, do you catch Wanda’s attention and she leans down to kiss your temple.

“Sleep, detka. Don’t fight it. We will all be here in the morning when you wake up.”

“But -”

“- and you can finish your work too, with breakfast if you’d like.”

“No…I wanna know what happens in the book.”

Wanda giggles, and looks down at you with adoration.

“How many times have you read these, baby?” she asks.

“...couple…”

“And yet you want to know what happens?”

“Just call me Dory.”

That earns you another laugh and this time, a peck on the lips.

“How about this, if you fall asleep, I stop reading immediately and we can continue on during breakfast. Does that sound okay?”

“...I’d like that.” You yawn again.

“Good girl,” she says. “Now shut those beautiful eyes for me.”

You do as you’re told.

“And don’t forget, bedtime is at 10pm, yes?”

“Mhm.”

“One day it might even be 10:30. But for now, 10pm works just fine I think. Don’t you think so?”

She’s baiting you. But you’re far too exhausted to bite. So you just sleepily agree and vow to fight her on bed time tomorrow, when you’re fully refreshed.

It’s a very good plan. Foolproof some might say.

You fall asleep as Wanda reaches the end of the chapter and dream of nothing.

Smiling when Wanda tucks you in and settles down for the night also.

One word on your mind: bliss.

#natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #carol danvers #reader insert #sugar mommies #natasha x wanda x carol x reader #sugar mommies!asks #spiderbites #smu #sugar mommies drabble

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catfern · 7 months

Text

she will destroy you.

pairing: abby anderson x afab!reader

music: crack baby or bag of bones ( or anything from puberty 2 ) - mitski

word count: 3.3k (i'm exhausted)

summary: rumours are swirling, fighting their way through your front door. you hope to keep your work and private life separate, but your proximity with your boss threatens to catch up with you.

warnings: mean!toxic!abby, cheating, porn with a LOT of plot, swearing, tipsy sex, fingering, oral (r!receiving), zero ( i mean ZERO ) aftercare, angst-ish

an: a quick intermission from cowboy!ellie because LORD. i read one page from one book abt a butch teacher yearning for the headmaster's wife and suddenly I NEED AFFAIRS!! I NEED YEARNING!! I NEED SECRECY!! and who better to do that with than a rlly mean ceo!abby who has a PhD in fucking bitches.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“Shit.”

A line of scarlet trickles onto the warm printer paper and settles. You drop your paperwork on an unknown desk and suck your finger, hissing through your teeth at the sting. Your phone buzzes impatiently in the back pocket of your work pants, and you fumble with your non-bleeding fingers to pull it out.

we’ll talk abt this when u get home

see u after ur party i guess

A shit fucking day.

You hall back to your desk, defeat slumping heavy on your shoulders. The Office makes an effort not to stare as you walk by, low whispers hot on your feet like coals in a firewalk. You pretend very poorly not to see the half-lidded, secretive looks shared between your old work friends by the water cooler. Water off a duck’s back, your mom used to say in a nonchalant way when you cried to her about mean girls at school. Not that you ever really knew what that meant.

You were never really thankful to be shut off from the rest of the cubicles, until now. A fortress of frosted glass and a heavy door, your desk was the secluded gateway to a place dreaded. Just you and The Boss, which you guess didn’t help the flying tongues of the old, bored fucks in accounting, but it kept people away. Away from you, with their knowing looks and unknowing laughs.

You huff, settling into your uncomfortable desk chair and digging out a small first aid kit your dad bought you when you first started. Pulling the seal off the small tin, you eye its contents. Disinfectant, thermometer, some loose aspirin and bandaids. You whine lightly as you wrap one tightly around your ring finger, feeling it throb and pulse, like a complaint. Get over yourself, you tell your body.

A sharp - ahem - breaks through your mumbling silence. She’s never sick, she never coughs. It’s a bodiless beckoning, a call into the wild, it’s the wordless agreement you have with her. You pick up your notebook, and the nearest working pen, and shuffle quickly through the open door into her office.

The opaque shades are drawn, the natural light greying and dying on the dark, decaying herringbone floor.

Abby is bathed in the orange light of her desk lamp. With impeccable, almost effortless posture, she’s resting her forearms on her desk, one hand scratching notes into her diary, the other distractedly tapping on the leather top. You follow the shadows that the folds in her dress shirt create, your eyes falling on the contour of her body.

You know she frequents a few gyms. You’re the one who schedules late night international calls around her evening runs, and her weights sessions, and her triweekly spin class. But now, the results of her efforts are on display, tightly wrapped in expensive cotton, perfectly tailored, down to the very last stitch, to her existence. You swallow an uncomfortable feeling when she deigns to meet your eye.

She looks you over in the way she always does, an uncaring, but judgemental once-over, like an army sergeant inspecting a uniform. she hones in on the bandaid,

“Workplace injury?”

Her voice has the warmth of a dying cigarette, rolling like well-spoken honey off her lips. You almost feel ashamed, your finger so offensive to her you could chop it off. You almost feel like you wouldn’t even mind. You start picking at the ends of the bandaid with your thumb.

“Paper cut.” Your voice is always so out of place here. An echo of something that does not belong. She nods her head, ever so slightly, as if she understood.

“Don’t think you can go claiming compensation for that.” It’s a joke you’re not allowed to laugh at. You smile lightly instead. It’s short-lived, “I need you to correct some seating arrangements for tonight.”

Yes, of course. No problem. In wordless agreement, Abby starts listing off adjustments, complaints and warnings from guests about not being seated next to their five ex-husbands, or their whining step-children, or ex-business partners fallen from grace. your pen fingers begin to ache as the whole process draws out.

“And I’m going to need you seated at my table, to keep track of my evening itinerary.”

Uncertainty quickly sows its seeds in your stomach. The unopened messages from your girlfriend burn their way through pocket, searing at your legs like a brand on cattle. Everyone knows, everyone will know. Every detail of your life will be laid bare, and you’ll be tried publicly and without mercy. Your bandaid begins to unravel as you rub anxiously at the glue underneath.

You need to do something, something to get things back under control.

“Actually,” You start, unsure. Abby meets your eye quickly, without hesitation, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tonight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” It’s quick, and condescending. Undercutting any sudden courage you may have had, she meets your eye and stares you down, pinning you under ice, almost imploring you to feel terrified. And then she looks away, busy packing away the seating chart, and you wonder if she even looked at you at all.

She stands, and you try to meet her, your hands clutching your notebook.

“Your attendance tonight is mandatory.” She says it slowly, harshly, like it’s hard for you to understand. Her eyes chase quickly over your outfit, “It’s a black tie event.”

You’re left alone in a dark office, hyperventilating.

The apartment is empty and cold when you arrive home. 7 unanswered texts to your girlfriend tell you she doesn’t want you near her, but she isn’t packed. You expect her to come home, hopefully in the hour you have before you have to go again, and you contemplate just blowing the gala off to wait.

Abby’s voice is sharp in your head, a familiar dedication wringing your body. You can’t leave her. She needs you there.

You put off the conversation with your girlfriend into the furthest parts of your mind, allowing yourself to be swallowed in the minor decisions of clothes and hair and accessories. It’s not until you’re throwing your shoes on, and three times you think you hear her keys in the door, that you give up.

The phone rings 5 times before going to voicemail.

Hey. Listen. I know we said we weren’t going to talk until we were face to face but..

Whatever Maria told you wasn’t true, okay? I promise-I fucking promise you, nothings happened. Baby, okay? People are fucking bored, and I love you, so so much. I’ve gotta go to this one thing tonight - i tried to get out of it i swear -, and i’ll come home and we can talk, and we can fix this. Okay? Jus-Just, gimme some time to explain. Okay. I love you. Bye.

Echoes of quiet chatter uncomfortably ebb and flow off the walls of the ballroom. Too many people. Shoes scuff the cheap marble as the rich make their rounds, with light touches and reused laughter. They all hate each other.

Abby is a familiar sight. Wearing the same thing she has all day, she looks staggering. Hands just breaching her suit pockets, comfortably falling at her side, her hair in a calculated braid, designed to make her look approachable.

The air here agrees with her, her smile wide and effortless. You know she’s come straight from a meeting, and you suppose that adds to her charm. The Working Woman, a success story. Her rich friends, who spend their inheritances on shares and indoor tennis courts, lap it up. She’s a foreign object, something unfamiliar and wild.

You don’t interrupt, skimming the sidelines to get to your table. You can feel her glance, without substance, before returning to her conversation. Your event planner ( a shitty flip notebook that fits in every small clutch you own ) sits on the tablecloth at your seat, and you wait. Eyeing the glasses at the placemats next you, you can tell a few drinks has been shared, raking your eyes over Abby’s looser disposition.

She’s happy, and charming. She’s been drinking bourbon. Mint, with ice and syrup, the way you serve it to her in her office, when the occasion calls for celebration.

Her conversation finishes, her soft hands bidding gentle, kind goodbyes to the couple as they move on. She’s a friend to the people that matter.

“I expected you here before me.”

She doesn’t bother to look at you as she sits, instead fixing her napkin to her lap. You watch as the veins in her neck rise and fall as she talks, “Doesn’t matter now. Run me through everything.”

Right, fuck. You open your notebook and run your fingers over the scratchy writing. Your days leading up to this were spent copying details from obscure emails, tidbits you thought Abby needed to remember. Late nights at the office, life abandoned, deciphering biographies and 2 hour youtube deep dives. You can watch yourself fall asleep from the future, your handwriting slipping, long and longer strokes, spelling dissolving, long words abandoned. your pen fell to the floor, and you slept at your desk. Twenty missed calls. You argued when you came home in the morning.

“The Ambassador is arriving around 8:00pm with his new wife, also named Rebecca. Oh, Old Rebecca emailed asking why she didn’t receive an invitation.”

She’s slowly sipping at another whiskey, a different cocktail she ordered just as you’d arrived. The orange peel brushes her nose as she tilts the glass, her jaw tightens as she swallows, “Tell her the venue was at capacity. Send some flowers.”

It continues like this for a bit. Quiet and attentive, she listens to what you have to say, as her eyes follow the crowd. You too, spy people that you know, a few slimy execs that share a whisper and a boisterous laugh as they look your way. You order gin.

Soon enough, Abby checks her watch. An inexpensive, vintage piece of leather and quartz. She excuses herself with a measure of politeness. It’s time for an hour of speeches that don’t matter, before you’re finally allowed to eat. You sigh.

A quiet buzz rips through the growing silence. You open your clutch and hide your phone under the silk tablecloth, away from the disapproving elderly eyes.

i told u to leave me alone

jesus christ

A pit in your stomach. Dark, pressing, ever present. Your saliva is heavy in your mouth, and you feel like shrinking away. Luckily, the waiter isn’t far. Drinks are discounted for the company staff.

Finally, speeches finish. Abby looked nice on the stage, effervescent under the lights. Her hair catches warm light nicely in the strands.

The food comes, but people disregard it for shallow conversations. Plates are taken away full, apart from slim, polite pickings. Your table orders more drinks, and syrupy laughter echoes as anecdotes about private schools and hedge funds are shared. You don’t belong here. Your body becomes unsteady, restless. Your legs shaking, a hand finds you thigh in the veiled secrecy of the table cloth.

Abby’s not looking at you, too engaged in tipsy conversation to draw attention. A nice gesture, but it’s not. It’s wordless agreement. Her thumb traces the outside of your thigh mindlessly, her jaw clenching as she feels your gaze.

You hesitate.

What else did you have to do? Apart from go home and wait for an argument.

You let her touch you a little longer, soft, ghostly. It’s kind, unmistakably. You let yourself revel in it, in her uncommon affection, before excusing yourself to the bathroom.

Abby follows not long after. She’s confident, her position charismatic, not unlike the other times she finds a drink, and then goes to find you. She doesn’t stop, so sure that you’ll follow her trail as you’ve done so often before. But you hesitate, again.

She turns back to you, a look on her face that’s hard to decipher. You stumble in your reasoning.

“It’s just-, my girlfrien-“

“Are you coming? Or not?”

Your palms itch, you swallow.

What kind of sick sacrifice. Unfair to have both, some would say, but some don’t know you. How wicked it is to taste both fruit and have to choose the sweeter. Fuck. The drinks settle in your stomach.

Your girlfriend wasn’t coming home tonight anyway, not really.

She’s leading you up the stairs, hands flush to her body. You grip the cold handrail to hold you steady. She’s already steps ahead, the appropriate distance.

A quiet corner doesn’t need to be found. She’s been here before. You’ve been here before. The holy emptiness of the second floor is an accustomed comfort.

She’s quick and calculated, despite the mix of drinks on her breath. One hand pushing you to the wall, the other finding the zipper for your dress. It falls off you like it never belonged to you, kicked away and piled into a corner, forgotten.

Gripping you like you’d run away, she palms your tits and presses crescent moons into your hips. She holds her head away from you, watching you down her nose as you squirm. Abby has always remained detached, carefully groomed a distance between you that now feels too sacred to break. You long to feel her kiss you, to feel her intimately, to run your hands along her arms and feel every curve, every outline. You’ve needed to touch her since the moment you met her. Craved it.

Abby is disrespectful, impatient. She cups your pussy, still hidden in slick panties, letting the rough ball of her palm grind against your clit. It sets you on fire, and she chases it with a hand on your mouth to keep you quiet.

“Get rid of them.”

You strip fast, in a very unflattering way, you’re certain, and throw your underwear close to the ghost of your dress. She moves against you again, her hand softer as it wraps around your lips and cheeks. You look at her, hoping to see that softness echoed on her face, but her eyes are elsewhere, too focused on the movement your tits make as she holds you against the wall.

Painstakingly, her fingers slide inside you, her hand pressing down on your mouth as you moan around the feeling of her, the intoxication. Your hands lock and unlock, your nails digging at scratching at the wood boards on the wall as you try to balance yourself.

Merciless. She rocks into you, letting you fall into step with her, find her pace, a relentless one. You feel her melting into your core, her fingers curling and stretching your walls as she pounds into you, again, again, again. You sound pathetic, behind the mask of her hand, whining as she leaves, and nearly screaming when she returns.

Abby watches as your face contorts around her fingers, feels you wrap around her. If she feels even a fraction of what she gives you, you wouldn't know. Her eyes remain unkind, left at a distance, but her breathing is staggered. short, laboured. she looks over you, you feel it, feel as her eyelashes rise as she rakes over your body.

You need it to be desire in her eyes. You need her to starve. To crave, like you do. Desperation.

Her hand moves from your mouth, your whimpering breath filling the room fast, the quiet broken. Her pace slows, and you almost rest on her fingers, left to wonder what she’s playing at. Instead, it comes down on your shoulder, still warm and wet with your breath, and she pushes you down onto her fingers, deep, deep. you feel her at the very centre of yourself, your eyes wide as the pressure builds inside you, her fingernails leaving a trail, evidence of her in your walls. She lets your ragged moans echo, hurt and pleasure. It’s an unkind end to things.

You don’t want to let it to end. You can’t.

The distance is broken. You reach out and grasp flesh, firm under your nails. You’re still riding the ecstasy pulse, the heat in your pussy, and Abby lets you stay, holding onto her as if you would fade otherwise. Your cheeks are almost touching, her breath hot on your ear, you hear her for the first time, raspy groans as you squeeze around her. She’s been holding back.

Damn it all.

“Everybody knows. Please. Please, fuck me like you know you should.”

You meet her gaze. Everything is foreign now. Her skin feels different to how you had imagined it. Softer. Her eyes are more uncertain, more than you’d ever seen before. Hesitance.

“Fuck it.”

Whiskey, and a sip of your gin, and tobacco. You didn’t even know she smoked, but you taste it on her like its the only thing she ever did. The smell of pine came in a wave as she moved, hooking her hands under your legs and hoisting you up. For months, you’ve yearned for her to kiss you, begged for it even. And now, her lips are rough, and bloody, and everywhere. Ghosts tracing your neck, unkind, stinging, exhilarating.

She moves you to the floor without fuss, holding herself over you, your legs spread around her. She’s smiling, and you become so sure that there’s something not quite right with this side of Abby. You’re quickly aware that you’ve landed in hostile territory, vulnerable, needy.

She usually didn’t like it when you begged.

Her tongue is like the rapture on your clit, spitting fire through your veins, in your nerves. You feel it creep up in your body, twisting and tightening through you like something invasive, moans and prayers dripping from your lips that only push her. her name a curse, fallen on your body. You feel her laugh against your slick walls and it jolts you.

Abby, suddenly so aware of you, so kind, so attentive, shifts her posture, “Oh, you’re so needy.” A hand grabs your face, pulling it up from the floor in a dead lull. Her name rolls off your pretty lips once more, “What? You beg for me, and now you can’t take me?” Her tone is mocking, “Which is it? Hm?”

A cacophony. You, you, you. Your head foggy, unsure of what she wants to hear, you beg for again, telling her you can it take it. I can, please, abby.

Her laugh is cruel, mocking as her mouth finds you again, sending cold vibrations up your legs. Slut echoes against your clit.

Inside of you, she feels like a god. Her fingers stretching your walls, pressing deep against your centre at an excruciating pace, and her tongue lazily laps up all that you give her.

“Fuck! Fu-uck, fuck!”

It’s clear to Abby that the caution she so carefully designed was useless now. People knew, and fuck it if they knew. Fuck it if they heard you dripping on her fingers, calling out her name. Fuck it if they stop the music, and turn to listen - fucking perverts - because it’s her. And you’re the one begging for her.

Stars creep in through the haze in your vision, and Abby’s trying to ask you something harsh, but you don’t hear it. You’re tethered to the feeling of her fingers, your whole body knotting around her like a planet in orbit of the sun.

You’d burn if she wanted you to, happily.

You’re so fucking tight around her fingers, your legs shaking and a vicious call ripping through your body. Her Name.

The warmth from your body is too much, and the cool of the floor is lulling, soothing, as you collapse. Abby’s fingers leave you empty, incomplete. You whine as she leaves you, your walls tightening around the absence of her. She wipes your cotton slick on your leg.

She stands, and rolls her shoulders. Fixes the few hairs that fall out of place. Guiltless.

“Get dressed, before someone sees you.”

#i'm gonna get back to cowboy!ellie i swear #i have so many people in my inbox begging for her I HEAR U!!#i just needed a change of pace bc writers block yk #idk what it is w me and mean women but cowboy!ellie is also going to be a bit mean i fear #also i was going to write this w ellie as the gf but i couldn't fit it in #but it is implied!!#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby tlou #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x you #tlou abby #abby x reader #abby the last of us

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