#Something came up [said thing has been on the calendar for weeks now] and I didn't get a chance to finish day 5.... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

frannyzooey · 8 months

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Short Days, Long Nights: 13

Joel Miller x f!reader

Series Masterlist

Rating: E (pregnancy sex, lactation, grief)

A/N: Thank you endlessly for being so patient with me while I've been on hiatus ❤ I'm gonna stay off for another couple weeks, but I didn't want to leave you hanging for too long. I appreciate every single person that has stuck with me on this! Thank you to @the-ginger-hedge-witch and @the-scandalorian for helping me with this one - you both are the biggest brains and the most wonderful writers and I am insanely lucky to have you on my team. Enjoy! ❤

Jackson.

The image of the map is burned into Joel’s mind, always present.

More concerned with your safety than anything, he knows you should leave, but as the weeks slip by, what picks at him more is that he didn’t have an answer to your question that day.

“Where are we gonna go?”

He should be one step ahead. He should be on top of the potential outcomes. He should have a plan, since that’s always been his role. Stepped up with one when he had Sarah, took care of Tommy before the Outbreak, and after, led their way in the QZ. After Tommy left, he still did it, even if he was going through the motions more than anything. Doing it has always been second nature, a means to survive.

You’d let his lack of answer drop because he knew you didn’t want to leave, and of course, he knew you shouldn’t. Not right now. But still - still - he should have had a plan for something he knew was bound to happen sometime. Blinded by the light of your fierce optimism and wanting so badly to believe in it, he simply…didn’t think about it. The first time that’s happened in decades.

You’re depending on him, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t have an answer ready.

“Where are we gonna go?”

He doesn’t fucking know.

Wood dust floats to settle on the floorboards around his boots, and he runs a piece of sandpaper over the beam of rough lumber that rests across his lap. The rhythmic sweeps soothe his nerves, and he tries to focus on how good it feels to do something useful with wood again. Something familiar, the dry grain sliding against his palms. A task done because he wants to, instead of as a means to get by like so much else in his life.

This…this was for him, and for you.

The late afternoon sun streams through the window in the shed, not quite enough to dissipate the chill. Crisp air breezes in through the open door, the sweet smell of damp leaves blending with the wood and the tips of his fingers are cold enough to stop, but he doesn’t. He has to make the most of your nap times if he wants to get this done before next week.

Before Christmas - or the closest approximation to the date anyway, using your rudimentary calendar. Celebrating the holiday had been your idea, and like every other time when it came to something you asked for, he couldn’t say no. He said yes when you asked him to cut you a tree, nodded when you pointed to the one you wanted after a trek through the woods, helped you rip strips of red, moth bitten flannel that was worthless for clothing just to watch you tie bows to the end of the branches, as a means to decorate it.

He was impressed by your constant resourcefulness and ingenuity when it came to the things you’d been given, and at night, when the lantern shone on it and bathed the living room in a cozy glow, it almost did feel like Christmas time. The closest thing to it that he’s felt in years, anyway.

Placing the sandpaper on the floor and picking up a knife, his mind follows the trail marked on the map. Winding through woods and across open swathes of land, it passes right through your area and he knows it’s only a matter of time before someone else follows the first. He knows that man can’t have been the only one with a map.

He frowns, gouging the wood a little more forcibly as he works through a knot, and he pictures the curve of your cheek, the delicate line of your neck, the bright happiness in your eyes here. That Christmas tree, in the front room. Torn between the idea of the unknown being just as unsafe as being a sitting duck at the cabin, he is restless with the need to move. The urge to keep you tucked away and protected from the world spreads beneath his skin and grows stronger every day, along with your stomach.

It’s large enough that it strains against the shirts you’ve borrowed from him, and though you’ve started choosing large sweatshirts instead, it’s begun to push against those too. You’ve begun to sway when you stand in place, an unconscious rock as a means to relieve pressure on your lower back, and he pictures you doing the same with a baby in your arms as you stand next to the cradle that he’s been building.

When he thinks about leaving it behind only to gather dust as he drags you somewhere else, the image eats at him, reminding him too much of another room, left behind to rot.

Another life, upended by abrupt violence.

Guilt has always gnawed at him for so many things, and following the mental image of you holding a baby, he adds to the growing list: the idea of another child replacing the one he had.

He fixates on all the things he couldn’t do for her on that last day but also the things time has robbed from him: the image of her face, the sound of her laugh. The books she liked, the order in which she lost her teeth, the weight of her infant body in his arms. How much of that time he spent without her while trying to provide for her, and how here, he’s got all the time in the world for this new child. His new child.

More feelings; the knife gouging deeper. Looking forward to a holiday that can’t include her, nervously anticipating holding a baby that belongs to him, looking at you and what you’ve built together and being so fucking happy he missed his mark on that bleak day ten years ago.

Is it betrayal to feel joy?

He’s not replacing her. He knows that. He knows, and yet the guilt never stops and so neither do his hands nor his mind, both working on fixing other problems that can be fixed.

Jackson.

A bed for the baby.

–

“I know it would be cold, but I think I’d rather have snow.”

You look out at the sodden garden, the neat, large borders that surround it blending in with the damp landscape. The fence that Joel built the only visual marker of where it’s at, it’s prepped for winter, buried in a dense layer of leaves and compost. You absentmindedly finger the leaf of a plant you brought inside with you, sheets of rain sliding down the window.

“Not me,” he says. “Might look pretty, but it would be a whole lot more dangerous.”

The blurred, muted mash of colors outside all blend together, the world a canvas of dingy brown and bleak gray. Everything soggy and limp, everything saturated with wetness: at this very moment, you’d take danger over another day of this.

Turning away from the depressing sight, you watch him sort through a pile of loose screws and nails on the coffee table. His head bent in his task, his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders as he hunches over and nudges each piece of metal with the tip of his finger, sorting them. Listening to the pleasant clink of them being dropped into glass jars, you go back to watering the plants.

After a process that had you pouring over the gardening book for days, you left what you could in the garden in order to have a good base for the spring, but took the rest inside, to see if you could keep growing anything through the winter.

Mismatched buckets and pots, an amalgamation of anything that would hold enough soil to plant a seed in, it was an experiment for sure. Enough was stored in the pantry to get you through the winter if you stayed lean enough about rations, and Joel had been pushing his portions upon you like there was no tomorrow, constantly assuring you that he had plenty.

“What is this?”

Stopping to stretch his back with a groan, he’s picked up a loose, shapeless scrap of fabric off the couch.

“Wait –” you protest, setting the watering can down.

He frowns at it, turning it in his hands, and when you make a hasty grab for it, he keeps it out of your reach with a chuckle.

“This my present, honey?” His facial expression still puzzled, he tries to work out what it is.

“It’s for the baby,” you explain. Coming to stand next to him, you turn it upright. “See? This is the neckhole, and the arms go here.”

“.......And the legs?”

“I’m not that good at sewing, okay?” you defend yourself with a laugh. “I thought maybe their legs could just hang out in this little…sack area.”

You make a self deprecating face, looking to him for a reaction, and he fingers the bottom of it.

“That ain’t bad. You should see if you can tie up the bottom, you know, for a draft or somethin’.”

“I used all the spare laces on the pants. I tried to make some, but of course I don’t have elastic and I don’t know how big to make them around the waist for a button, so I thought I could just cut two holes and make like, a little belt so that it would grow with the baby and...”

Your words taper off when you realize he’s staring up at you with an amused expression and you let your shoulders drop in defeat. “This kid is gonna look like they’re from the eighteen hundreds, aren’t they.”

“I guess you would know, with the books you’re always readin’,” he says with a grin, and the stack of historical fiction next to your side of the bed comes to mind.

“Oh God,” you moan quietly to yourself.

Standing with a soft grunt, he bends to press a kiss to the crown of your hair.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” he murmurs. “You about ready for bed? I’m gonna go do a final lap.”

Checking the perimeter of the cabin while you bank the wood stove for the night, he eventually joins you in the bedroom, bringing in the smell of cool night air with him. Already in bed, you’re propped against the headboard with your book in hand, and you admire him as he gets ready for bed himself: the edges of his curling locks catching the light in a glowing chestnut, the warmth held in his tanned skin as he peels off his shirt, the soft give of his still trim stomach as he pads over to bed. He climbs in, adjusting the covers around the two of you.

“What about Mae?” you ask absentmindedly, skimming the book in front of you.

He shrugs. “Not bad.”

You make a face at the reception. “What about….Lauren?”

Stretching out on his side to face you, he rests his hand on your bump, smoothing the fabric of your sleep shirt down. A small movement nudges underneath his palm, and the corner of his mouth lifts. An intimate, quiet moment, you keep reading while he chases the constant movements with his touch, his fingers splayed wide, searching.

“Always so squirrely at night,” he says, the words rounded with softness.

“Tell me about it,” you sigh.

You set your book to the side and slide down next to him as he reaches to turn off the lantern, and the two of you lay facing each other, your belly between the length of your bodies. His hand finds your stomach again, and you let yours rest over it, guiding his touch lower. Lower, until the tips of his fingers brush against the band of your underwear and also right where a set of feet (or hands) slide underneath your skin. The taut skin shifts with rapid movement, a sensation that never fails to mesmerize you, but it’s something else when he’s the one who gets to see it. Watching him experiencing it is your favorite.

“What about Margaret? I’ve always liked that name.”

He makes a face, telling you all you need to know. “What makes you so sure it’s gonna be a girl?”

You shrug, lifting the hem of your shirt so you can feel his skin on yours, and his hand slides right back into place.

“Have you thought of any names?” you ask quietly.

“I, uh…I was sorta thinkin’ about June.” His dark eyes flit up to yours. “After June Carter Cash. Or Pearl, after –”

“You wanna name my baby after Pearl Jam?” your eyebrows raise. You’ve heard him humming “Future Days” while working outside, you know the band is a favorite of his.

He grins at your reaction. “That a no?”

“I should have guessed it would be music related,” you tease with a smile, scooting closer. “I like June. It’s pretty.”

The gentle exploration of his touch soothes you, and you close your eyes to savor it.

“What about boy names?” you ask. “I can’t really think of any. It’s actually what makes me think it’s a girl, like she’s trying to tell me something.”

“I haven’t thought of too many either. Thomas, for my brother, maybe?”

“That’s a good one.” You yawn, and sleep softly rounds the edges of your words. “Are you ready for next week?”

The preparation of his gift has your hands aching and grasping one with the other, you rub the tender knuckles, working some of the soreness out. Wordlessly, he reaches for your hand and takes it into his own, kneading the joints.

“I think so. S’kinda nice, havin’ a Christmas.” His touch lingers on the tips of your fingers, warming them. “Too cold in here? I can put another log on if you want.”

“No, it’s just…they ache. They're so swollen they get stiff sometimes. I don’t think the damp is helping.”

You hear it now, peppering the window in the dark. The steady drum of rain on the window, the sound makes the room all the more inviting: warm and safe, his body heat radiating underneath the quilt. He keeps rubbing your fingers, his own larger hands cradling your smaller one, and akin to someone rubbing your back to sleep, the touch lulls you, your eyes fluttering shut.

“This good?” His mouth brushes lightly against your knuckles, his lips pressing against your fingers before he breathes warm air on them.

“Mmmm, yea.” Silent for a moment, you speak. “Joel?”

He hums in acknowledgement of his name, and you voice the nightly request you started asking him weeks ago.

“Tell me what you know.”

A prompt he’s seemingly ready for, he shifts to get comfortable, letting out a sigh. The motion similar to someone getting ready to tell a bedtime story, your reaction to curl tight next to him is the same.

The first time you asked him this, he barely remembered anything. Other memories taking their place, the finer details of pregnancy and birth were buried deep, most of them forgotten. He remembered the doctor's visits but not the frequency. The general concept of birth but not the stages. The pain, but as someone who didn’t go through it, he couldn’t tell you what labor actually felt like.

All guesses and long ago recollections, you took them because they were better than nothing. Tonight, he tells you about the night feedings.

“Babies, they uh…” he begins in his gravely, lowered voice, trying to speak softly in the darkness. “You know they eat every couple of hours or so for a while after they’re born. Weeks of it.”

You nod against his shoulder, listening to his deep drawl.

“I don’t remember much because when you don’t get a lot of sleep it all tends to blur together, y’know? But I do remember some of them. Peaceful, sometimes. Everything is so quiet and still, and there ain’t nothin’ but you and them, sittin’ together.”

He stops, and you reach up to brush your fingers along the edge of his jaw, just enough to let him know you’re listening. He sighs, a heavy, contemplative thing.

“They are so small in your hands. So small it’s scary. I remember bein’ so careful, always feelin’ like I was gonna accidentally hurt her, or –” his breath hitches, and he swallows hard. He’s silent for a moment, and your breath slows and evens out. “Anyway, they don’t let you get any sleep, not for a few months, but sometimes….sometimes, you don’t mind.”

Your body loose and relaxed next to his, you’re on the edge of sleep when the words tumble softly out of your mouth.

“Joel?”

“Yea?”

“I’m scared.” The confession is whispered into his bare skin, and you breathe in his comforting, familiar smell, the steady drum of his heart beating underneath your cheek. His hand is a weighty drag down the line of your spine, the feeling of it steadying you.

The wind blows outside, rain pelting the glass.

“I know, honey,” he answers. “Me too.”

–

Long after you’ve fallen asleep, he stays awake, his mind lost in a memory.

Her tiny body rigid with deceiving strength, he struggles to force her arm into a small sleeve. His hand is huge compared to her fragile arm, her skin downy soft under his palm, and moonlight shines through the window in her bedroom just enough to light the features of her scrunched, upset face. A small wail pierces the darkness, and succeeding in dressing her, he lifts her up.

One hand cupping her entire bottom with the other covering her back, he makes low shushing sounds with his mouth to soothe her, inhaling the milky sweet smell that clings to her skin.

“Hey baby girl, shhh. I got you. I got you.”

Her tiny face burrows into his chest, her body squirming until she gets comfortable, and he keeps soothing with low hums, his hand rubbing a slow circle over her purple pajamas as she settles.

Moving slowly so as not to disturb her, he sits down in the rocking chair and continues to hold her; the carpet plush under his bare foot that gently pushes off the floor. His sleep blurred eyes focus on the small turn of a glass butterfly that hangs from her window, the rounded curves catching the moonlight as she sleeps on his chest.

He lets the unearthed, vivid memory wash over him as his chest constricts, the pain suffocating. Finding himself in this position more and more since you started asking him about what he remembers, he closes his eyes and succumbs to the pain: worth it, to see her face again. To remember things he’d thought he’d forgotten.

The edges of the memory blur and crumble, his mind losing its focus on that purple room and on the cusp of sleep, he tries to grasp and hold on tight to the details until they fade away.

–

“Keep your eyes closed, okay? Wasn’t much to wrap with.”

Anticipation thrums through you, your features lax with fondness as you wait patiently on the living room floor with your eyes closed. A fire crackles in the wood stove next to you, shadows pooled in the corners of the living room where the light doesn’t reach, and you scoot a little closer to absorb more heat.

Never one to linger in bed, he’s been up since dawn, and when you awoke alone, there was a weighted, peaceful stillness in the air—a significance to the day that was at best, a guess. Still, you felt it all the same: through drinking tea with him on the back porch this morning, through reading on the couch this afternoon, through helping him prep the small feast you allowed yourselves for dinner.

You hear and feel a shift in the air when he comes to sit in front of you, setting your present at your feet.

“Okay, you can open ‘em.”

Laughter bubbles bright and loud when you see what it is.

“Joel Miller, you shouldn’t have.” Picking up the bottle of vinegar, you tilt it in the light to see how much is left: about half, which is a find indeed. “How long have you been hiding this?”

He shrugs, looking pleased with your reaction. “Not too long. I found it when I went to check out that last cabin. I know it’s not a lot, but I thought it would be useful.”

Vinegar means pickling, means cleaning, means acid for the soil of your plants that you moved inside for the winter, and even though the label is half peeled off and the contents might not be as potent as they once were, you have never been so happy to see a bottle of the stuff in your life.

“Thank you,” you say softly, leaning forward as much as you can, presenting your lips for a kiss. He gives you one, and you pull back, your mouth twisted in an apologetic pout. “This is a way better gift than what I got you.”

“That’s not true,” he argues. “You fixed my favorite jacket. Feels brand new.”

After snagging it on a tree branch while hunting, he had been so disappointed when he inspected the size of the rip when he came home. Handing it to you, he had declared it no good anymore and told you to use it for something else, but knowing it was his favorite, you’d been mending it in secret while he went out for the day. Textiles being a scarcity aside, that jacket was also your favorite: it’s the one he’s been wearing since you first started out; the sight of it comforting to you.

“I actually got you somethin’ else, but you’ll have to close your eyes again.”

You automatically squeeze your eyes shut, your hands playfully grabbing the air as you squirm on the floor, and the sound of his low chuckle makes you smile wider. Hearing the front door open and then close, you frown when the object he places at your feet sounds heavy.

“Okay, open em’ up.”

It’s immediate, the way your expression drops from delight into something more reverential. Your breath frozen in your lungs, you reach out and touch the smooth edges of the cradle. Tracing the perfectly fit together corners, you take in how small it is – so small - but perfect.

Your eyes lift to meet his, tears blurring your vision. “Did you make this?”

“Yea,” he replies softly. “I kept in the shed, workin’ on it when you were napping. I knew we needed somewhere to put her, so I thought –”

“Her?” Your fingers brushing along the neat edges, you look up at him with a small, watery smile, and he matches it with a soft one of his own.

“Sure, why not. You’ve convinced me.” Affection is open and obvious on his face, the lines that normally crease his forehead softened as he watches you look it over.

“This is…so much, Joel. It’s beautiful. I don’t even know how…I was thinking we’d have to put her in a dresser drawer or something, and I –” Overwhelmed with his thoughtfulness, you’re at a loss for words. “Thank you,” you eventually settle on, hoping the sincereness in your words expresses everything you feel.

“You look so surprised,” he says, teasing laced in his tone. “Did you really think I would get you just a half bottle of vinegar for Christmas?”

“I don’t know!” you laugh, a hitch in your breathing as you settle your emotions. “We can’t exactly go Christmas shopping, so I figured you did the best you could.”

He reaches to swipe a tear from the round of your cheek, and you chase the heat of his palm, leaning into it. “It’s been so long since I gave anyone a Christmas present. Glad I’m not totally out of practice.”

Gently sliding the cradle out of the way, you rise to your knees to give him a kiss.

“I love it.”

You kiss him again, his lips tinted red from the wine at dinner, and the bitterness sweeps through your mouth when he gifts you a slow slide of his tongue. The tentative heat held in his response passes to you, and swallowing his hunger, it spreads through your limbs to pool between your legs. Pressing forward, your hand reaches out for his shirt, and you deepen the kiss.

You hope it conveys everything you want to put into words but can’t: appreciation, love, gratitude. Keeping your mouth on his, you slip your hand around the back of his neck and threading your fingers up through his locks, you hold him in place, his hand grasping your elbow to steady you as a soft sound rumbles from his throat.

“I guess you really liked it.”

You just nod, pulling him in for another kiss, his familiar taste and scent filling your senses as he presses himself closer, and when you let out the catch of a moan in your throat, he pulls back just far enough for you to see hooded want in his eyes.

“We done with the gift exchange?” He presses a kiss to your your throat, his lips warm and delicate over the skin he finds and you nod, letting him taste.

“Here,” he asks, his mouth moving just below your ear, “or in the bedroom?”

“Here,” you breathe, cupping his whiskered cheeks to pull his mouth back to yours. Your hand slips between his thighs, finding him half hard under his jeans, and groaning into your mouth, he shifts on the floor to kneel in front of you. Your fingers work the buttons of his flannel open, pushing it from his shoulders at the same time he grabs the hem of your shirt to work it over your head and off. Undoing your bra, you fling it onto the floor as his hand reaches back to tug his t-shirt off in a smooth, overhand motion, and your hands drop to his belt buckle, tugging it open.

The back of your knuckles swipe through the line of coarse hair that leads under the waistband of his jeans, a slight shakiness to your movements betraying the need you feel, and it’s something he sees and rewards with another consuming kiss.

The rest of your clothes tugged off in a rush, he rests his back against the couch and guides you onto his lap, the soft inside of your thighs straddling the outside of his firmer ones. One of the only comfortable positions you’ve got left, it’s been your favorite because it gives him unfettered access to your breasts and when he palms them in appreciation, anticipation sends a warm thrill up your spine.

Using both his hands, he cups the sides of your jaw to draw you in, holding you in place while he opens your mouth with his, his tongue sliding smoothly against yours. His fingertips dig into the nape of your neck, one hand dropping to palm the plush weight of your breast, and you kiss him back even harder while he delicately teases your nipple with his thumb.

The calloused pad skims over the top of it, the contrast between the tender touch and the fierceness of his kisses making your head swim with arousal, and pulling back, he takes in your kiss-swollen mouth only for a moment before bending his attention to your breast.

Using the cradle of his hold, he pushes it up to draw the peak of it into his mouth, and your head tips back, a broken cry coming from your throat.

“Please. Please.”

He would give you anything – anything – you ask for, and this is no different. He laves his tongue over the peaked bud, dragging firm pressure over it as he draws it into his mouth, and when you dig your fingers into his hair and pull with a moan of pleasure, his hand cups the underside of your breast to push more in. Frenzied, rough, desperate for more, a deep groan slides out of his throat at the same moment you feel a strange, tingling sensation on your nipple.

Surprise shows in his brown eyes when they flick up to yours, and pulling back, you both stop.

“Was that –” you ask, and he looks down at your breast, his thumb dragging delicately along the peak.

“Yea, I think it was,” he answers, slightly mesmerized.

A drop of milky liquid hangs from the tip of your breast, and he wipes it away, smearing it on your soft skin. Another one takes its place, and his eyes flicker with interest.

“Holy shit.”

The words slip out faster than you can stop them, and the corresponding lift of his eyebrows makes you laugh, his own deeper chuckle joining your lighter one. He pulls you in for a kiss right as you’re leaning down for one, and you find there was no hunger lost while the moment was broken; instead it comes back even stronger as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and he holds onto your back with a splayed grip so fierce it makes you squirm.

Unsure of when you started grinding your hips against his, you work them slightly faster. Spread and wet on his lap, you’re so achingly empty right over where you can feel the heft of him pressing between your bodies, and fire lights under your skin with how much you want him to just take.

He’s been so careful with you, so considerate in his handling of your body these last few weeks. Always taking care of every need that you have, he’s done so with no less attentiveness, but you can tell that he’s been holding back—a telling rigidness to his muscles when he moves above you, a tightness to his strokes every time he fucks you as if he’s keeping his body in check to make sure he doesn’t lose himself. Missing the sharp edges to his love, you kiss him harder, and he groans as if in pain, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth. His beard rubs your chin raw, the pressure of his response forcing your body to tip back slightly in his hold.

“Fuck me,” you whine, the words breathless against his lips, and he groans again, breaking your kiss.

“Christ, honey, turn around.”

Desperate to follow anything he tells you to do, you grip his shoulder to steady yourself as you turn yourself around, your back to his front. His mouth is an immediate brush against the nape of your neck, a heady sensation that has you melting back into him, and his hands travel up your sides to cup your breasts, pulling at the peaks.

Your ass grinds in his lap, the thick, stiff line of his cock trapped between your bodies, and when you arch your back and lean forward in a silent invitation, he reaches down to line himself up. Easing yourself back down, the stretch is delicious but so tight it’s almost unbearable.

“Goddamn,” he groans over your breathless whine.

Wrapping your smaller hands around his thick wrists for purchase, you pull at your bottom lip with your teeth as you sink all the way down to the base, and when he’s fully seated inside you, he bands his arms just under your breasts in a tight hold, keeping you in place. You can feel how hard he’s breathing between your shoulder blades, his beard rubbing against your skin, and squirming in his lap with a soft sound, you start to roll your hips.

He’s so deep this way, so much deeper than he’s been in weeks, and taking a moment to get used to it with a couple of slick strokes down, you chase the thick, filling stretch of his cock. Leaning forward, you brace your hands on his knees, and the deep groan you hear from behind you makes you wetter; your body physically reacting to his wordless praise.

“You feel so fucking good, honey. So good.”

His hands traverse your back—one splayed wide to drag heavily down your spine, the other curled around your hip to guide your movements–and when you bend forward as much as your stomach allows, his hand drops to your ass, spreading you from behind.

“I wish you could see how wet my cock is. I want you to see how you’re soakin’ it.”

“I can feel it,” you moan, your hips working faster.

You can: every down stroke is smooth and audible, the tight walls of your cunt stretching around him to take him perfect and fluid every single time, and when you start to pull him deeper, he sits forward with a cinch, pulling you back towards his body. The solid, warm wall of his chest cages you in, his arm looping around your hip so his hand can reach your clit, and when he finds it, everything spreads warm and thick from your center outwards, your head tipping back to rest against his shoulder.

“There’s my girl,” he smiles when your body drapes pliant and loose against his, your hips chasing the pressure of his fingers. Forward into his touch and backwards onto his cock, you can hear him breathing heavy and low into your ear and your hands find his forearms to hold on tight, your nails digging into the thick muscles as you work yourself faster.

He rubs your clit in quicker, more precise circles, just right with the firm slip of two calloused fingers, and your thighs tighten in their tremble, your release a bright, shining edge that beckons.

When it happens, it breaks you – clamping tight around him as you’re suspended in a state of strained rapture, his hand comes up to cradle the base of your throat in a possessive hold while his other hand keeps working, and a second wave takes you by surprise, washing over your skin as you cry out. You can feel the wetness that soaks his fingers when he reaches down to feel where you’re stretched around him, letting out a groan against your skin.

His hand smears damply across your hip as he lifts you from his lap, slipping out as he guides you on to your hands and knees, and loose and pliant, you let him position you anyway he wants.

“Just a little more, honey. Just a little longer,” he coaxes.

Resting your cheek on the floor, you arch your back to put yourself on display for him as you catch your breath, but it’s stolen just as quickly when he gives you a rough, open mouthed kiss to your cunt. He eats you like a man starved, the wet muscle of his tongue flattening against you as he keeps you open with his hands splayed on your ass, and a deep rumbled groan is felt against the inside of your thighs when you reach back to tug on his hair.

His tongue dips deep inside you for a taste, and just when he pulls back, he goes in for more, like he’s changed his mind because he can’t get enough. Harder this time, more forceful, the action pushing your hips forward, and when you cry out, he’s dragging himself back, pulling away to position himself.

The heat of his body radiates along the back of your thighs, the thick tip of his cock notched against the slick dip of your entrance only for the barest of moments before he pushes himself in with a stroke of his hips, and you hear a hiss behind you, one you almost don’t catch over the low moan that spills out of your mouth.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, his hips fitting neatly along your ass. He slides out and then back in, giving you time to adjust to his size. “I want – Christ – I want…can you take it harder for me?”

“Yes. God yes. Please.”

He answers with a rougher slide in, an audible muted pound of his hips against your skin. “You tell me if it’s too much, honey, okay?”

After turning your head and nodding so he can see you, he gives you another rough, smooth stroke in and then another one, each one filling you until the air feels like it’s being pushed from your lungs, and then he picks up his pace, letting out a low, heavy breath for every thrust. It sounds obscene: his rumbled, low groans and grunts, but you can barely focus on it for how sensitive you are to his thickness. Everything tighter, the fit is a snug, slick slide in every time, and you squeeze around him, earning you another hiss of appreciation.

“This pussy is gonna kill me,” he groans and then holds nothing back: his hips snapping against you with his hand resting flat on your tailbone, every jolt rocking your body forward.

Exactly what you asked for and what you’ve been missing, you let him know.

“It feels…it feels so good. God I’ve missed this.”

“Yea?” The word is a breathless growl, and you clench down on him again. “What about this? Did you miss this too?”

His hands wrapping around the inside of your elbows, he tugs you back and up until your back is arched with your ass in his lap and then he’s pounding into you.

“Joel!”

Faster and harder, his hips work ceaselessly behind you for a dozen strokes and when he comes, his fingers dig tight into your skin, your arms aching as he holds you in place to take every last drop. Panting behind you, his strokes slow into a rhythmic grind and sliding out, he eases you gently down onto the floor where you slump, your cheek resting on the fold of your arms.

Dazed and loose, with a content smile on your lips, you lay down on your side and he joins you, dropping to the floor. His arm slung over his eyes, you watch his pulse pound in his neck as he tries to catch his breath.

“So…was that also a Christmas present, or….?” you tease, the question coming out slow and saturated with contentment, and he laughs, a breathless thing that’s carefree and deep.

“Sure,” he answers, rolling onto his side. “Merry Christmas.”

The light of the flames dancing across your bare body, shadows slide over his tanned skin and the bluntness of his reply makes you laugh.

The two of you look at each other for a moment, his hand coming up to brush away an errant lock of hair from your temple. His hand glides down the length of your torso, coming to rest on the swell of your stomach and leaning in, his mouth meets yours.

Still smiling, you cup his cheek and with a slick slide leaking between your thighs, pull him closer to deepen the kiss.

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller/you #joel miller/reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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xiaq · 1 year

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AO3 Pt. 1 Pt. 2

Pt. 3 I combined the prompts: Outsider POV, Steve Harrington is an Idiot (affectionate), Everyone is Queer Because I Said So, and @c0olness's hyper-specific Wayne's Boyfriend Owns a Gay Bar in Indianapolis and Introduces Steve to a Drag Queen. :)

Angel Reyes has loved Wayne Munson about as long as he’s loved himself. The timing is not coincidental.

Which is why he’s willing to wait for him, even when Angel’s patience is worn thin like the shirt he stole from Wayne three years ago and wears like a prayer to bed.

Some nights, when Wayne calls at the end of his shift and Angel is wiping down his own bar at closing, he’s tempted to say: we might not have much time left—shouldn’t we spend what we do have together?

But he doesn’t.

Because he already knows the answer.

Because the same reason he fell in love with Wayne is the reason Wayne won’t move to Indy. The man is loyal to a fault and when he gives himself to people he gives all of himself and there’s no force in the world that would convince Wayne to leave Hawkins if he thought Eddie still needed him there. Because Wayne loves Angel. But Wayne loved Eddie first. And Angel can hardly begrudge him of that.

So he repeats a well-worn mantra, only slightly comforting: not today, but someday. And he hangs up the phone and he checks the calendar and he looks forward to the time he is allowed. If there’s one thing he learned over the years, it’s that he can’t get greedy when he already has a good thing.

Wayne is worth the quiet agony of patience.

So when he’s locking up for the night and the phone rings, he expects the conversation to take a familiar path.

“Evening, handsome,” he says, canting his hip against the counter. “You tell him yet?”

It’s been his standard greeting for close to a year. Why the man won’t just tell his gay nephew that he is, conveniently, also gay, is beyond Angel. But then, listening has always been Wayne’s strong suit. Talking, not so much.

“Well,” Wayne says. And that’s new.

“Well?”

“I did, actually. After I walked in on him and Steve kissin’ last night—“

“Finally!” Angel crows. The saga of Eddie and Steve and their will-they-won’t-they relationship had quickly surpassed even his favorite telenovela’s dramatic storylines. The pretty jock with hidden depths and the nerdy metalhead falling in love? Hospital vigils? Protracted pining while sharing a bed? Impeccable.

“They’re together now,” Wayne finishes.

“Darling,” Angel says, not for the first time, “I’d like to remind you that you are not paying per word for this call.”

Wayne huffs at him, also not for the first time.

“Steve didn’t know liking both boys and girls meant he was bisexual. He thought there was some sort of…threshold he needed to pass to be queer enough to date a man. I suppose Robin set him straight––or, not so straight as the case may be––” he chuckles a little at his own joke, “And he came over to declare his love as soon as his shift ended.”

Angel takes a moment to digest that. “...Maybe they use Eddie as the sperm donor if they want kids,” he suggests.

“Ease up, it’s not like they teach this shit in school. Bet I’d been a lot more confused too if I had the luxury of liking both.”

“Alright, I won’t pick on your future son-in-law, promise.”

“ Speaking of school,” Wayne says, sidestepping his implication. “Eddie got his diploma in the mail yesterday.”

“You going to do something to celebrate?”

“Actually, we thought we’d take a trip to Indy this weekend.”

Angel twists the phone’s cord around his finger. “…you’re supposed to come next weekend.”

“So you’d have to see me two weeks in a row, if you can bear it.”

“A trial, to be sure. When you say…” he pauses, trying to figure out how to clarify without breaking his own heart. “When you come this weekend. Would you want us—would you want me. To meet them?”

He closes his eyes and bangs a fist against his forehead because that is not the safe way to ask that question.

“It'd be pretty weird if they didn’t meet the person hosting them.”

“Oh, I see. You’re just using me for my five star accommodations,” he says, because he’s apparently determined to dig his own grave.

“No. Wayne says, “those are nice. But mostly I just want to introduce them to my boyfriend.”

“Ah.”

“And saying shit like that makes me think you’re trying to compete with Steve in the stupid Olympics.”

Angel makes an outraged noise but Wayne talks over him which is unique enough an occurrence that Angel lets him get away with it.

“See,” Wayne says. “The boys have decided they don’t want to stay in Hawkins long-term. They figure they’ll stay another year. Save some money. Make sure the kids are settled. And then Eddie’s set on New York or California and I think Steve’s just set on Eddie, wherever he is. I thought we could at least make a case for Indy, though. ‘Cause if Eddie isn’t staying in Hawkins, I’ve got no reason to.”

“Ah,” Angel says again. “And you don’t have any interest in New York or California?”

“I sure don’t,” Wayne says levelly.

“Well,” he clears his throat. “I’ll mop the floors and clean the windows. Give them the best showing I can. Should we plan to take them to one of the…heavier… music venues? I can probably have Frank cover for me, I’d just need to ask him now.”

“Nah. I figure I’ll help you out Saturday night and let them explore on their own. Eddie’s already making a list of options. But Friday is drag night at your place, right?”

“It is.”

“We should start them with that, I think.”

Angel grins. “Their debut in queer society shall be heralded by Dolly Parton and glitter.”

“Mm.”

Angel is familiar enough with Wayne’s thoughtful noises to know that he’s smiling.

“Enough about my boys,” Wayne says. “Tell me about your day.”

Angel does.

When Angel hangs up ten minutes later, for once, he’s grinning. He thinks, as usual, not today but someday. Only ‘someday’ suddenly feels tangible in a way it never has before.

***

Eddie Munson is exactly what Angel expected him to be when he comes tumbling out the driver’s side door of the van parked half on Angel’s driveway and half on his lawn. Angel has been hearing about him through the rosy lens of Wayne’s affection for close to five years and as a result, Angel loves him immediately upon first sight.

Then again, he’d be difficult not to love. Eddie is a bright, frenetic, presence, all hair and chains and affected airs, who shares Wayne's smile, though he dispenses smiles much more freely than his uncle. He is unashamedly himself as he shakes Angel’s hand, tells his uncle he approves, and then asks for a tour of the house.

Steve Harrington is somehow simultaneously exactly and nothing like Angel expected.

Exactly, because he looks the part: a cropped Hawkins Varsity Basketball sweatshirt, tiny athletic shorts, and the well-built frame of someone who regularly works out. His hair is verging on ridiculous. His face is…well-suited to the body, he’ll say.

But the kid also has a hyper-awareness to him, a quick-eyed, assessing, vigilant posture, that Angel has only ever seen in war vets twice the kid’s age. He puts his back to a room’s farthest corner. He keeps doorways in sight. And he constantly, constantly, orbits Eddie like the world's most unsubtle protective detail.

There are also the scars. Terrible, still-healing, scars. On one exposed thigh, the side of his neck, and his right forearm. On the slice of skin between his waistband and the frayed cut-off hem of his sweater. He wears them unapologetically, with the composure of someone who is neither proud nor embarrassed by them.

Angel suspects, only a few minutes into their first meeting, that Eddie may have similar scars beneath his torn jeans and bleach-speckled band shirt. One of his arms has some sort of medical sleeve on it—the pale fabric covered in black bleed-fuzzy Sharpie drawings of bats. Angel considers the mangled half-moon-shaped lines decorating Steve’s thigh. Unless earthquakes have suddenly developed teeth, Wayne has clearly been editing his stories.

But despite their significant aesthetic differences, the two boys are well-suited, if painfully young and unpracticed in the art of subtlety. They touch each other constantly; unthinkingly. Hands. Hips. Shoulders. Elbows. And the way they look at each other—well. They’ll need to work on that if they don’t want to accumulate more scars. Granted, they hardly have to hide their relationship in the sanctuary of his home, but he gets the feeling they don’t know how to be any other way with each other.

It’s both sweet and more than a little heartbreaking.

“So,” he says, “ I need to get back to the bar before the opening act at 8. It’s drag night.”

“Robin is going to be furious she didn’t come,” Steve says.

“We’ll bring her next time,” Eddie says.

They go.

***

Angel’s bar is called Innuendo.

He can’t take credit for the name, but he can take credit for the atmosphere. It’d been a dark, sticky, hole-in-the-wall when he started working there at 21. When he’d bought it from the former owner a decade later, he’d cleaned it up, regulated the jukebox hours, and started live music, drag, and deejay nights. A few years after that, in 1984, when the mayor issued a proclamation declaring the new city policy to no longer discriminate against queers, he’d taken the boards down from all the windows.

It’s still dark in the back where the stage and dance floor are tucked away, but the front windows with a clear view of the street are big and unashamed. He keeps the windows clean.

There’s a copy of the proclamation framed above them, along with pictures of Angel and noteworthy patrons of the establishment over the years: Wakefield Poole; Tom Higgins; Bayard Rustin; Freddie Mercury, and Jim Hutton.

A lot has changed in the last two decades that he’s worked there, but some things, like the old oak-wood bar where all the pictures were taken, stay the same.

He brings Wayne and the boys in through the back to scattered shouts of hello from regulars. He and Wayne slide behind the bar to start helping Frank, and the boys sit on stools with wide eyes.

It’s nice, to see the place from their perspective. The magic of it is never lost on him, but sometimes he does forget exactly how magic it is: a bar that looks like most other bars but where men look and touch and kiss without concern, where there’s art and magazines and conversations that wouldn’t be permitted by common society a scant few feet outside the door.

After fifteen minutes, they get brave enough to explore—admiring the posters on the opposite wall: Bijou and Boys in the Sand; Passing Strangers, Forbidden Letters, and A Night at the Adonis.

They play a round of darts near the front windows, the boards covered in shitty black-and-white copies of Anita Bryant’s face.

They sit at a table near the stage when the show starts. They pull their chairs together. They hold hands on the tabletop. They laugh and shout and sing along and kiss when invited.

After, when they’re back at the bar, flushed with alcohol and the subtle worldview shift that Angel remembers well from his first visit to a gay bar, a few of the queens come over to introduce themselves. Leslie, currently in her Cher era, steps up to the bar, accepts her drink from Wayne with a wink, and gives Steve a clear once-over.

“Aren't you out a little late for a school night, baby?" she says in her customary baritone.

“Uh, no ma’am. I graduated last year. Sorry. Sir?”

"Sugar, do I look like a ‘sir’ to you?"

“Take it easy on him, Les,” Angel calls. “He’s new.”

“No kidding.” She purses her lips at him. “Ma’am is fine unless you meet me on the street. But here I’d prefer ‘honey. Or ‘darling.”

Steve swallows. “I promised I’d reserve pet names for my boyfriend. So. I’ll stick with Ma’am.”

“Well aren’t you a charmer. And where is this boyfriend?”

“Hi,” Eddie says.

She gives him an equally critical once-over.

“Do you know what that color bandana means in that pocket?”

Eddie glances down at his back left pocket; at the black bandana hanging against his thigh.

“Ah...that I’m into S&M but that I like to be the submission one? Like the one getting tied up?”

“You what?” Steve says.

Angel notices that Wayne has made a hasty exit to the bathroom, which is probably for the best.

“Oh my sweet summer child,” Leslie says, “it means the opposite on that side, so maybe switch pockets.” She considers Steve’s pink face. “And also maybe talk to your boyfriend. The whole point of flagging is to find someone to meet your needs and you've got a pretty one right here who seems like he’s awfully willing.”

Steve pulls the bandana out of Eddie’s pocket and, using his teeth, tidily rips it into two. He tucks one half in Eddie’s right back pocket. He tucks the other in his left. He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow like he's expecting Eddie to argue. Eddie does not argue. Eddie doesn't do much of anything except stare at him with wide, hungry eyes.

“Well,” Leslie says, sounding pleased, “My work here is done. Honestly, kids these days.”

She gives Steve a little pat on the shoulder as she pushes back into the crowd. “I’d dance while you have the chance, boys. Life is short and sometimes so is love. Capitalize on that shit!”

“Do you want to dance?” Steve asks.

Eddie is still watching Leslie with a bemused smile. “I don’t know how to dance to this music.”

“Well I won’t know how to dance to yours tomorrow, but I’m planning to let you show me.”

“Fair enough, King Steve." Eddie affects a curtsy, offering Steve his hand. “I suppose I can allow you to take me for a turn about the dance floor, good sir.”

Steve bows low over Eddie’s hand, pressing his lips to his knuckles, looking up at him with a grin. “An honor,” he says solemnly, and then drags Eddie, laughing, into the throng of moving bodies.

***

The next morning, Angel wakes up early for no reason he can determine. He’s not good at sitting idle, and he doesn’t want his fidgeting to wake Wayne, so he elects to take his book to the garden. Only, as he slips into the hall, careful with the door behind him, he can hear the quiet, indistinct lull of voices in the kitchen.

Angel moves down the hall on sock feet, avoiding the creaky bit of flooring where the original foundation meets the master addition he added four years back.

The boys have opened the double doors to the patio and Steve is leaning against the jam on one side, coffee cup in hand, looking out at the garden. He’s shirtless, wearing only the shorts from the day before. Warm, tree-diluted, sunrise rays cast him in sepia, making the scars that traverse his flank to his thigh look less gruesome and more artistic. Poetic. He knows more than one photographer who would kill for a shot like this. Something about the coexistence of beauty and pain. Something about a commentary on perceptions of strength; the allure of imperfection resulting from battles survived.

Eddie joins Steve, sliding under his open arm like a habit, dragging a hand down Steve’s side to cup the puckered line of recently-stitched skin at Steve’s hip.

Eddie is also shirtless—wearing jeans and a riot of bed head that Steve presses his face into, murmuring something low and clearly funny by the stifled laughter it produces.

Angel wasn't wrong with his initial assumption: Eddie’s back is littered with shallow scars as well, but he also has a fair amount of tattoos, which makes the other marks less incongruous. There’s something about Steve’s otherwise flawless skin and sculpted muscles that make his injuries feel more visceral.

Or, at least, that’s what he thinks until Steve suddenly looks behind him, like he has a preternatural awareness that he’s being watched.

“Oh,” he says, “Good morning.”

Both boys turn to face him.

And Angel realizes that Steve’s injuries pale in comparison to Eddie’s.

Because Eddie’s chest and belly is a brutal mess of scar tissue.

It looks like something tried to gut him.

It looks like whatever it was probably succeeded.

He knows he’s staring but he can’t seem to stop himself until Steve slides a proprietary hand over the worst of it, spread fingers against what has to still be an agony of healing skin.

He meets Angel's eyes and all but dares him to say anything.

“I think,” Angel says, turning abruptly to enter the kitchen, “the occasion calls for french toast. Thoughts?”

“The occasion?” Eddie asks.

His hand covers Steve’s and presses, not a dismissal but an invitation to linger.

“Your diploma,” Angel says, “Steve’s first time making a fool of himself in front of a drag queen. Whatever excuse is sufficient for the making of said french toast.”

“See, we’re sort of trying out this new thing lately,” Eddie murmurs, looking at Steve, “where we don’t need excuses for things that make us happy.”

“No guilt in our pleasures,” Steve agrees, voice soft, expression reverent. He tucks an errant curl behind Eddie’s ear.

Angel resists the urge to sigh at them. Instead, he toasts them with a carton of eggs. “French toast for the pleasure of french toast, then. You two go sit on the bench in the garden. The sun should be hitting it right about now and that is surely a pleasurable experience. I’ll let you know when breakfast is ready.”

Steve meets his eyes again, this time less challenging, more thankful.

His hand slides from Eddie’s belly to the small of his back, pushing him out onto the patio.

“That sounds nice,” he says.

And they go.

When Wayne shuffles out to join Angel at the stove ten minutes later, the bread is sizzling in the skillet.

They take their time washing the egg bowl and whisk in the sink, elbow to elbow, two men sharing space for a one-man job.

They lean into each other, considering Eddie and Steve, similarly leaned into each other, on the bench under the oak tree outside.

“You think I should talk to them?” Wayne murmurs. “About the way they look at each other. And touch each other. And how they need to cut that shit out if they’re in public?”

“Probably,” Angel sighs. “But not today.”

“No,” Wayne agrees after a moment of silence. He presses a kiss to Angel’s temple. “Not today.”

Pt. 4 (Will's POV)

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington/eddie munson #steve/eddie #myfic #outsider pov #prompt fill #mywriting #listen this was mostly an excuse to cram in a bunch of references to the research I did for my PhD exams in queer theory/history

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lilyrizzy · 2 months

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Prompt: something about max and daniel retirement in australia ❤️

Oh look, it’s me, writing the same thing for the thousandth time😉 I hope someone likes this, it ran away with me!

The wicker beneath Daniel’s bare legs is sun warmed, despite the rapid speed at which it is sinking in the sky.

Behind him, the porch door opens and shuts, the familiar creak comforting and homely after weeks spent away. Daniel looks up to smile at Max, more warmth pooling in his stomach at the simple way it’s returned.

Stepping closer to sit beside him, Max says, “We of course should not have let her sleep yet. She will wake up too soon.”

He’a right.

An early night means a routine thrown out of the window just in time for back-to-school, their daughter’s body clock all out of wack from the jet lag. Worth it for a real Christmas with her cousins, for snow, but still a challenge.

“We’ll just have to feed her sugar tomorrow,” Daniel jokes, “keep her up when she crashes.”

Max laughs. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes are so much deeper now that the first time Daniel managed to make this happen, too easily.

“Or give her an espresso,” he bats back, and it’s Daniel’s turn to laugh, knocking their knees together.

Then, to scooch a little closer, slinging a leg over Max’s so that the warm and sticky skin at the crease of his knee touches the soft hair of Max’s thighs. Inside, they’ll shower the airplane air and sweat off their bodies, but for now they can be still.

Tomorrow is Sunday and they have nowhere to be.

Looking out at green of their garden, the distant line where it meets to horizon to be bathed in light, Daniel’s can’t help but think about a different kind of gold. The kind that came with trophies, glory, but lot of fucking heart ache too. To think how easy it is to sit here with Max, and to also face how easy it would have been to never have made it here at all.

To know Max was to know that he would retire relatively early to an off-grid life of serenity. To know Daniel was to be surprised to realise he’d willingly tripped after him into that same quiet space.

“Do you ever miss it, babe,” Daniel asks, still staring ahead at the setting sun.

Max’s gaze is warm on Daniel’s cheek as he turns to look at him. For a moment he says nothing, his hands instead finding Daniel’s, lacing their fingers together to stop Daniel tugging at the thread of his denim shorts.

“A little, sometimes,” he says easily, like it costs him nothing to admit it. It probably doesn’t; he didn’t leave any dreams of his own behind on the tarmac tracks. Then, “Do you?”

It’s a question Daniel has had to ask himself once before. When it meant the difference between an early end to his career and the chance to turn back to clock. When he needed the answer to prove he was hungry and not simply tired.

He did, then, but-

There are other things to miss, now. The sweet baby smell that used to cling to his daughter’s skin, vanished with her growing limbs and milk teeth. The excited way his niece and nephew would run to him, when he was still cool. The ease with which he could squat.

And also, so much more to treasure. A ring in his finger, a baby sleep in the bed upstairs. The black and white photo of a new one stuck to their fridge, days in the calendar crossed out, counting down.

“No,” he said honestly, kissing the crown of Max’s head where even now, his hair is still the thickest, “I don’t think I do anymore.”

#be kind about my typos I wrote this on my phone #healing for me to think of soft retired maxiel dads #hope it is for someone else too!#fic #max/daniel

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ggomos-maribat · 7 months

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9 | in which nights are spent, kisses are missed, secrets are laid out

Part 9 of No Mr. Wayne You Can't Adopt Me! | Masterlist

"Hello? Damian?" Marinette tucked her phone between her ear and shoulder as she continued sorting out the files. "Listen, something came up at the office today and Mr. Wayne won't be able to meet you for dinner outside. Sorry, it was an emergency. He said he'll postpone, though! I'm marking his calendar right now."

"Hm. I'm on my way to the restaurant and I believe it's already reserved," said Damian. "Will you be occupied as well? Why not come in place of Father?"

Marinette paused, slowly registered what he had offered, and then smiled. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"Really? Didn't you say for it to be a date, one has to harbor some sort of romantic feelings for the other?"

"Yes, I did say that."

Marinette couldn't help the laugh that escaped her. And her reddening cheeks. Kwamis, was that him trying to flirt? When did Damian learn how to flirt?

"Well, are you free?"

"Yes, I am in fact." Marinette practically burst into her boss' office and shoved the remaining documents into his hands. "At seven, right? I'll see you."

She packed all her things in a hurry and sped home on her motorcycle to get ready. Though Bruce would oppose this 'date' of theirs if he knew, she didn't want to miss the opportunity. I'm already off the clock anyway. Let's just hope Bruce won't come crashing our dinner.

***

"Thank you for accepting the invitation on short notice."

Marinette had to admit, Damian cleaned up well. Since the restaurant was on the fancy end, he wore a simple button down that complimented his eyes. Marinette herself had only changed into a red blouse but kept her office skirt.

"I would've been in bed with microwaved dinner and my laptop if you hadn't invited me anyway," Marinette beamed as she took a seat. "Still, I didn't expect you to actually invite me."

"I thought you needed a break from your work," said Damian. "The company seems very busy nowadays. And you're still taking your online courses, aren't you?"

Marinette could've melted on the spot. Damian was always the support behind her like that. At first there were only little gestures: updating her if any of his siblings might come to the office and cause trouble; telling off his father for making her do extra work; dropping off snacks for her when he visited. Soon they became comfortable with texting each other regularly.

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "There will be a big event two weeks from now, so everyone's trying to meet deadlines."

"Are you getting enough sleep?"

"Yes, Damian."

"Eating enough?"

She rolled her eyes playfully. "I am, mom."

"Has Father been bothering you too much?"

"It's just the usual," she said. "Actually, I think he's careful not to give me more work because he knows I tend to overwork. You don't need to worry, okay?"

Damian lowered his gaze, staying still for a moment. "You're like Pennyworth," he told her. "People like you . . . you help out people like Father at the expense of your wellbeing. I've seen it take a toll on Alfred sometimes—he is still human after all. I thought you needed a break from all that."

He looked up at her. "If you're taking care of everyone, who's taking care of you?"

Marinette just stared. There were some tears prickling at the back of her eyes but she didn't dare let it take over. Damian had hit close to home without meaning to.

"Ah, you're right." She noticed that her voice was thick. Oh fuck, fuuuck the tears are spilling. "Sorry, I . . . sorry."

"Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?"

"No, I . . ." She took a deep breath. "I just remembered something. Before, I used to do a lot of favors for a lot of people too. My parents, my friends, even acquaintances. Sometimes I never noticed how many things were already on my plate and so I end up so stressed out trying to please everyone."

To save Paris. To keep the city from crumbling under my watch.

"If you do feel stressed out, I'm here."

"What are you trying to say?"

"What I meant earlier. I . . ." Damian's expression contorted, as if he were looking for the right words. "I've been trying to sort out my feelings recently and I want you to know that I care a lot about you. More than in the sense of friendship."

He likes me back. He actually reciprocates. Marinette's heartbeat stuttered.

"But you know my contract, right?"

"Yes, that is why I won't ask you to—well—enter into a relationship with me. Your job is on the line after all."

Looking to her side, Marinette saw twin doors leading to a spacious balcony. She needed to talk with Damian properly, and it was best they had some privacy. She turned back to him. "Do you mind if we step out?"

Damian quietly told the waiter and ordered the chef's recommendation before leading her to the balcony. Marinette took the liberty of closing the doors and then turned to him. "I just want to get some things out of the way since you confessed to me."

"I know about you," she said in one breath.

"Know about what?"

Marinette subconsciously fidgeted with her hands. "I know. I know everything. Mr. Wayne is Batman, you're Robin, your siblings are the other vigilantes."

He fell dead silent, which worried her a little. Was it a bad idea to tell him that after all? Kwamis, I should've kept my mouth shut. Now he's going to look at me differently and take back his confession and tell his father and I'll be fired from my job and forced to live in the streets forever blacklisted by Gotham's vigilantes—

". . . I see," he finally uttered.

She twisted her fingers. "Are you upset?"

"I don't know . . ." Damian stepped forward. Closer to her. "I shouldn't have underestimated your intuition. I also shouldn't hold it against you since Father's identity is glaringly obvious at this point."

"I trust you, Marinette," he added softly while taking both of her hands in his. "If you know about me, about my family, but still return my feelings then I shouldn't complain. I was afraid I'd need to tell you myself and you will see me differently."

Her eyes widened. "What? No, that doesn't make a difference! I mean, uhm, it makes me understand why you always look tired in the morning or why you're concerned when I go out at night. I'd never think it makes you a bad person."

"What if I told you I've killed people before?"

She bit her lip. "Um, can I tell you another secret?"

He nodded.

"I know your mother."

Damian's eyebrows shot up. "My mother? You know . . . everything that I did?"

"Yes." Marinette drew out a slow slow breath. "Yeah I, uh, I know her and it may or may not be because of my time in Paris as a magical girl saving Paris from akuma attacks."

"Ladybug. That was you?"

"Basically."

"And mother was . . ."

"My teacher of sorts."

She let him take it all in but couldn't read his face. Is he too shocked? Amazed? Sad? Angry? Betrayed? Is he going to walk out of the restaurant?

"I wanted to tell you so you know fully what kind of person I am," she quickly supplied. "I don't like keeping secrets from people I'm close with after hiding one for so long."

"It . . . it all fits, I suppose," said Damian with a squeeze to her hands. "You're a hero."

"Former hero," she shrugged.

"You still are. It must've been hard to shoulder that responsibility."

"You have no idea." Marinette chuckled. " . . .So?"

He blinked. "So?"

"You still, er, like me?"

"Of course I do. Nothing will change." Closer. Closer. He pulled her gently closer to him. "What about you?"

"I like you a lot. I really do."

His lips look . . . inviting.

"But?"

"There's no 'but'." She shook her head. "That's it. I like you."

His head lowered down to hers, gaze flickering downwards. He was so close, close enough for her to feel his breath fanning on her skin. But at the last second, she pulled away.

"Sorry we can't." She looked up at him apologetically. "Not yet."

"Oh . . ."

Instead of a kiss on the lips, Marinette tiptoed to press one on his cheek. "It's okay. I'll get this to work out." She squeezed his hands. "Trust me."

bonus deleted scene: here

#this is the penultimate chapter :)#maribat fic #maribat fanfic #dc x mlb #mlb x dc #maribat #dc x miraculous #NMWYCAM #PA!Marinette

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neewtmas · 5 months

Text

12 days of Christmas // A Lockwood & Co Advent Calendar

DAY 6

Welcome back! It's currently 01:16 am on the 13th, which means I'm technically a day late but we'll just ignore that bc I gave my absolute best to get this finished in time and it simply got out of hand.

After the Lucy x reader I wrote for day 2 thought that I couldn't possibly forget about the Lockwood girlies, and since we're at the halfway point I wanted to do something extra nice, so here is a very long (4.2k??) Lockwood x reader with a some enemies to lover-ish dynamics and reader as Kipps' little sister. Hope you enjoy!

A Mission For Two

pairing: anthony lockwood x Kipps!fem!reader

wordcount: 4.2k

masterlist

advent calendar tags: @givemea-dam-break @wellgoslowly @maraschinomerry @losticaruss @oblivious-idiot @uku-lelevillain @avdiobliss @strawberryloveyyy @strawberrycowgirly @demigoddess-of-ghosts @thefriendlyneighborhoodmomfriend @boookfreeak

day 1 day 2 day 3 day 4 day 5

"4 pm, my office. There's no excuses, I know you don't have anything else to do." Lockwood grumbled a half-hearted yes into the telephone, before slamming it down, harder than necessary. He walked back into the kitchen, where Lucy and George sat with a cup of tea each. His tea was probably cold by now. Lucy furrowed her brows. "Who's calling?" "Barnes, who else", Lockwood replied, snatching his cup of tea and emptying it in the sink before pouring fresh hot water from the kettle. "Says he has a job for us." "That's good", George remarked. "Business has been a little slow." Lockwood crossed his arms and huffed. Unfortunately, George was right. Business had been slow the past few weeks. What irked him most though, was that Barnes seemed to know all about it.

A little before 4 pm they entered the DEPRAC building, an ugly structure in the middle of London, with a hideous interior to match. No wonder all DEPRAC agents they came across at their jobs seemed to be in a perpetual bad mood. The route to Barnes' office was well known to them, as it wasn't the first time by any means they had been called in. Lockwood adjusted his tie and coat before knocking on the door twice. Barnes' assistant opened the door seconds later, and the three of them stepped in. But almost immediately, Lockwood froze on the spot, causing George to run into him.

"What are they doing here?", Lockwood inquired, gesturing to the group of people already seated in front of Barnes' desk.

The person closest to Barnes' desk turned around. "Tony. Great to see you around here. Business is going well, I hear?" Lockwood narrowed his eyes at Kipps, hand already on his rapier. "Just sit down", Barnes said sharply. "We have more important things to talk about." Lucy and George could tell that Lockwood was of a different opinion, but a rather forceful push from Lucy caused him to take a seat and postpone the inevitable fight, at least until they were out of there.

When they were finally all seated and quiet, Barnes leaned forward, his hands clasped together. "I want to be here just as much as you are", he began. "If it were up to me, this wouldn't be happening. But unfortunately, it's out of my control." He leaned back in his seat, nodding at his assistant. She stepped out of her corner and placed a print-out of a newspaper site on the desk. "Are you familiar with the Wentworth family?"

"Don't they host these ridiculously fancy balls? What do we have to do with this?", Kipps asked. Barnes sighed, and it was obvious that he had already spent much more time than he wanted on this. "The next one is supposed to be held at Wycliffe Hall Estate." Silence. "Haven't there been ghost sightings?", George asked, pushing his glasses up and leaning forward to grab the article copy. "Yes." Barnes sounded tired. "I have tried everything to mitigate this, but to no avail. They have been adamant that it has to be there. Lady Wentworth's daughter - or was it her niece? - is engaged to Wycliffe's son. And the possibility of a ghost adds the certain 'flair' they are looking for."

Lockwood and George shared a look. Lucy scoffed. "Rich people", she mumbled under her breath and Barnes sent her a reprimanding look but it was not hard to see that he thought just the same. "And what are we here for?", Kipps asked, sounding somewhat impatient. "DEPRAC tasked me with providing agents to mingle among the crowd and keep their eyes out for any disturbances." He gave Kipps and Lockwood a pointed look. "Don't think for a moment that you are my first choice for this. But we are understaffed and I need someone."

He pulled his chair closer to his desk and leaned forward again. "I need you - together - to go to this ball. You will form pairs - couples if you will - and mingle. I and a few other colleagues will be present as well. If anything happens, if anyone gets hurt - I will lose my job. So don't mess it up." He took his time to look at each one of them. "You're dismissed, he finally said.

The two groups walked in silence until they stepped through the huge glass entry doors. "Tony -" Kipps began and Lockwood's hand flew to the hilt of his rapier. Kipps raised his hands. "Don't be so defensive. Let's just get this over with, alright? Everyone does their research and at the event, we work separately." He offered his hand to Lockwood, who didn't take it immediately. Kipps being so good-natured was out of character - maybe Barnes had had a word with him on his own. Lucy nudged Lockwood and he slowly let go of his rapier to take the hand Kipps offered him.

The next two weeks were spent with unspectacular - exceptionally boring really - cases every few nights. There hadn't been any more communication with Kipps and his team, something neither Lockwood, Lucy or George had any issues with. Three days before the big event, Barnes called 35 Portland Row to give further information on the dress code. "This whole endeavour is just ridiculous", Lockwood said as he recounted the talk with Barnes to George and Lucy. "We are allowed to carry our rapiers, but only minimal other equipment. Can't have us ruining the aesthetic, he says." George shook his head. "This is a suicide mission. For the adult attendees at least. Why would you ever willingly spend a night somewhere that has reported and confirmed ghost sightings?"

"They are bored. They live their whole lives locked up in their mansions, so that's a night of freedom. They have no idea that a few agents won't do much if a ghost is gonna make its appearance", Lockwood replied. "Also the Wentworths are known for their elaborate parties and events. A ball in a haunted mansion is the perfect way to stand out." Lucy raised her eyebrows. "So you know the Wentworths?" Lockwood grinned at her. "They are regularly on the cover of my gossip magazines. If you read them, you'd know them." Lucy grimaced. "No thank you. I'd rather not."

Three days later, on the morning of the ball, Lockwood and George sat in the kitchen, already two toasts deep into breakfast, when Lucy staggered into the room. She was pale, wrapped in two sweaters and a scarf and still wearing her pyjama bottoms. "You look like death", George said dryly as Lucy flopped down on a chair. She wanted to say something, but instead, she was caught in a coughing fit that shook her entire body. Lockwood watched her with furrowed brows. "Guess it's just us tonight, George", he said, pushing a cup of tea in front of Lucy. She grabbed it and took several sips, before clearing her throat. "I don't know where this is coming from", she said with a hoarse voice. "But Lady Wentworth would probably kill me if I were to cough around her esteemed guests." "Barnes would do that before she even had a chance to see you", George remarked while buttering his third toast. "Can you cough on me? Maybe I'll get sick before tonight as well."

George did not get sick, and so he and Lockwood sat alone in the cab that would take them out of London to the Wycliffe Hall Estate. They were both wearing a suit - usual for Lockwood, very unusual for George. All available pockets were filled to the brim with salt bombs and silver nets, which made them both look a little less elegant. When the cab pulled up to the front of the estate, Kipps' team as well as Barnes already stood by the stairs to the entrance, waiting for them. The gravel crunched under the soles of their shoes as they made their way over. Barnes looked them up and down with a less than favourable expression, but they seemed to pass his expectations, because he didn't say anything about their appearance. Instead, he asked: "Where's Miss Carlyle?"

"She came down with a bad cold."

"Unfortunate", Barnes said. "Really unfortunate. That doesn't make this easier. Mr Karim - you're going with Mr Vernon and Mr Shaw." All three opened their mouth to protest, but Barnes wasn't having it. "I don't care, whatever you have to say. None of you could be a very convincing couple. That's why you'll pose as waiters. Ms Channing will show you the basics."

All three of them were less than excited about the prospect of handing out champagne to the elite of London, and George mumbled something rather rude under his breath that Barnes either didn't hear or chose to ignore. The three boys were led away by a young woman in her early thirties.

"Alright." Barnes eyed the four agents in front of him. "Mr Kipps, you'll go with Miss Godwin. Mr Lockwood, you'll pair up with Miss Kipps." "No way he's going with my sister!" "Mr Kipps, we talked about this", Barnes said sternly, his patience wearing thin. "You'll do as I say, or you'll deal with the consequences. But I promise you, they'll be worse."

Kipps was red in the face, huffing and puffing, but he didn't say anything else. Lockwood suddenly wished that Lucy's cold had befallen him instead. (name) Kipps was almost as bad as her brother, and he could not stand her. Since she became part of her brother's team, they had crossed paths a little too often for Lockwood's taste. And every time everything she did only aggravated him. Tonight (name) was wearing a dark red, almost floor-length dress that swished around her legs as she walked over to Lockwood, following Barnes' instructions. She didn't look at Lockwood, and he did his best to train his eyes on Barnes instead of her neck and shoulders that were exposed by the neckline of her sleeveless dress. Leave it up to her to dress entirely distracting and inappropriately. Who could fight ghosts in this?

"I need you to blend in seamlessly. I have arranged to fill the room with as many iron decorations as possible, to hopefully seal it off to any supernatural disturbances that might occur. Lady Wentworth was very clear to me about the fact that she doesn't want you to look like agents to the other attendees, she wants you to look like guests. That means I expect you to dance and at least act like you want to be there." Barnes looked more tired than he did two weeks ago. No one said anything, so he took a deep breath and turned around. "Don't disappoint me", he said over his shoulder.

They watched him disappear behind the imposing door wing. While they had been talking, the first guests had started to arrive. Every car was fancier than the last, the men that emerged wearing expensive suits and the ladies draped in luxurious gowns and glittering diamonds. Kipps offered Kat his arm, following the example of the couples ascending the stairs. Lockwood went to follow them, but (name) didn't move and instead cleared her throat. "Don't you have any manners, Mr Lockwood?" Her mocking tone was already working to raise his blood pressure. The way she said his name was almost worse than Kipps calling him Tony. He bit his tongue to not say something he would regret in the first five minutes of them working together and turned around to offer her his arm. He didn't look at her as she looped her arm around his and they walked up the stairs together. The other attendees either ignored them or looked at them with something akin to disdain - this was an exclusive circle they were not part of.

It was quite early, so any disturbances would take a while to occur. Lockwood dreaded what that meant. Kipps and Kat were already on the dancefloor, and Barnes stood at the side, next to a tall blond woman in an emerald green gown. Lockwood immediately recognized her at Lady Wentworth. She turned to whisper something to the man on her other side and Barnes took the opportunity to wave at Lockwood, gesturing down to the dancefloor. He rolled his eyes and tugged on (name)'s arm, and together they descended the stairs. They reached the very edge of the dancing crowd and Lockwood stopped. "What? You don't know how to dance?" Again that mocking tone.

The ballroom was bigger than expected, with high ceilings and a row of huge windows on one side. It was already bustling with people, some dancing, some in conversation. Lockwood and (name) stood atop some stairs that led down to the dancefloor. Kipps and Kat were gone, but as Lockwood let his eyes wander over the crowd, he spotted George. He had to bite back a laugh at the sight of George with a tray of champagne flutes and a scowl on his face that deterred anyone he walked past from taking something off his tray.

Lockwood grabbed her hand and placed the other one on her waist. As they started dancing, rather slow and awkward, Lockwood again wished that the illness that had befallen Lucy had chosen him instead. He did his best to not look at (name), or think about her hand on his shoulder, or her hand that laid in his. This was the worst. "Is this all you have to offer?" "We're dancing", he said curtly, still avoiding eye contact. "What else do you want?" She giggled, and a shiver ran down his back. That was new. "Well for starters, we need to be closer together. Much closer." Her next step wasn't to the side, but instead towards him, which caught him off guard. He almost stumbled over his own feet, but her hand gripped his shoulder and she continued the sequence of steps so that he could get back into it. "Also, you are supposed to lead me."

He made the mistake of looking at her. She was much closer than he anticipated, which made him lose his footing again. Only briefly though, because for whatever reason she seemed to know exactly what she was doing. And probably made him look like a fool. He wanted to scream. What was she doing to him? How could a person make him so angry and flustered at the same time? "If you fence how you dance, I have no idea how you ever beat Quill." He just huffed. No matter how hard he racked his brain, he couldn't think of anything clever to say that would shut her up - and that just wasn't something that happened to him. Ever.

A few hours later, they stood with Kipps and Kat on the side of the dance floor. The room had filled up even more, and no one seemed to be concerned that the clock was nearing midnight. Out of nowhere, George appeared next to Lockwood. "This has been the worst night of my life", he breathed out, looking around restlessly. "I dumped the champagne into one of the flower pots and have been hiding from Barnes ever since", he whispered to Lockwood. "How are you holding up?" Lockwood looked over to (name), who was talking animatedly with Kat and her brother. "She's driving me up the wall", he said. "Somehow she manages to push buttons I didn't even know I had." He missed George's knowing grin as he looked around the room. "Have you noticed anything else?"

"The corners got progressively colder as the evening went on. I checked the temperature every now and then. I bet if there weren't so many people in here, we would feel it even more. But all the iron is probably holding it off so far."

It didn't take long for Barnes to appear and hurry them back onto the dance floor to 'keep up their cover' - not that this was working that great to begin with. They looked too young, their dancing was too awkward and the rapiers at their side didn't help either. Lockwood and (name) were standing close to the walls, far away from Barnes. They had parted as soon as he was gone. (name) had complained about her feet for the past hour, and Lockwood just about had enough. The whole thing gave him a headache and he wanted to get far away from her as soon as possible. Especially because with time, dancing closely with her had turned out to be not that bad. He didn't like that at all.

He was picking on a stray thread on his sleeve when suddenly a cold feeling washed over him. He jumped when (name) roughly grabbed his arm. "Do you hear that?" she hissed and he tried for a moment to shut out the sounds of conversation and heels on hardwood floor from the crowd and just listen. Nothing. "I'm not a good listener," he said quietly to not alert the few people standing closest to them. It irked him to have to admit this to (name). She stood there with her eyes closed and her head tilted to the side. For the first time this evening, Lockwood could take a closer look at her, even though part of him violently fought against it. Her hair was pulled back, away from her face. She was wearing a thin necklace with a pendant that laid a few inches above her dress's neckline. He briefly wondered if it was a gift from someone, but immediately shut that thought down. This was ridiculous.

Suddenly she opened her eyes again. "I can't describe it. It's like a whisper… and a scream… all at once." She took a look at her watch. "It's almost midnight", she said quietly. Lockwood patted over his pockets. "I don't have a thermometer with me. That's George's job usually. But don't you think it's gotten really cold just now?" She nodded, and he noticed her slightly shivering. Taking a look around, no one besides them seemed to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. Lockwood took a few strides to the set of doors closest to them. When he touched the handle, he almost pulled his hand back immediately. The metal was ice-cold to the touch. Surprisingly, the door was unlocked, and he looked around once before opening it carefully and peeking around. The corridor that laid in front of him was almost entirely dark, only illuminated by the streak of light let in from the open door. The air that hit his face was dry and much too cold. (name) appeared next to him. "Let's go", she said. "Let's get it over with." Lockwood thought for a moment that maybe it was better to get the rest of the agents, but then again, what could go wrong? If George's research was correct, there should only be one ghost. They just had to find the source. And this corridor seemed promising.

The two of them slipped through and Lockwood closed the door. Immediately they were enveloped by complete darkness, and now that the door separated them from the warmth and the light and the perceived safety of the ballroom, Lockwood could feel the malaise creeping up on him. He fumbled with his jacket to pull out the flashlight he had stuffed into one of the pockets inside. He switched it on on the lowest setting, and when his eyes had adjusted to the light, he started to move it around to get an idea of their surroundings. (name)'s dress almost looked like blood in the dim light, and as they slowly moved down the hallway, she reached into a fold of the skirt and swiftly pulled out a rapier. "Hidden pocket", she said as she noticed Lockwood's stare. Something about the way she had just pulled that out of nowhere - his brain felt jumbled.

The temperature was dropping rapidly now. (name) was now really shivering, and Lockwood felt the urge to offer her his jacket. But no, that was a stupid idea. He'd make a fool out of himself. They were walking close together now, arms brushing against each other as she tugged at his sleeve. "Can you turn off the light for a second", she whispered. "I think I heard something." It took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the dark. "There it is again. Do you really hear nothing?" Lockwood noticed that her tone was normal - she wasn't trying to mock him anymore. He closed his eyes well. There, far in the distance, he heard something. But nothing he could put a finger on. "There was a door right there, right? I wanna see what's behind it."

"Do you need the light?", he asked. "It should be fine. His stomach did a little flip as he suddenly felt her hand slip into his. "Just so we don't lose each other in the dark", she whispered as she pulled him forward. The door creaked as (name) found the handle and pushed against it, her rapier scratching against the wood. The air that came out was even colder. The room could almost be described as well-lit in comparison to the hallway, a big window opposite the door letting in the cold blue light of the moon. They stepped inside. Lockwood did not close the door. While taking a look around, he noticed that (name) had not let go of his hand - even though now there was no risk of getting lost in the dark. Then something in the corner caught his eye. "A deathglow", he whispered, pointing over. "Right above the bed. About the size of a small child." "That checks out. I think one of the nannies - " "- murdered the child", finished Lockwood. "Looks like we read the same articles." She smiled at him, and he realised it was the first genuine smile she had ever shown him. He was reminded of the fact that they were also still holding hands.

"What do you think the source could be?", she asked. He looked around the room, all senses heightened. Until now, nothing had materialised. "It was a small child, right? There's a stuffed teddy sitting next to the pillow. Maybe…" As if the ghost had heard him, the atmosphere got heavier. It was like the air itself got denser and heavier, weighing on him and making it harder to breathe. "I think that might be it. Are you feeling it?" (name) just nodded. Her hand slipped in the front of her dress and Lockwood quickly averted his eyes. "I have a silver net", she whispered. "Give me cover and I'll throw it. If we're lucky, that's it." Lockwood did not argue with her. A pulsating headache had started in the back of his head. He drew his rapier and watched as (name) crept slowly towards the bed, silver net at the ready in one hand, rapier in the other. Basked in the pale light of the moon, with the gleaming rapier and the red dress that flowed around her, she looked like a vengeful ghost herself, and Lockwood had to remind himself to stay aware of his surroundings.

Then, everything happened all at once. (name) threw the silver net, and in the same moment, the supernatural scream that Lockwood had only heard at the very edge of his perception swelled to a volume that pierced through his head like a dagger, and a gigantic blast of wind threw (name) back, catapulting her through the air before she crashed into Lockwood with full force. His rapier was blown out of his hand and out of reflex he wrapped his arms around (name) as they both hit the ground.

It took a moment for Lockwood to gather himself. His ears were ringing and all of the whirled-up dust made it harder to breathe. (name) was lying half on top of him, her hair covering her face. "Are you okay?", Lockwood croaked out. For a moment she didn't move, and he already started to feel panic creeping up on him, but then she coughed and slowly pushed herself up in a sitting position. She raised her hand to her forehead, only to gasp at the blood on her fingertips as she lowered it again. "Is it bad?" "It looks small." He managed to stand up slowly, extending his hand to her. She took it without hesitation. "And pretty cool, might I add", he said as she stood next to him, making no moves to let go of his hand.

Suddenly, the door that the blast of wind had thrown shut burst open again. In the doorframe stood Kipps, followed by George and Kat. He looked at Lockwood and (name), then at the bloody wound on his sister's head, and finally to her hand that was still holding Lockwood's hand. And he looked ready to explode.

thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated :)

#lockwood and co advent calendar #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood & co #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood & co x reader

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mar3ggiata · 1 month

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professional help, c3. 'The conversation.'

simon riley x original character.

trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, mentions of rape, trauma, sexual themes, swearing, italian, use of alcohol and drugs.

song to listen to when reading this: The Fruits, Paris Paloma.

abstract: Simon here, I saw Jude again, she's still going on about her theories, whatever. it's not even funny anymore and she has some weird secret I want to find out… still, she's a fucking menace to society. idk what's wrong with her probably got dropped on her head on purpose as a kid. don't blame the parents.

In the end, she did hear back from Price. An email. 'Scherzi!' She shouted out loud in her apartment. She sat down on the couch and Jinx hopped on with her, sniffing her laptop. An email from the captain, an invitation to a briefing. To discuss the situation. Tomorrow after your last session at 5pm. 'No vabbe, me fa parià…' she mumbled and wrote back that she would be there. They wanted her help on the situation, she had to come prepared. She was good, she did good. Look at her, who would have thought. She was in America all alone in her little apartment. She moved away when she was 18 and never turned back. She had worked in the most awful places with the most awful people to pay her studies. She hadn't been home in years, she had no friends, she was paying her bills, she had a car (she was still paying for it every month), she had her job and now higher ups were asking to speak to her about her take on a difficult mission! A life or death situation, she would solve the case and save the lives of millions of Americans. A fucking tidal wave. If my mom could see me now. She looked at her calendar on her laptop, she had sessions from 9 to 12 the following day, then from 3 to 5pm. Then the briefing, then ballet.

She did some research during the evening, she took the dog on a walk and then showered. She ended up smoking a little too much, she was nervous. She woke up early the following day. She stalked, or better, did research, on Arash's social media, along with his family's and friends' to gather any information that could help her. She looked up 'The Pilgrimage' author online, looked through his other publications. Not very famous writer. She kept thinking about the meeting all morning, she wanted to make a good impression and be useful to the captain. She was so nervous she nearly spaced out during therapy with a Sergeant with severe anxiety. She didn't eat lunch. When she knocked on Price's office door and heard him say to come in, she was a little surprised to see the captain wasn't alone.

Skull guy stood next to the desk in the middle of the office. He looked at her. He took very seriously the mask thing and skeleton theme, he had a black mask on, like the cotton Covid ones. Maybe he was just insecure. 'Jude thanks for coming on such a short notice' said the captain, signalling to sit down in front of him. 'This is Lieutenant Riley, Simon you met Jude.' She took a step in the direction of the Lieutenant, she wanted to shake his hand. 'Nice to meet you,' she said. He took her hand without making a sound, he just nodded slightly. His hands were cold. She sat down and so did Price. Simon was still standing. 'So, I wanted to update you on your patient. We spoke with him and three other soldiers about joining us to the next mission in Al-Jareena next week but he refused. Well…' he stopped, rubbing his beard in clear distress. 'He got up and came up to me saying his injury is not fully healed and he will not be able to be deployed. So I told him we needed him and he started to get nervous and left the room.' She listened without intervening. 'I know you have an appointment with him one day before we leave. I was wondering if you could maybe let me know if you find out something about this, he's required to leave with us, otherwise we'll have to report him. His doctors cleared him.' He showed her a piece of paper, sliding it across the table. It stated Arash's hand healed to full recovery. She read the statement before looking up at Price.

'Correct me if I'm wrong' she started. This wasn't gonna end well. 'He's supposed to leave the base and go on his little trip for one hour the day before you leave, the day before the mission, let's say to alert Khorram's men.' She quickly glanced up to the Lieutenant who was still standing silent with his arms crossed. He looked like he could crush her skull with a finger. She wasn't scared, she even found it kinda funny, his little costume. 'We could follow him. He could be updating the troops on your next movements and we could… catch him in the act' she said.

'Too risky.' It was Simon that spoke. He was British, his voice was deep. He had been debating on intervening in the meeting from the moment Price asked him to be present. He asked him cause he trusted him, and valued his opinion. Jude could have been informed and educated with her little theories and stories, but she didn't know how things worked in the army. This wasn't Cluedo. She had the same attitude when she walked in the room, maybe a bit less stiff. He took his time exploring her. Her pretty green eyes, her nose, her neck. She wore a blouse this time, with grey trousers. She still had those shiny high boots. She had her hair up, a blonde ponytail. He looked at her jaw. She had a mole on her cheek. He shook her hand, he could smell her deodorant. Her skin was warm, soft. It reminded him of untouched snow. He wanted to take her hand and look at it up close, hold it, feel her slender fingers and her pointy nails. He looked at her thighs pressed together when she was sitting. The curve of her hips. Her voice still sounded rough and serious. When he spoke to her she looked at him offended. 'Too risky' he had said. 'He would notice, he already suspects we're onto him.' He explained.

Hum…fuck you? 'Well if he's not guilty he will have no problem talking to you' she replied, still holding his gaze. She was brave. She was probably a few years younger than him, she had her little moment and now it was time to get back to reality. Yet, she still wouldn't listen. 'He doesn't have the doctors excuse anymore, he knows things are moving. You saw his m.o., he'll get out for an hour and…' she tried to convince him, she looked at Price for his approval, but he stopped her. 'Then we'll catch him when he comes back' Simon spoke without waiting for his captain. 'We can wait for your session and see if he says anything, or just force him into confessing.' Her lips formed a straight line. She didn't like his plan, maybe because it wasn't a plan, it was just sitting and waiting. He had dealt with much more complicated things than this, she could relax. 'You want to interrogate him and accuse him of what? Skipping his doctors appointments? You're wasting an opportunity to see where he's really headed when he sneaks off base', she quickly replied shaking her head in his direction. She had slightly turned her body towards him. 'You're the one who accused him first.'

'And I gave you proof, didn't I?'

He liked talking to her. Her voice still sounded weird, he couldn't pick up a particular accent. He understood she would't let it go.

'I think you're waisting an opportunity'

'I think you're thinking too much about it.'

I think I want to break your neck. She was mad now, he could see her, he could feel it. The air was cold around them again. She had the same expression as the first time he ever saw her a year back. She wasn't confident, or powerful. It was the look of rage. 'The nightmare that hunts you for the entire week' look. Fortunately, Price stopped them from discussing it further. 'Jude, do you think you can get him to talk about the mission? I will put down his name as one of the soldiers in the team, so he will know he's coming with us.' She was nervous at this point, but tried to keep her breathing stable. Could she get him to talk? She couldn't do it last week or the week before, he stopped listening. 'Yes, I will do my best.' She replied. 'Good, thanks. You'll let me know as soon as you finish, if everything goes to plan, we bring him with us and he complies to his duties, everyone is happy.' It wasn't going to go this way, she could feel it. They were making a mistake. 'If you feel like he's suspicious, you tell me and we'll keep him here and interrogate him, we'll see what's going on. Sorted?' He asked. She didn't respond for a few seconds, but nodded. I already proved to you he's fucking suspicious, what more do you want. They weren't listening.

She stood up and thanked the two for inviting her to the meeting, she assured them she would keep them updated. Her smile was fake, she still wanted to be polite even though she thought they were both fucking stupid. Ghost didn't feel guilty for going so hard on her, he looked at her leave while she was trying to hide her anger. He said what he really thought, that was what he had been trained to do. 'What's her deal?' he asked the captain on his way out. 'Jude?' the man looked up, then shook his head. 'She's a good counsellor. She has… she is a strong woman, I think she's good at what she does, I've always trusted her.' He said. You're lying. That's not enough, and it's not a fully honest answer. They were hiding something from him.

notes: translation: 'Scherzi!', you're joking! 'No vabbe, me fa parià' Naples dialect for having fun. I gave you an hint to where she's from <3

notes: are they making a mistake? also, what's the deal with Jude hu?? reblogs and replies are highly appreciated!

love, mare.

taglist:

@ummmmmwat @ghostlythots @sweetfemmefatal @natxpat @chavarriakeren647 @ravenmoore14 @farther-than-pleiades @internallyscreamings @hwromi @atoxicrat @cuti3maddi3 @deafeningkittenblaze @its-celeste @serene-hills @lexidoll12 @poohkie90 @lunatiquess

@warmedbythebody @katzykat @iristhemuse @azkza @keiraslayz @abbyandermine @jennyjencakes @dest-nai @corset-briefs @nutze-kekse @ilytsukiw @b3anspr0ut

@pondsblog @missyouzoe @fallenkitten @bigauthorrascalturkey @bethtay @angelynn-nicole @starluv @stargirlisworld @giyuuslittleslut @impossiblecupcakelight

@rkrivees-blog @ghosts-hoe @kam1snotverysmart @gauky76 @freyjaaasstuff @spicyspicyliving @scottpilgrimvsmyfists @courtney0-0 @shinchanboi @darling006 @my-therapist-hates-me

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ametrinearrows · 6 months

Text

Hold His Hand

I woke up this morning with a mix of excitement and nervousness about how the day was going to play out. It was SummerSlam Day, one of the biggest events on the WWE calendar. Though I wasn’t a WWE superstar, I was still a staff member who had worked closely with all the stars on the roster. Especially Triple H. Over the years, Paul has become my best friend and on occasion my therapist. Tonight, he was going up against The Rock, a great talent in his own right and Dwayne was definitely a crowd favorite. They had been building this match up for months and neither man could have been more ready than they were.

The match was one of the most heated matches I have seen in a while. Hunter and Rock went back and forth for a while on who was dominating the match. The crowd was roaring loudly in the background and were all on the edge of their seats, or at least I was. Everything was going really well, it seemed, but in a split second, all of that changed.

Dwayne had delivered the strongest spinebuster I had ever seen he had ever done. It was something that Triple H could normally come back from with no problem, but Paul wasn’t getting off the mat. When the cameras got closer, I could see the look on his face was etched in nothing but pain. The referee stopped the match completely and I watched as the medical team rushed down to the ring with a backboard and gurney.

My body acted before my brain could catch up with what I was doing, and I ran down to the ring after them. It was like I was autopilot and the only thing I could focus on was getting to Paul. When I got out there to him, the medics had just placed the neck brace on him.

I followed them as they headed to the ambulance that we kept on site for moments like this, Hunter held my hand the entire way to ground himself. We stayed locked hand in hand the whole way to the hospital. I don’t know who was more comforted by it, me or Paul.

I sat there in the waiting room as complete nervousness raked through me as I waited for an update on how bad the injuries to Paul’s back were. When the doctor finally came out, he filled me in on everything that was going on and informed me about the road to recovery that my best friend had in store for him. She then directed me to his room.

I stood in the doorway for a moment, taking note of all the wires that he was hooked up to and how he was a ghostly shade.

“So, our Cerebral Assassin isn’t as indestructible as we thought,” I said as I made my way further into the room. “You really know how to scare the crap out of a girl, you know?” The relief mixed with concern was fully evident in my voice as I spoke.

Paul managed to give me a weak smile before he said, “Sorry, YNN. It was not my intention to make you worry the way I knew you probably were this whole time.”

I reached out and took his hand in mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to apologize. Thing only thing I need from you is to get better and from what I was told, the damage wasn’t all that intensive. You just need to take the time to heal.”

“So, I'm told,” he stated with a small nod. “I was also informed that I have a great support system to go along with it.”

I smiled slightly. “Oh, do you actually think I would let you recover from this without me especially knowing how stubborn you are and wouldn’t follow orders to a T without me? You're funny.”

“So, you’re gonna play nurse now?” Paul questioned with a look of amusement written on his face.

I shook my head at his question. “Nurse? No. The best friend that is as equally as stubborn as you when it comes to helping the people she loves? Most definitely. So don’t try anything, mister. It won’t work in your favor. I assure you.” I warned the blonde-haired man that was lying in the hospital bed in front of me.

Paul managed to let out a small painfilled laugh but just hearing that made me feel a little more at ease than I was.

Over the next few weeks, Paul went through some tough physical therapy and numerous doctor's appointments. It was slow and grueling, but he was getting through it all like the champ he was, and I was there every step of the way. Sometimes we would joke about when he returned to the ring, which helped get him through the majority of it all.

During the day I would help him with the daily tasks around his house that he was still having trouble doing. It never bothered me to help him. If it meant it was helping him recover, then it was worth it even if I was a little short to reach most of the things he or I needed. This led to being called “Shorty” or “Smurf” a lot. Which was nothing new.

One evening, as we sat out on the porch enjoying a nicely lit fire, if I do say so myself, he looked over at me with a grateful smile. “Thank you for being here for me, YNN.”

“That’s what friends are for. We take care of each other. Besides not many people are able to keep you in line.” I said with a loving smile of my own.

“Well, I’m lucky to have someone like you who can.”

Soon after that, Hunter made his return to the ring, and the Cerebral Assassin came but in full force. The look on his face before heading back out into the ring read of pure gratitude. Gratitude to his fans who cheered for him and kept him in the hope of getting back out there and doing what he loves.

I knew there would be a moment in time somewhere in the future when he might be in the same boat again. I knew there would be more times that I would need to be there to hold his hand again to ground the two of us. And just like before, I will be there every step of the way.

#ametrine arrows #ametrine arrows imagines #wwe #wwe x reader #wwe imagine #wwe imagines #Monday night raw #smackdown #Triple h #Triple h x reader #Triple h imagine #Triple h imagines #Triple h fanfiction #wwe fanfiction #hunter Hearst Helmsley #hunter Hearst Helmsley x reader #hunter Hearst Helmsley imagine #hunter Hearst Helmsley imagines #hunter Hearst Helmsley fanfiction

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outsideratheart · 1 year

Note

Alessia Russo

Scene 1

Dialogo 1 and 6

A/N: Day seven of the Christmas advent calendar.

Scene 1 - decorating the tree. Dialogue 1 “stop trying to get me to walk under mistletoe”, 6 “Do you want to it the star on the top of the tree?”

As you drove to Alessia’s family home in Maidstone your left hand rested comfortably on her thigh whilst your right hand gripped the steering wheel. You tried and failed to hide your smile when Alessia would take your hand and press a kiss to the back of it every so often.

Pulling up to her parents house you are surprised to see the outside already decorated. Lights hung from the gutters, a wreath covered their front door and there was even a small Christmas tree in the front garden with tinsel wrapped around it. Clearly they had made a start without you.

“Mum, Dad” Alessia shouted as you entered the house.

“In the kitchen” her Mum answered.

Walking to the back of the house you are met with the majority of the Russo clan.

You watch as both her Mum and Dad pull her into a tight hug. You would have thought it had been weeks since they had seen each other when in reality they were at the game against Chelsea a week prior.

“Y/N it’s nice to see you again” her dad welcomes you.

“Mr and Mrs Russo, thank you for inviting me today” you are respectful. Alessia told you how much her family means to her so you wanted to keep your good impression intact.

“Y/N you have been dating our daughter for almost a year, you came on our family holiday and now you are joining our family tradition. You don’t have to been so formal” her mum now pulls you into a hug.

The Russo’s were huggers. It was one of the things you loved about Alessia. She loved to hold you and be hold whether that it is in the house you share with Ella and Millie, on the coach to away games or after the games when she needs warming up.

“I see you roped Y/N into helping this year. Let me guess, she is on your team?” Giorgio asks as he and Luca join you in the kitchen.

“Of course she is, she is my girlfriend” Alessia says as she proudly wraps her arm around your shoulder.

“So Luca has Lauren, you have Y/N and I am on my own” he complains.

“That’s how it works bro. Maybe by the time we do this next year you will have gotten bored of the bachelor life and have settled down” Luca teases his younger brother.

“You expect me to find someone to bring home at Christmas in a year?” Giorgio says rather unconvinced.

“Less did it, look at them now, they’re sickening” Luca now points at the two of you just as Alessia finishes teasing you or more appropriately embarrassing you by peppering kisses on your shoulder, neck then cheek.

“We all know Alessia was head over heel in love with Y/N long before she got the balls to tell her” the younger brother says earning a slap around the head from his father.

You can only look at Alessia in shock, this was brand new information. Oh how you wanted to wind her up and the look in your eyes must have shown her this.

“Don’t say it” she hold her index finger against your lips so you kiss it, sending her a wink as you do so.

“You said something about teams?” you ask her brother.

Her mum goes on to tell you that each child is in charge of decorating certain things / rooms. Whoever gets theirs done the quickest get to choose the Christmas movie.

“No wonder you’re so competitive” you whisper in her ear.

“Alessia and Y/N you are in charge of decorating the tree” her mums tells the two of you.

“Yes!!!” Alessia raises her arms in excitement.

“What?” you ask.

“I never get to do the tree, it’s a two person job. For years it was mum and dad, then last year it was Luca and Lauren. I knew I brought you for a reason”

“So you’re using me for tree privileges?”

“I use you for a lot more than that” she says so only you can hear here.

You bite your lip to stop you from replying, knowing that your response wasn’t suited for your current environment and company.

She pulls you out of the kitchen and towards the empty corner of the living. There lies a two boxes, one labelled ‘TREE’ and the other labelled “DECORATIONS’.

She asks you to put together the tree whilst she puts the decorations in piles so she knows which ones go on the bottom, middle and top of the tree.

You finish your first task quickly and when you take a peek into the box you see several pieces of mistletoe.

“Time to have a little fun” you mumble to yourself.

“What was that?” Alessia asks you.

“Nothing. I’m going to get some water before we start, do you want any?” you ask as you hide the mistletoe in the pocket of the hoodie you are wearing.

When you get back Alessia had the piles sorted and puts you to work. You help her decorate the tree but she stops when she gets to certain decorations.

“These three are from mine, Luca and Giorgio’s first christmas. I put mine on then them two puts theirs on”

A couple of minutes later she stops again.

“We got this one when we went to Lapland” she tells you.

“Lapland?” You ask having never heard of the place.

“It’s like Santa’s village. Maybe we can go next year, you would love it. You get to meet the big man himself, have snow ball fights with Santa’s elves, ride sleds in the snow and go on husky rides”

You watch with what you can only guess are the definition of heart eyes as your girlfriend tells you story after story about the family trip.

Wanting the stories to continue you start asking questions about each one you put on the tree. There was one of Fred the red that her grandma got her the first Christmas she was a United player. There was one in the shape of a love heart that had a photo of her parents from their first Christmas together.

“Next one” you hold your hand out ready for the next decoration.

“Only one more left” Alessia says as she joins you at the tree.

It was true, there was only one decoration left to go on the tree and it was arguably the most important one. The star.

“Do you want to put the star on the top of the tree?” Alessia asks you as she hands you the star.

Whilst you are honoured you know how much this part means to her.

“No. You can do it” you hand it back to her.

“Lift me up?” She asks.

You hold behind the top of her thighs just below her bum and lift her up so she can reach the top of the tree.

“I’ll never let you down” you say as you watch her put the star on the tree.

“Pure cheese Y/N Y/L/N” she shakes her head as she lands on the ground.

Your hands remain clasped behind her back. You hold her close and her arms instinctively go around your neck.

“Only for you Alessia Russo”

She leans in to kiss you but then her mum calls of the two of you.

“We’ve been summoned” you dodge her kiss.

She grabs your hand and leads you to the kitchen where she guesses her parents are.

As you walk through the first door way you pull her back then look up, her gaze follows yours.

There above the threshold hangs mistletoe.

“How did that get there?” You play dumb but Alessia sees right through it.

“I have no idea but you dodged my kiss, now it is my turn to dodge yours”

She pulls you away from the Mistletoe.

“That’s not fair Less, there are rules” you complain rather childishly.

At the next door you do the same.

“Another mistletoe, what are the chances?” You joke.

“Another mistletoe where you don’t get your kiss” Alessia toys with you again.

You let out a huff of frustration as you get closer to the kitchen.

One last mistletoe remains and it is above the door that leads out to the garden. You really did cover your bases and what’s the saying, third times the charm.

When you look into the garden you see that more of Alessia’s family have joined her parents and brothers. You see an opportunity to get her back for denying you.

“Alessia stop trying to get me to walk under mistletoe”

You stop at the back door. Alessia stands directly under your last mistletoe whilst you stand in the kitchen.

Your girlfriend turns to you, her cheeks were red and you know that you have succeeded.

“Did you put this up whilst I was putting the Christmas tree up? If you wanted a kiss all you had to do was ask?” You continue to tease her.

“What—I didn’t”

“No need to get embarrassed. Look I’ll stand right under it, just for you” you take a few steps forward so you are almost nose to nose.

“Kiss. Kiss. Kiss” Giorgio chants from the garden haven seen that his sister was embarrassed.

“You’re lucky I love you” Alessia whispers as she inches closer to you.

“If you would have kissed me in the living room or in the hallway then this wouldn’t be necessary”

Less shakes her head at your games but she kisses you nonetheless. You want to deepen the kiss then again you always did but when you feel Alessia bit your bottom lip you knew it was a warning so you pull away.

#Christmas ficlet #woso x reader #alessia russo x reader #engwnt x reader

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michelle-is-writing · 11 months

Text

Baking, Ben Hardy

Word Count: 1.9k~

Baking has always been a fun pastime for me, whether something sweet was needed for an event or it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. When I was seven years old, my grandmother brought me into the kitchen one early morning and made me help her fix breakfast, causing me to fall in love with baking at such a young age. From then on, I began cooking and baking whenever I could, getting better with each year I grew older.

Thankfully, this valuable trait lasted me throughout my time as a teenager and into my young adult years. When I moved into my first-ever apartment, I was the only person living there, and cooking for myself and eating by myself every day became a bit lonely. The two activities became a bore for me until I baked cookies one day and brought them to my neighbor, whom I had never gotten to meet. The recipe for the cookies was from an old cookbook from the fifties that my grandmother gave me when I left home. Out of the things left by her in her passing, that was the most important to me as it led me to one of my lifelong passions.

I would soon find out that the recipe book would lead me to more than just a hobby, as those cookies would give me the chance to meet my neighbor and ultimately fall in love with him as well. Ben was the nicest guy when I met him, and when he came back with the empty Tupperware container the cookies were once held in only a day later, I knew he was a keeper.

We soon began dating, and nearly twice a week, I found myself baking anything he asked for while he talked to me or practiced his lines for movies he was staring in. It was almost as if we lived with each other as Ben and I were constantly sharing my bed, and most of his stuff was left at my apartment. I even began doing his laundry for him (which he was eternally grateful for).

Only a year passed of us sharing sweet and unforgettable moments before we were engaged, and soon enough, married. Of course, with the marriage, we both decided we'd need a place with more space, leading us to move from our small apartments and into a much bigger house with a gigantic kitchen. Ben said it was just a coincidence, but I saw those gears moving in Ben's head, and I wasn't mad at all.

Looking over at the sleeping blond man lying beside me, I can't help but think about the time Ben and I met. Just thinking about how he practically gushed over how good the cookies were (while stuttering) makes me want to go bake some for him now. However, I don't feel like rolling dough out, and instead, I'd rather make something I can just combine the ingredients and pour it into a pan. Are brownies okay at eight in the morning? Yes?

Gently sliding out of Ben's grasp and onto my feet, I take a glance at the calendar hanging over our bedroom desk, only to feel the date put a damper on my happy mood. It's a typical day for many other people in the world, but to me, this day is a reminder that the person whom I loved and looked up to as a child passed away. It's been a few years since my grandmother's death, but the anniversary still hits me as hard as the day it happened.

Although, I know that my grandmother wouldn't want me to be upset over her death, and instead, do something that made me smile. Baking was always something we did with each other, and since that makes me happy, I know she would want me to do so.

Heading into the kitchen, I pull my favorite cookbook off the shelf above the counter and flip it open to the recipe for the brownies my grandma used to make. I've made them many times before, and I remember the ingredients and instructions to a T, but I don't want to mess anything up and be left with flat or horrible-tasting brownies.

Combining the dry ingredients with the liquid ones, I push the stationary mixer down and let it mix the ingredients together while I stand at the counter, watching the dark brown brownie mix form before my eyes. As I do so, I barely hear the soft thuds of Ben's footsteps before his warm arms wrap around me from behind. His sudden touch surprises me, causing me to jolt with a small laugh as I immediately realize it's just him.

"You scared me," I state, turning in his hold to face him. His hair is going in every direction while his eyes are still clouded with sleep. This doesn't affect the smile on his face, nor does it change the firmness of his hold on me. He always looks adorable when he's just woken up, and this morning is no different.

"You scared me when you weren't in bed," Ben tells me, his voice showing that he's still partly asleep. Leaning down, he kisses my forehead before moving to my lips, where he stays there longer. Kissing back, I slide my arms around his neck and pull him close, only making him hold onto me tighter.

Pulling back with a giggle, I smile up at Ben with a sigh as he looks at the mixer behind me, a slight smirk appearing on his lips. "It's early in the morning," He points out, his fingers tapping against my waist. "And you're making... chocolate cake?"

With a small laugh, I turn back around in his arms and turn the mixer off. "Brownies, actually," I tell him, feeling Ben's fingers move from my waist and onto my stomach. "They're ones that my grandma and I used to make with each other," With that, I feel tears begin to form in my eyes, but I blink them away. However, Ben somehow notices this and nuzzles his head into my neck, his cold nose causing me to slightly shiver.

"I know you miss her," Ben murmurs, gently kissing the skin on my neck. "Why don't you tell me about her?" He suggests, making me smile once again. That's not a bad idea.

"Well, for starters, she wouldn't want you kissing my neck like this," I begin, making Ben laugh before he pulls his face away and places his chin on top of my head. "And secondly, you already know that she's the reason I know how to bake in the first place."

"But, what else did she do?" He asks, releasing his arms from my waist as he moves to lean against the counter beside me. The sight of him shirtless and leaning back on his arms makes me want to jump him, but for the sake of the moment, I can hold back.

"She did a lot," I tell him, walking to the cabinet to take a glass pan from the shelf. "God, I wish you could've met her - she would have loved you," I note, walking back to the counter with the pan. Placing it on the marble countertop, I sigh and look over at my husband, watching as he dreamily gazes at me with his green eyes. "I wish you could've been there when she could still bake."

"I don't think she baked better than you, love," He sucks up to me, making me snort. He knows better.

"Who do you think taught me?" I ask him with a grin. "Everything I know is because of her," I tell him, turning my body toward him. Leaning my hip against the counter, I cross my arms as happy memories come to mind. "I can remember making sugar cookies on Christmas Eve with her, and she taught me the importance of being creative with anything I made,"

Pausing, I start telling another memory. "There was one time when my aunts and uncles were coming down for a visit, and despite being weak from her age, she still put everything together and tried making a bunch of things," Slowly, the smile on my face begins to drop, remembering her frail state toward the end. Ben notices this but doesn't say anything, waiting for me to continue on.

"I had to finish everything for her, of course, and I didn't mind a single bit," I clarify. "The best part of it all was that she got to tell me stories from her childhood while I did so. She told me about the Great Depression and what it was like to bake during that time," Shaking my head, I smile once again before turning to the bowl of brownie batter and pouring it into the nonstick pan, scraping it with the red silicone spatula to get the excess in as well.

"She even told me about the time she baked a wedding cake for a friend whose mother wanted to bake it, but in all honesty, she couldn't bake for her life," Both Ben and I share a laugh before I continue on, placing the messy bowl back on the counter. "Plus, anytime she baked, and no matter how old I got, she always let me lick the spoon and bowl. I guess it was a southern thing or maybe just a grandmother thing,"

With a happy sigh, I look back to Ben to find him still listening to me, an interested smile marked on his lips. "Now, when I think about it, I can't help but become giddy when I think about kids, our kids," I correct myself, watching the sweet smile on his face grow. "Doing the same thing I did when I was young and licking the bowl like my grandmother would let me."

Turning my attention back to the glass pan full of brownie batter, I place the spatula in the bowl with the bottom and sides still partially covered with the batter. Just before I begin to clean up, I see Ben move in my peripherals, his naked chest and sweatpants-covered legs disappearing as he stands behind me once more, wrapping his left arm around me like he previously did as he reaches over me with his other arm to run his fingers in the dirty mixing bowl.

Turning my head toward him, I watch as Ben lifts his now brownie batter-covered fingers to his lips and licks the dark brown mix while maintaining eye contact with me, causing me to blush. He then leans forward and kisses me, remnants of the sweet mixture still lingering on his lips until he pulls away. "Until we have kids," He states, his smile now a smirk as his hand on my waist tightens. "I guess I'll just have to do."

"Love, if you don't stop licking your fingers like that, we will be having a kid very soon!" I joke, earning an almost playful, animalistic growl from Ben. The sound emitted from him causes me to burst with laughter just as Ben picks me up and tosses me over his shoulder, walking back to our bedroom as the uncooked brownies remain on the stovetop.

Probably, somewhere up in heaven, my grandmother is laughing at the sight of Ben and me, happy that her baker of a granddaughter found someone who loves her with all of his heart... and stomach.

#ben hardy #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy imagines #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy fanfic #ben hardy x fem reader #ben jones #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rhapsody x reader #bohemian rhapsody imagine #roger taylor imagines #roger taylor imagine #roger taylor fanfiction #roger taylor fanfic #roger taylor #roger taylor x reader

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addictedtostorytelling · 6 months

Note

Still loving the newest addition to the Happy Accidents series & your last chapter got me thinking about a potential scene I would love to hear from your perspective (or maybe you’ve already written it & I’ve just got to be patient…)

In the last chapter you mentioned Sara’s PTSD & Grissom was so sweet. Particularly this part “She knows why he is worried: Over the years, he has learned to associate nerviness in her with periods when her mental health is poor. She isn’t usually quick to startle, but during the times when her PTSD is bad—around anniversaries—she can be. She gets so in her own head that anything happening outside has the potential to shock.”

It got me thinking about how in this alternate universe, Sara would be about 6-7 months pregnant when the anniversary of her abduction came & I would love to read her thoughts on that & how Grissom helps her deal with it. Does it cause her to reflect on how different her life looks now than a year ago? Does she think about all the reasons she didn’t give up in the desert? Does she feel the baby kick & is brought out of her thoughts, grateful for how her life looks?

And if you’ve already written a scene like this…I’ll sit over here (im)patiently waiting.

hi, @chelsshearman!

good to hear from you again! i'm so glad to know you're enjoying the story so far.

i've taken a while to come up with an answer to your (very thoughtful) question, and though i can't show any prose from that part of the story just yet without revealing some major accidentsverse spoilers, i can offer you a more pared down answer after the "keep reading," if you're interested.

note: in order to avoid major accidentsverse spoilers, i purposefully use ambiguous language surrounding sara's pregnancy in this answer.

sara knows from experience: trauma doesn't adhere to a strict calendar.

sometimes exact anniversaries are bad, but other times the days and weeks surrounding are when the cptsd symptoms really hit.

november has historically been a crapshoot for her, any day—not just the exact anniversary of her father's murder—liable to be a bad one, the whole month something of a slog.

though she is hopeful: now that her wedding anniversary falls mid-month, maybe she'll have better associations going forward.

she is well-aware of this temporal idiosyncrasy in her brain, and so is her therapist, which is why he starts counseling with her in mid-april about what to anticipate come may, for what will be the first anniversary of her abduction by natalie davis.

admittedly, she is, at this point, distracted. not only is there a lot going on in her life pregnancy-wise, but things are busier than ever at work. by now, she is no longer in the field and has instead become the de facto "point person" for her teammates at the lab, which, contrary to what she had expected, has somehow upped her caseload. still, she tries her best to complete her therapy assignments with what few spare hours she has. is diligent about going in for sessions. practices all of the self-care techniques her therapist recommends. stays on top of taking her meds. makes sure to look after herself as well as she can.

—and especially because grissom is so obviously worried about her.

not only does he admit as much outright, sans prompting, but he also is so careful with her. he had already been wonderfully attentive, but now she hardly even has to think she might want something before he appears to offer it. she swears to god: the man is telepathic. also, far too sweet.

thankfully, as the calendar turns over into may, there are some fun, new pregnancy developments to help to take her mind off the impending anniversary: grissom is finally able to feel kicking. (for a long time, she had felt fetal movements internally, but they hadn't been detectable in any external way.) also, a first instance of fetal hiccups, which is just about the weirdest, coolest sensation she has ever experienced.

that said, about two weeks before the big anniversary™, she does start experiencing some "trauma residuals" from her abduction. she's not having flashbacks or nightmares or full-on panic attacks, per se; she just feels off. spacey. emotionally unbalanced. like everything in her head has just been shifted two inches to the left of where it should be.

she keeps expecting to have some kind of big breakdown at some point, but the catharsis doesn't ever come.

and, honestly, the lack of punctuation is what bothers her more than anything.

she confides in grissom: she's scared. she tried to get out ahead of her trauma by "doing all the right things," but she is still being affected, not in any obvious, dramatic way but enough so that her trauma is inarguably impacting her behavior. coworkers keep asking her if she’s okay. looking like they don’t fully believe her when she says she is. she can’t help but be concerned: what if the same thing happens a few years on from now? the last thing in the world she would ever want to do to her child(ren) is make them feel like mommy's sad or upset for no reason.

so she and grissom talk the issue through: they both agree that trauma is a fickle thing—particularly as trauma reactions can't always be pinned down to one day or easily predicted in terms of how they'll manifest. show great variance in intensity, duration, form, etc. also can't be totally prevented, even if one tries to account for them as much as possible. chances are, she will be dealing with after effects—from her childhood, from her abduction—for the rest of her life.

sara explains: logically, she knows all of these things. but she still doesn't want their child(ren) to suffer for having a traumatized parent. she has experience that way with her own mother. remembers how helpless she felt when she was little, watching her mother struggle; how much she internalized her mother's sadness and anger. though as an adult, she (mostly) knows better now, back then, she wondered if she caused or exacerbated her mother’s misery and questioned why she wasn't enough to make her mother happier.

here, grissom digs in: "and did your mother ever answer those questions for you?"

her silence tells him no.

grissom offers his postulate: the truth might have helped—not by making sara’s mother “magically better” but by allowing sara, even as a child, to contextualize the situation and understand her mother's mental health conditions existed independent of anything having to do with her. just hearing, in no uncertain terms, that her mother wasn’t sad for any reason having to do with her may have alleviated some of her misplaced guilt.

sara agrees: they should be honest with their child(ren) and explain things at a level they can understand.

but she still worries: it will be a long time yet before they can have those kinds of honest conversations. what will happen in the meanwhile? babies pick up on their caretakers' cues and moods, after all. she doesn’t want to do damage by exuding sadness or fear in their child(ren)’s presence.

grissom reassures her: in all the time they've been together, even during periods when her mental health has been at its poorest ("even in november"), he has always felt loved by and safe with her. he has not been oblivious to her sadness and fear. but he also has never felt that those reactions in her negated her affections. he suspects their child(ren) will feel the same.

still, she makes him promise: if she ever gets to the point where she can't be a good caretaker of their child(ren), he'll intervene. "that was part of the problem," she explains, "with my parents. no matter how miserable things got, no one said anything or did anything about it. no one asked for help. we all just sat there with it."

grissom agrees: they'll ask for help if they need it. offer help when they see it's needed, even if it hasn't been asked for. and neither one of them will give up.

the promise does make sara feel somewhat better.

—though, of course, it doesn’t fully alleviate her cptsd symptoms.

may proves to be a hard month, not only because of the trauma but for other reasons, too.

[insert major accidentsverse spoilers here]

but it also is not without happy moments—sometimes impossibly happy, like the first time they see a footprint, clearly discernible for what it is, show through the skin of her belly—and, most importantly, never without love.

she reflects: one year ago, she was alone in a desert, sure she was going to die. now, she is never alone, and she has never been surer of what she has to live for. lying in bed with grissom, his hand over the footprint protruding slightly below her navel, she feels a kind of peace she could never have imagined she would feel, just one year on from that day. she knows: what happened to her will stay with her for the rest of her life—will sometimes rear up in unaccountable ways—but it won’t be what defines her. won’t be the main throughline in her story. she’s writing that one herself, here, now. and she loves where her story is headed.

thanks for the question! please feel welcome to send another any time.

#answered #chelsshearman #accidentsverse #csiverse #my fic #**

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russellsppttemplates · 1 year

Note

Pierre confessing to his wife he's afraid he won't be a good father because he's away a lot, and her confessing she's afraid she wont be a good mother because she didn't have a good role model growing up.

Tw: mentions family issues

"That's in two weeks", you heard Pierre say on his phonecall, his tone already indicating the frustration that was building inside him. He thought he had the whole month at home, remote meetings, and very few things to do in the factory that needed him there for the whole time, hence he thought the had that time to spend with you, near you. He had begun to set up the nursery, had been to every appointment with you and was counting on accompanying you to the rest of them. You were in the kitchen, sitting by the kitchen island checking the calendar to make sure you had written everything down correctly, "what are you doing, amour?", Pierre came up behind you, looking at the appointment you were erasing, "the nurse just sent a message in saying this appointment has to be moved forward, something with a machine not working", you shrugged your shoulders, "she said it isn't anything urgent", you finished, showing signs of not being bothered by it.

Just by Pierre's luck, the appointment had now been moved to the week he had to travel, "Amour, I just got a call and I'm not here from this day to this day, will probably arrive late too", he pointed to the calendar, making you mark a small line on the days he wouldn't be in, nodding to make sure you had it right, "I'm sorry, amour, I really thought I'd be here this whole time", he offered, "it's okay, my love, no worries about that", you said before putting the calendar back up on the wall and heading to the living room once you held his hand in yours, desperate for some comfy cuddles.

Dinner had been weird, Pierre didn't talk much, and it scared you a bit, had you done something wrong? Was it not tasty, not good enough? Had he been worried about something else? Questions ran through your mind while your husband showered, rubbing your body oil on your growing bump while you waited for him to come to bed. It didn't take long before he left the bathroom, only a pair of shorts covering his body, the frown on his face marked, "is something bothering you? Did I do something wrong?", you asked in a small voice, making him break his expression, "No, no, no amour, what makes you say that?", he conforted immediately, his hands coming to hold yours, "You've had an angry expression all afternoon, you didn't say much at dinner, and it's weird, it's not your usual", you listed, enjoying the way his thumbs, almost reassuringly, rubbed your hands, "it's nothing with you, amour, I promise. I've just been thinking about how I have to leave you in a few days, and how that is something I have to do a lot, like, I will spend some days away from you, and I won't be here as much during the season. How is that something of a good father? I don't want to make you follow me everywhere, I know how hard it is to have that routine, or rather lack of it", he expressed his concerns, making you unlatch your hands so you could caress his cheek to make him look at you, "Pierre, that is not what defines being a good father", you said, "you don't think?", he said, trying to gather his thoughts, knowing that it was a sensitive topic to you but also knowing you'd want to hear his concerns and worries, "I can't know for sure, but I can tell from experience that it's not because of that. Little one will love you because you love them to bits, and it won't be because you're not always here. Maybe they'll be confused but I know you, and I know you'll always make them feel loved and cherished", you replied genuinely.

"I'm sorry to bring this up, but it has been bothering me recently, I know how much this is important to you", he said, "I feel like that too sometimes, I mean, I did not have the best role models, and while I know what I don't want to do, and will never do, I'm still unsure of what I want to do, how I'd like to do it", you gulped, "if I'll be good at it".

Smiling reassuringly, he held your face between his hands, "So this all just means that we will learn as we go", he comforted, "day by day, we will see what works, what doesn't, I'm sure we will do the best for our family, because I love you, and I know you love me, and we have everyone around us showering us with love and help", he kissed the top of your head, "we will be just fine".

(Thank you for submitting an ask 🤍)

#pierre gasly blurb #inês writes blurbs #f1 blurb

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defleppardfan1 · 3 months

Text

Love Bites: Chapter 9

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Smut and swearing. 18+ only please. This fic from now on will contain cheating.

The shows in America were more than Y/N could ever have dreamed of. Since the tour started, Ultraviolet had attracted more and more attention, and the crowds were not only showing up for Def Leppard but for them as well.

Every night when she called Doug, Y/N had to try and pretend everything was normal. The last thing she wanted was to come home from the tour to nothing. Whilst most of her belongings were replaceable, there were some photos and other sentimental bits and bobs that she would want back. Knowing Doug as well as she did, Y/N knew that if she were to break up with him over the phone he would destroy everything.

Tammy had taken to sitting with Y/N whilst she was phoning her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. Almost every phone call ended with Y/N either in tears or nearly shaking with anger. Doug wasn’t against insulting her at every given opportunity, only solidifying in the woman’s mind that she had to leave him as soon as they were back in London.

Just over two weeks after their arrival, it was the beginning of April and they still had over half the tour to go. Over those two weeks, Joe and Y/N had been spending more and more time together. Although neither of them had said anything, it was mutually agreed that once Y/N broke up with Doug, the two of them would give it a go. They knew that there would be distance between them but the both of them wanted to make it work.

“Doug I’ve told you like a thousand times when the tour ends.” Y/N refrained from shouting down the phone.

“And I’ve forgotten, you’ve been away for so long now, surely you must be home soon.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and let out a quiet sigh away from the phone.

“The tour ends on the 30th June.” She told him yet again.

“Seriously. Why does it have to be that long, it’s not like either of you are that popular yet.”

“Over here Def Leppard are huge, and I’ll have you know, Ultraviolet has been getting a bigger fan base since the tour started.” Y/N looked over at Tammy who gave her a sympathetic smile. Despite the bassist not being able to hear Doug, she just knew that it wasn’t pleasant responses her lead singer was getting.

Little did Y/N know, as she turned her back again, Joe had entered the room, not releasing that the venue phone was in use. Tammy smiled at him before leaving the room herself. Joe went to follow but with a shake of Tammy’s head he stayed put.

“That’s still three months Y/N.” Doug shouted, prompting Y/N to move the phone away from her ear.

“I know Doug, I can use a calendar.” She bit back. “There's not long until the show. I have to go.”

“You barely have any time for me now.” Doug grumbled.

“I’ll see you in three months.” Y/N said before putting the phone down.

Y/N turned around before coming face-to-face with Joe. She jumped slightly in surprise before giving him a small smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Joe told her in almost a whisper.

“It’s okay. I was just expecting Tammy that’s all.” Y/N felt herself exhausted yet again from the phone call, although this one wasn’t as intense as some of the calls between her and Doug, she still was sick of repeating herself all because he couldn’t listen to what she was saying.

“She left when I arrived.” Joe told her.

Y/N nodded before a slightly uncomfortable silence came over the two of them. Joe inched his way closer to her.

“How did it go?” He asked, referring to the phone call she just had.

“Well, about the same as they all go. I tell him something, he doesn’t listen, I have to repeat myself and he doesn’t like what I have to say. I had to lie and say that the show is about to start just to get off the phone. He doesn’t need to know that we still have a few hours.” Y/N ran her hands through her hair, getting her fingers caught in a few tangles that had formed from the backcombing she had done that morning.

Against his better judgement, Joe stepped forward again. Y/N looked up at him as he did so.

“I can’t wait for this tour to end.” He whispered as the backs of his fingers caressed her cheek. “I can’t wait for you to leave him.”

“Me neither.”

Joe found himself getting lost in her eyes. “I know we shouldn’t but…” He started, not looking away.

“No we shouldn’t.” Y/N told him before their lips collided together for a second time that tour.

It started out as a soft kiss, the two gently moving their lips in sync as they moved impossibly closer to each other. Y/N’s hand moved up to Joe’s hair and she pulled carefully, earning a small groan, much like the one from a few weeks before. She wanted to do it again but the two were interrupted by Tammy re-entering the room.

The bassist didn’t say anything as she smiled and left again, however she had effectively ruined the moment. Y/N and Joe pulled apart slowly.

“I should go.” Y/N spoke, her voice slightly hoarse. Joe just nodded and Y/N followed in the same direction Tammy went, leaving Joe alone.

After the show, Y/N refused to go out for a drink and instead opted to get some rest before they travelled the next day. All throughout the show, Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, only this time there was less guilt. The more time she spent with Joe, the more she wanted to get home and break up with Doug and now it didn’t even feel like she was dating him anymore. She knew it was wrong to think that way but with every argument the distance between them felt greater.

She had just changed into her pyjamas when there was a knock on her hotel room door. She was a little confused as to who it could be because as far as she knew, everyone was out. However, she felt her heart skip a beat when she opened the door to reveal Joe.

“We really should stay away from each other.” Joe told her as soon as he saw her.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because staying away from you appears to be impossible.” Joe then moved forward and kissed her again. This time there was a sense of urgency in the kiss and Y/N couldn’t help but reciprocate it. When Joe broke the kiss, he pushed her backwards slightly so that he could enter her room and shut the door.

“Now I probably shouldn’t do this because you have a boyfriend but I can’t seem to control myself around you.”

Y/N nodded along with what he was saying.

“I can’t control myself around you either.” She told him as he pressed his lips to hers once more. He moved his hands down from her back to the back of her thighs, giving her bum a small squeeze as he did so. She let out a little squeal as he tried to lift her up. Without breaking the kiss, Y/N jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist.

He moved the two over to her bed and laid her down, trailing his lips down her neck and sucking gently. Y/N let out a soft moan and moved her hands to Joe’s shoulders, gently digging in her fingernails.

“May I?” Joe breathed as he placed his fingers at the hem of her pyjama bottoms.

“Yes.” Y/N whispered. Without any hesitation Joe pulled her pyjama bottoms down with her underwear in one. “Please Joe.” Y/N whimpered as she felt his breath on her.

“Please what?”

“Touch me please.”

Joe didn’t waste anymore time running his fingers through her folds, finding her clit almost straight away. Y/N gasped in surprise, Doug took months to find it.

Soon enough Joe pushed two fingers inside of her groaning at the tightness. He kissed her clit and Y/N grabbed his hair for support. With the hand he wasn’t using, he moved to under her thin top and grabbed her breast, squeezing softly and brushing his fingertips over her nipple.

Y/N was overwhelmed with the sensations when Joe pulled away from her. Before she could question it, he quickly pulled his wallet out of his pocket and removed a condom. Y/N sat up and reached for Joe’s jeans, undoing the button as Joe reached for her top.

The pair of them removed each other's clothes, unable to pull their eyes away from the other. Y/N reached up and kissed him again before laying back down on the bed. Joe climbed on top of her and lined himself up at her entrance.

“You sure love?”

“Yes Joe please.”

That was all Joe needed before he pushed into her. They let out moans together as they gripped onto each other. Joe waited for her to adjust before he started rocking.

Y/N let out a cry of his name as he hit that special spot inside of her, something else Doug couldn’t seem to find.

Joe set the pace for them as Y/N encouraged him by scratching her nails down his back. She moved her hips to meet him which made him go even deeper than before. Joe leaned down to kiss her as she felt tears of pleasure stream down her face.

Y/N didn’t know how long they had been rocking in sync for but soon enough she felt her high coming.

“Joe I’m gonna, fuck…”

“I know love. Come for me sweetheart.” He leant down to her ear and kissed just behind it. The sensations all became too much for her as she allowed herself to fall over the edge.

“Shit, I’m coming Y/N/N.” Joe announced as she was in the middle of her high. Y/N just clutched onto Joe tighter, as if he would disappear if she let go.

When they both finished, Joe rolled off of her, moving to the bathroom to get a washcloth. He went back and cleaned them both up, disposing of the condom and climbing into bed with her. Y/N wrapped herself around him under the duvet. Focusing on her breathing. Joe kissed her forehead and rubbed his arm up and down her back.

“We’ll sort all this love.” Joe told her before the two drifted off to sleep.

Taglist:

@genxrocker

@elliotts-personal-property

@friccinfricks

@i-love-def-leppard

@vintagerocknrollgirl

#joe elliott #joe elliott x reader #def leppard #ellen's fic #love bites fic #love bites chapter 9 #joe elliott smut

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