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msgexymunson · 27 days

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The Ink Shop

Description: Desperate for a job, you answer an advertisement not knowing it's a tattoo shop. It's not particularly difficult work, except for one thing: having to deal with Eddie Munson.

Warnings: NSFW, minors DNI or I'll tell your parents, fem reader, thick sexual tension, angst and smut. Fingering.

A/N: I finally wrote it! The teach me fic I've been day dreaming about forever. This will be part one of three, and honestly this is one of the hottest things I've written. If you enjoy it, please comment and reblog, it means the world to me.

8k words

Masterlist Part 2

Screwing your nose up in confusion, you look at the meticulously cut snippet of newspaper neatly attached to your resume with a paperclip. Sure enough, receptionist and administrator wanted for a place called ‘The Ink Shop’.

The outside of the building looks a little bleak, all decked out in black with frosted windows, but the fading lettering above does indeed spell out ‘The Ink Shop’.

Weird. This does not look like a printers.

You smooth down a minor wrinkle in your white shirt and open the door with unsure hands, the bell above ringing out loudly.

Oh.

This is not a printers. This is a tattoo shop.

The thought hadn't even crossed your mind. The noise is a cacophony of buzzing, rock music and loud conversation. Art hangs on every available wall, the wallpaper underneath a royal purple, faded over time. There's frames upon frames of predesigned pieces for people to choose from, and an enormous wooden counter, black and gouged with use, directly in front of the doors.

Taking a confidence boosting breath you march forward, pencil skirt stretching and heels clicking on the black and white linoleum, and stand by the counter. No one seems to have noticed your arrival, and a polite cough is not going to cut it.

“Hello?” Calling out to the shop, a devilishly handsome tattooed man in a ripped band shirt, black jeans and scuffed army boots turns his head. Loose dark curls escape a low bun and swivel with him, framing his animated face. He saunters over to the counter and towers over you, giving you an appraising look.

“You old enough to be in here sweetheart?” He asks, amused, as he points to the sign on the wall that states ‘Strictly Over 21s, no exceptions’.

“Yes?” You're trying to be confident but it comes out as a question, entirely taken aback by the strength of his stare.

“Oh, well then I'm Eddie,” he holds out a hand and you're forced to reach up to shake it, but to your surprise he doesn't let go. The skin is rougher than you thought it would be, and absolutely covered in small tattoos. “What is it today? Let me guess, cover up an ex boyfriend's name? I can help you forget all about him.”

The grin he shoots back is nothing short of predatory. All you can think of is that old childhood song, never smile at a crocodile…

“No, no, I'm here about the job?”

He looks genuinely surprised, taking in your outfit in another flagrant stare.

“Really? You?”

“Yes, me.” You respond, cheeks flushing in annoyance.

“Hey, Mac!” He calls over his shoulder and a big guy with a shaved head lowers his tattoo gun, glancing over at you both. “This girl's after a job?”

Mac stands up slowly and begins to walk over.

“You can let go now princess.”

Staring at Eddie dumbfoundedly, you realise his grip on your hand has softened completely. Whipping your hand away, you flash him a defiant eye. It's ineffective; he merely grins wider and winks at you, poking his tongue out playfully. You see a hint of silver, a tongue piercing.

“Hey there, I'm Mac, the owner.” another handshake, but gentler and brief. You introduce yourself and go to hand him your resume.

A phone rings on the counter and Mac shouts “no!” just as Eddie picks it up.

“Mac’s Roadkill Café, from your grill to ours.” Eddie delivers the line as smooth as silk, never taking his eyes off you. “Yeah, it's Eddie, of course. Oh, I'll tell him. Thanks.”

As Eddie turns to Mac he's given a small but effective slap to the back of the head by Mac.

“What did I tell you, stop answering like that!”

Eddie just grins wider and looks at you again, a fake pout on his full lips.

“You see that? Harassment in the workplace. Wanna kiss it better?”

Mac shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, then turns to face you again.

“Are you immediate start?”

“Er, yeah. I've got my resume, and references here-”

“Listen Miss, if you can read and write, answer a phone, and put up with that-” he says, gesturing a thumb at Eddie, “then you've got the job.”

Thank God, two of those references were your best friend with different names. Stunned, you just nod fast.

“Great. Tomorrow morning. We open at 10am.”

Saying goodbye, you turn to exit, and risk one final glance over your shoulder. Eddie's still at the counter. A disarming wink, and then the door shuts behind you.

********************

So, not exactly what you expected, but a job's a job. After getting a degree, you'd assumed doors would open, but a string of coffee houses later and here you are. You'll take it.

It's 9:30 am, and you stand outside, wondering whether or not to try the door. Keen, but not too keen. It's a line you're trying to toe without much experience, especially with an establishment like this.

A pretty woman with an undercut and a butterfly neck tattoo stirs you out of your calculations.

“Hey, I'm Chloe. You're the new girl, right? Eddie bet you'd be early.”

Blushing at the entirely accurate first impression, you try to stop your nose scrunching in distaste. As if reading your mind, Chloe chuckles.

“Ah, don't worry about him, he's an idiot. Come on, I'll show you the ropes.”

Chloe is the piercer that basically rents a place in the shop, where she's been for around three years, she explains. There's also Julio, who does more realistic tattoo work, and Miranda who works part time.

Chloe turns out to be warm and welcoming, showing you how they book clients in, how to take payments, and the phone note system. It's straightforward work, stuff you'll master in no time. In fact, you feel comfortable enough by 10 am to sit at the counter on your own.

Mac arrives on time, giving you a quick check in and taking down all your information on a yellow legal pad.

“Do you not have a computer in here?” you ask, genuinely puzzled.

“Oh no, not yet. I don't know how to work those things, Miss.” Mac chuckles, and gets to his station to prepare for his first client.

At 10:45 am Eddie walks through the door as if he owns the place.

Your eyes widen at his brazen lateness, but no one seems to bat an eyelid. It boils your blood; to be that disrespectful and clearly not care. How could someone act like that?

“Hey princess, didn't think you'd come back,” he smiles, reaching for your hand.

Oh I'm not falling for that again.

You pull your hand into your lap, expecting trickery from him. A smug grin smears across his face at the gesture, as if he knew you'd do that. It makes you even more annoyed.

“Eddie, the book says you start,” you say, flicking through the tome in front of you, “ah, at 10 am today.”

“It's walk-in Wednesday sweetheart. There's no one here.”

He's got a point. Chloe had explained the tattoo artists work a shift of Wednesdays, someone is always available for walk-ins for small and pre designed pieces. Today is Eddie's turn, and he's right, no one is here.

“Well, there could have been,” you snark back, folding your arms.

He crosses into the shop, pushing the little gate open and stands next to you, arms crossed. The height you had is now lost, forcing you to look up at him.

“As far as I know, you ain't the boss of me. I suggest taking the stick out of your ass before you come here.”

Mouth falling open in outrage, you move to reply but he's already turned away.

“Oh, and princess, there ain't a dress code.”

He's gone, disappearing upstairs. Blushing crimson, you cross your arms as if you can hide the conservative outfit you're wearing.

You're beginning to see why Mac asked if you could put up with Eddie.

********************

Halfway through the day, you realise just why Mac puts up with Eddie.

“Hey! Seeing if I can book with Eddie?”

“Any appointments with Eddie?”

“Just checking to see if Eddie had any cancellations?”

It seems most calls are about him. As you check his schedule, it's not only fully booked for the next 6 months, they've even started a waiting list at the back.

“Any walk-ins?”

The words next to your ear make you jump bodily, almost losing your place on your chair in alarm.

“You scared me! No, I would have said,” turning to him, you're sucked into those deep brown eyes once again. “Why do you do walk-in Wednesdays if you're so… so popular?”

Eddie flashes a smile at you, full of self importance. “I don't know sweetheart, Van Gogh wasn't made to doodle!” Shouting the last part at the back of Mac's head, he turns to you. “We just divided the shifts, so it was fair, that's all. Why, want a tattoo?”

You roll your eyes. “No, I was just wondering.”

“Do you have any, princess?”

“Not that it's any of your business, but no, I don't.”

The laugh that rips from Eddie's chest is hearty and full of amusement.

“You work in a tattoo shop and you don't have any? That's practically blasphemy!”

The little bell above the door rings, and a nervous guy looks around before walking in. Before you see what he wants, you shout to Eddie's retreating back.

“Van Gogh was only famous after he died, you know!”

It's a little later on in the day; you've done a stock take, ordered more ink, and neatened up the consent sheets three times. The phone hasn't rung in a while, and you're bored out of your mind.

Chloe walks over, coat in her hand.

“Hey, how you getting on?”

“I'm good, just bored.”

She laughs, “it's not always this quiet, mid week and all. Mac's done for the day, and I'm heading off. You gonna be OK?”

You glance over to Eddie, who to your surprise is tattooing his own fingers.

“What, with the untrained monkey? I'll live.”

She laughs harder at that, “he's not so bad, once you get to know him.” Lowering her voice, she whispers, “he's good at some things, you know.” The conspiratorial wink fills in what she isn't saying. Cheeks flushed, you gawp at Eddie and back at Chloe.

“Huh? W-what, are you like, an item?” You ask, entirely thrown.

“Oh no, he's not exactly boyfriend material. It was just one night, but bloody hell. Anyway, it's not like that anymore, we're just friends now. Maybe you two should just, you know.”

A blush floods your face, almost reaching the roots of your hair. “I don't- I don't, do that.”

“I'm just saying, it's an option. It'd stop the bickering at least. I can sense the tension from all the way over there.”

Without a further word, she leaves you sitting on your stool, trying to remember how to breathe.

Right, let's just play nice.

Walking over to his station, you try to glimpse what he's tattooing.

“I thought Van Gogh wasn't made to doodle” you quip, trying to keep it light.

“This is different” he responds, not looking up at you.

“You know, that's a waste of a needle.”

Eddie turns the machine off and rolls his eyes at you.

“Who made you Princess of the Needles, hmmm?”

“Mac did actually, when he asked me to check the stock,” you reply hotly, folding your arms. Stopping for a second, you take a breath. Play nice, you're supposed to be playing nice.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to-”

Eddie turns the machine back on and continues with his impromptu tattoo.

“Can't you just be… professional?” You ask over the buzzing.

“Can't you just relax for a second? No ones here. Fuck, you need to get laid.”

Mouth dropping open in shock, you grab your bag and stomp out of the store, anger fuelling every step.

********************

Right, be calm, put together. You've dealt with worse people.

It's true. At the coffee shop you had on edge caffeine addicts shout in your face almost on a daily basis, but none of them got under your skin like Eddie did. Then again, none of them had spat truths like venom in your face.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Taking the leap, you walk into the shop, coffees and a tray of donuts in hand; a small peace offering. To your surprise, he is already at his station, sorting through ink pots.

You make quick work of handing out coffee and donuts to everyone, until you reach his side. There's plastic wrap around one of his fingers, you assume from his little tattoo session yesterday. It only serves to remind you of how tetchy you were.

“Morning Eddie.”

“So you came back. Tough little princess ain't ya? Remove the stick from your ass yet?” The grin he flashes you is wide but there's a bite to his words.

He's trying to rile you up, but you ignore it, thrusting a coffee at him.

“I'll be nice if you will.”

Tension laces the air as he stares at your outstretched hand, but he takes the coffee.

“I'm sorry Eddie.”

Opening the box of donuts, you gesture for him to take one. He does, stuffing half of it into his mouth.

“What about you?” you ask.

“Huh?” He mumbles through a mouthful of crumbs.

“Are you sorry…?”

“What for?”

Setting your jaw, your hand is about two seconds from slapping the shit out of him, but you need the money. So, you huff and walk away.

“What did I do?” He huffs, shouting it to the shop.

“You should just say sorry, you've clearly upset her.” Chloe calls over to him, a slight smile on her face.

“Yeah, how do you know?”

“You upset everyone Eddie.” She laughs, and stands to greet her first client.

It's a tense kind of day, with neither you nor Eddie backing down, only speaking to each other if absolutely necessary. By the time everyone's left it's just you and him again.

He's finishing up with a client, telling them about aftercare as they gush about their new ink. It's difficult to deny, the guy is talented. This phoenix tattoo looks like it's popping right off of the skin, the flames so bright and detailed you could swear you saw them move.

Once they've left, there's an awkward pause. Eddie breaks the silence first.

“Listen, I'm sorry sweetheart. I shouldn't have been rude to you. So I'll make you a deal. I'll give you a tattoo, for free, and we ask each other questions, get to know each other. What do you say?”

Smiling in spite of yourself, you turn to face him. “And why would I want a tattoo?”

He visibly relaxes at your grin, and flashes one of his own. “Come on, I'm the best. I promise I'll be gentle.”

“We close at six, so it'll have to wait.”

Eddie looks at the clock, and bobs his head with each tick. Twenty seconds later he turns to you, eyebrows raised.

“Fine, I suppose it is a bit silly to work in a tattoo shop with no ink.”

He punches the air with glee, forcing you to smile despite your better judgement.

“Well then, what are you thinking, got any ideas in mind?”

“I want a heart on my hip” he groans, putting his face in his hands, “hang on, before you judge, I want one like this.”

Pulling a book from your bag, you turn to the page neatly bookmarked. It's an anatomical heart from a textbook you own, a line and dot drawing.

“Oh.” Eddie's eyes light up, “that's pretty metal, actually. So, you just happen to have this on you?”

“No, I've been thinking about it for a while. It's… not what people would expect. And when I got the job here, I was working up the courage to get it. Carrying around the book was a promise to myself, I think.”

He busies himself with getting a stencil ready, the drawing supplied speeding up the process.

“Right, climb on up princess, show me where you want it.”

Blushing, you unzip your skirt at the back and roll it down slightly, shifting your blouse up high. The smile Eddie gives you is salacious, but he doesn't say a word.

“Right here?” Softly his fingertips graze you, making you jump. That simple act crackles over your skin in an electricity unknown to you.

“Y-yes,” you practically whisper it, face crimson.

“So, questions. Can I go first?”

“Sure” you nod, feeling vulnerable flashing this much skin.

“OK,” he starts, pressing the stencil down, “I'll start with an easy one. How old are you?”

“23.”

He nods, prepping the needle, “your turn princess.”

“How old are you?”

“Ah, copycat,” he grins, testing the gun, the sudden noise making you jump, “I'm 30 sweetheart. I know, I look younger.”

Act younger is more like it.

“I'm gonna start, you still alright?”

“Uh huh.”

“Atta girl. It'll feel like a scratch.”

He leans forward as his words burn your insides. Atta girl? Part of you wanted to tell him you're not a fucking horse, but another, deeper, part keens at the praise, kicking it's feet and twirling its hair like some dizzy schoolgirl.

The needle touches and you jump, but it's fine. It's easy. If anything, it's rather nice? You gasp at the feeling, your feet wiggling.

“Right, next question. Why here, why this job?”

The gun is moving across your skin, consuming all rational thought. You could lie, but a part of you feels like he'd know somehow.

“I thought it was a printers shop, or a copy place.”

He laughs briefly, but continues to focus on your new ink.

“I knew it. Pretty, innocent thing like you, wandering into this den of depravity? Too good to be true.”

Glazing over his comment, you think of a question to ask.

“How did you start working here?”

Eddie scoffs and turns off his machine for a moment, “you need to get creative, stop using my questions.”

“I really want to know!” You say, meeting his derisory look.

“Fine, quid pro quo and all that shit. Been here seven years. I begged. I begged Mac for an apprenticeship everyday for a week. He gave in, and here I am. Ask something else, that was boring.”

You wrack your brains, trying to think of something original, far too aware of the steadying hand that he's pushing onto your abdomen.

“What band is that?”

It's the only thing that pops into your mind. He follows your eye line to his t-shirt.

“Oh this? This is my band, Corroded Coffin. You should come see us sometime.”

“Oh, what do you play?”

His face lights up, “I sing, and play guitar. That's why my fingers are so rough-” he holds one up, covered in black latex, “-oh yeah, gloves.”

After you both share a chuckle, there's a breath of quiet between you, except for the sound of the tattoo gun.

“My turn,” he says, smiling at your hip, “I gotta know, are you a virgin?”

It's a miracle that he's as responsive as he is, since the question knocks you sideways. You sit up in shock, but he's already moved the needle off and away.

“You can't just ask that, it's… it's rude!” you splutter, face glowing red.

There's no trace of apology on his face. In fact, his grin only widens with your reply.

“I thought so. Don't worry, I'm not gonna tease you about it.”

Laying back down, you try to think of something to say, but it just doesn't arrive. He can read you like an open book and it's deeply unsettling, not to mention embarrassing.

“Your turn princess.”

“I don't want to play anymore.”

“Oh come on, I'm being nice! Ask me something.”

“Fine. What was your last wet dream about?”

To your dismay, he smiles yet again.

“You, sweetheart.”

Huffing, you cross your arms in annoyance. “Fine, don't answer.”

He's focusing on your tattoo, tongue poking out in concentration, “I'm nearly done, then you can go back to hating me.”

“I don't hate you. I've never hated anyone,” you respond in truth. Eddie's eyebrows raise, but he remains focused.

“Really? You must have had a much better childhood than mine.”

It's quiet for a bit. You're not sure how to respond to that, feeling the cloud of his memory hanging thickly in the air between you.

“All done.”

“Huh?”

He chuckles and points at your new ink, “take a look.”

It's beautiful. All line and dot work, like it was pulled from the book itself and glued to your hip.

“It's amazing Eddie. Thank you.”

The grin he shoots you is warm as he wraps your new ink and then removes his gloves. “No problem. I'll lock up, the sheets on aftercare are right there. But you knew that.”

Smiling affectionately, you take one and stand up, hovering for a second.

“Eddie what do I owe-”

“-not a damn thing. See you in the morning, princess.”

********************

The next few days were much more pleasant. Eddie was flirty, yes, but he seemed to understand when to stop. You had been nicer to him, biting back on the comments when you could. There was a rhythm to it, a constant dance of him flustering you and you annoying him.

Things really felt like they were falling into place. Until Eddie decided to cross the line.

Walk in Wednesday again, and the shop was dead. Julio was on shift, sitting in the back having a nap.

“Hey Mac, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, what is it Miss?”

“Well, how do people know about our Wednesdays?”

“Mostly word of mouth. We handed out flyers before, but it didn't really pick up. Honestly, I'm thinking of scrapping it.” He shrugs, taking a sip of coffee.

“Before you do, I have an idea. I can design some flyers, get them out to the coffee shop I used to work at. It's by campus, I'm sure a few students would jump at the chance. You could offer a student discount, get them in the door?” You stare at him wide eyed, hoping he likes the idea. The little speech was one you'd practised about fourteen times before actually saying it to him.

He stares at you for a moment, then smiles. “You know, that's a good idea. I like it. Tell you what, you make it a success and I'll give you a raise.”

“Oh, thank you! I'll get on it.” You beam, and start planning the flyer.

Ten minutes later you have your head down, your attention entirely on the paper in front of you. The noisy shop was purely a background soundtrack, including the approaching footsteps. Then, there's a whisper, directly in your ear.

“What you up to, princess?”

“Fuck!”

You scream it out and jump so high you fall off your stool. Eddie's in bits, laughing so hard he's clutching his stomach.

“I'm sorry I didn't mean to,” he says, looking the least sorry you've ever seen a person look.

Clambering off the floor to berate him, your mouth flops open when you hear a rip. As you desperately turn your head to look down, you see where your pencil skirt has torn right next to the seam nearly up to your ass.

“Fuck's sake Eddie! What the hell am I gonna do!”

Hands shaking, you clench your jaw in panic, trying to frantically come up with a way to rectify it. Eddie holds his hands up to you as if he were approaching a wild animal.

“Just calm down princess, it's only a skirt.”

Pouting, you hit him on the arm.

“It's not just a skirt! I can't work like this, how can I go home and change, I won't be able to fix it and-”

Eddie smiles and holds one of your hands.

“It's gonna be OK, we can sort something out. You seriously need to chill, have a big O or something.” He chuckles, clearly meaning for it to be a joke, but it's hitting too close to home.

It's never happened for you. You've kissed guys, sure, but whenever they reach into your pants, it's either uncomfortable or downright painful. Even your own desperate fumblings haven't got you there. Most of the time you just feel stupid and awkward trying to touch yourself. So, you'd given up, thinking you're broken. That it'll never happen for you.

Tears well immediately in your eyes. He knows he fucked up, it's written all over his face. As he opens his mouth to speak you rip your hand from his grasp and run to the restroom sobbing.

It's stupid, it's so stupid. You know that, but the tears won't stop falling, face hot and scrunched as you sit on the closed toilet seat with your head in your hands. Your breath is heavy, gulping and wet; you dimly wonder if you can just stay here until the shop closes.

There's a gentle knock on the door.

“Sweetheart, can I come in?” It's Eddie, voice softer than you've ever heard it.

“Go away” you manage. It's shaky and pathetic sounding, but it's out there.

“I'm not going anywhere. Talk to me, you'll feel better, I promise.”

He tries the door, turning the handle before you get a chance to lock it. Jumping upright, you go to push him away but he grabs your wrist and pulls you into him. His embrace takes away that edge and pretty soon you're just sobbing into his chest.

As he strokes the back of your head, he makes shushing noises, his other arm wrapped tight around your shoulders. You're not sure how long you stay like that, in the warmth of his hold, his body pressed against yours. The tenderness calms you down until your tears stop, but he doesn't pull away.

After a while, he whispers, “feel a little better?”

“Y-yeah,” you say, voice returning to itself.

Only then does he release you, rubbing a thumb under your eye to wipe moisture away.

“I didn't mean to hurt you. You wanna go somewhere and talk about it?”

“I- I've never- I don't talk about- I-” you shake your head as if to clear it. A part of you wants to hit him, to shout at him, but his gaze is so concerned that you agree. Your shoulders slump, losing a bit of tension. “OK.”

Smiling at you, he whips his flannel shirt off, leaving him in a white vest, and ties it around your waist.

“For your modesty. Come with me.”

Puzzled, you follow him out of the bathroom and back into the shop where Mac is sitting looking worried.

“What's going-”

Eddie interrupts, “emergency late lunch needed, alright? Can you cancel my 3 o clock?”

Mac seems confused, but looks at Eddie's earnest face, and your emotional one, and nods.

“Not a problem.”

“Thanks, man.”

Before you can ask where you're going, he pulls you from the shop by the arm and across the street into a dimly lit bar, depositing you in the nearest booth.

“I'll be right back.”

If he's uncomfortable by his appearance, he doesn't show it. The way he strides up to the bar, it's as if he owns the place. It's remarkable, the sheer confidence he embodies like a second skin.

“Hey, John!” He hollers, knuckles knocking on the wood of the bar.

John appears, a gruff, stocky guy with a buzz cut and a sour face.

“What the fuck are you doing here.”

“Oh come on, you know you missed me.”

John's face screws into something akin to a smile. “What do you want, you little shit.”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” Eddie grins and winks, “two beers please.”

A grunt and a nod, and John puts the beers down on the bar. As Eddie reaches for his wallet John waves a hand in dismissal.

“Put that away boy, your money ain't good here. Besides, your lady friend looks like she needs it.”

You flush and tear your eyes away, embarrassed. Eddie walks back over and puts a beer in front of you.

“Eddie, we're still working I-”

“It's one beer. It's alright.”

You shrug and take a sip, nodding at the bartender, “he knows I'm upset, do I look a mess?”

Shaking his head so hard it releases some of his wayward waves from their confines, he tips his beer at you, before he takes a long chug.

“No,” he says enthusiastically, “you look just as pretty as you always do.”

Scoffing, you turn your eyes downward. Eddie ignores your response, instead pressing on what happened earlier.

“Sorry again,” he says, sounding genuinely distressed, "I don't want to see anyone hurt from something I said, least of all you.”

Meeting his gaze, you smile incredulously. “Oh? And why me?”

“Come on, don't make me say it.”

Staring at him, you fold your arms in an act of defiance. He rolls his eyes and looks at you.

“I like you. You're uptight, and mean to me, and a little conceited, but I like you. I don't want you to hurt. Can we just be friends? I'm a pretty good listener, you know? I can help.”

Heat floods your insides. Eyes scanning him for any sign of a joke, you come up empty.

‘I'm not conceited,” you counter weakly, clinging on to the familiar push and pull.

“And I'm the Easter bunny.”

Giggling, you take another sip of beer.

“Come on, friends? Talk to me.”

Sighing deeply, you fix your gaze at the table, forefinger tracing patterns in the condensation from your drink. “Promise not to laugh?”

“I promise.”

You can't tell how genuine he's being, as you don't dare look at his face, nerves controlling your every limb. His voice seems honest enough.

“I- I have a problem, something I can't physically do. You reminded me of it. It's not your fault.” Shrugging in an attempt to make this look less serious than it is for you, you take a pull out of your beer bottle once more.

“Wait, are you saying…” he chuckles a little in disbelief, “have you never… had an orgasm before?”

“Eddie, be quiet!” You urgently whisper, looking around the bar.

“No one's listening sweetheart, no spies in here,” he says in a low tone, hand reaching out to grasp yours. Your first instinct is to shake his hand away but he holds firm, rough fingertips rubbing against your knuckles.

“Eddie, I'm broken,” you whimper, voice breaking, “I can't do it.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he responds, chock full of emotion, “you're not broken. You are perfect.”

Pulling your hand away, you keep your eyes away from his, unwilling to meet that burning gaze of his. Unwilling to lose yourself in those sultry dark eyes.

“I can't do it. Anytime some guy tries, it hurts. I've given up to be honest. I just wasn't made for it.”

He laughs again, dragging his hand over his face.

“Fuck, sweetheart, the problem ain't you. Have you- have you tried, fixing it, on your own?” The last part is a whisper, you assume to protect your feelings.

“Yeah, but I just feel stupid and awkward. I don't know.”

There's a little silence between you as you both dwell in the suffocating fog of your confession, neither of you willing to clear it.

“Listen, this may be way out of your comfort zone, but I'm saying it anyway. If you don't like it, we'll forget it, and I won't mention it again.”

Finally looking at him, at the vulnerability on his face, you nod, not trusting your voice.

“I can… maybe I can help you. Show you you're not broken? As a favour between friends.”

You laugh mirthlessly and finish your beer. “That's a little more than a favour, Eddie.”

“We can keep it professional.”

You stare at him wide eyed. His messy hair and dark glittering eyes. At the way he slumps in his seat like a king or a delinquent, you can't decide which. At his taunt frame, the tattoos spackling every available inch of his skin. Your eyebrows raise of their own accord.

“Professional? You?”

“Yeah, me! I can do it, you know. I could make you come.”

A shiver forces its merry way down your spine at his words.

“You're really confident.”

“You haven't seen what I can do.”

Blushing hard, you attempt to control yourself. “Look, if we're going to do this, I need you to promise some things.”

“Ah, of course, you would have rules,” he grins, as he leans back and spreads in his seat, “continue.”

Searching your mind for a moment, you try to glean what you need.

“First of all, we need to be discreet, and professional at all times, clear?”

“As crystal,” he grins wolfishly, “anything else?”

“Yeah- I think,” you wrack your brains, trying to come up with something that would make this less intimate. Anything. But the roguish nature of his presence makes it hard to even think of a thing. Finally, your eyes widen at the idea that suddenly crosses your mind.

“Final rule. No kissing.”

He pouts, looking at your chest and back up, “no kissing anywhere?”

“N-no, no kissing on the mouth.”

Grin returning, he winks at you, a gesture that flips your stomach inside out.

“Kinky. Alright, deal,” he leans forward to give his hand to yours. A hand covered in ink and calluses. Roughness and tenderness.

You shake it.

********************

For the next couple of days, your little arrangement isn't brought up. A wild thought hammers itself into your mind; either he wasn't serious, or you imagined it.

Those theories are put to bed on day three.

After you let Mac know about the flyers and the bonus poster you designed, you sit back and enjoy the praise given to you. It's funny, the feeling of being told a job has been well done makes you happier than you care to admit.

Eddie turns up at the counter, whistling through his teeth. “Sweet looking flyers, how'd you swing those?”

“I designed them. I've got a degree in design and marketing, if you didn't know,” you sniff, rearranging the stationary on the counter to avoid his eyes.

“Maybe you could help me design some for my band. These look pretty metal.” He says, picking one up and looking at it closely.

“Maybe.”

Eddie leans in close, so close you feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

“If you're still up for our arrangement, I'm free tonight.”

Heat immediately flushes your face. Ignoring him entirely, you write your address and a time on a notepad, and thrust the paper into his hands.

“Covert, I like it. See you then princess.”

By the time 9pm rolls around you're a jittery mass of nerves, having changed clothes no less than four times, tidied your apartment, changed the bedsheets and paced so much you're surprised there's not a groove in the floorboards.

In the end you'd decided on a baggy band t-shirt and your sleep shorts. It was a rational calculation to make Eddie think you're just wearing what you usually would at home and therefore show you're not nervous. I mean, you are wearing what you'd usually wear at home. He didn't need to know about how long it took you to reach that decision.

The sound of the intercom buzzing sends your pulse into overdrive. Pressing the button, you let out a strangled “Hello?”

“Hey princess.”

“Come on up.”

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…

A soft knock at the door and you count to five, trying to remember how to breathe. When you open the door, you're stunned. He's leaning on the doorframe in a fucking button up shirt. It's black, and clings to him deliciously. His hair looks a little damp, loose around his shoulders, and his aftershave is making you feel dizzy.

“Oh, you didn't need- I mean-” you point at his shirt, and he looks down and chuckles.

“Just came from band practice. Took a shower, and this was clean,” he shrugs and shoulders into your apartment. “Nice place. Where's all your stuff?”

You look around at your sparse apartment. Everything in order, down to the fresh flowers on your tiny dining table.

“This is all my stuff,” you say, confused, “I don't like clutter.”

He chuckles, walking over to you. “No wonder I annoy you. I am clutter.”

He's close now, close enough so that you have to look up to see his face. His rough fingers ghost your arm, sending a wave of goosebumps over your skin.

“Nice seeing you in something casual. L7, right?” He asks, pointing at the t-shirt.

“Yeah, you know who they are?”

“I'm surprised you do. Thought you'd be a Mariah Carey kinda girl.”

You scrunch your face in distaste. “No, not at all. You don't know everything about me.”

He leans in, warm breath a whisper in your ear. “I know some things about you.”

Squirming hotly, you lead him to your room before you lose your nerve.

“So, the princess's bedchamber. It's nice,” he remarks, flopping down on the bed as if it were his own.

“Take your boots off,” you snip, folding your arms.

“Ah, there she is.” He smiles, but does as instructed. Once more he's laying back into your scattered pillows looking perfectly at ease. You, on the other hand, stand there, spine a vertical rod as you stare back at him.

“Come on then, sit down.”

Nervously you sit at the foot of the bed with your legs crossed.

“Now princess, what do you do when you touch yourself?”

Blushing furiously, you stammer out, “what, do you expect me to like, show you?”

He chuckles, diffusing some of the tension. “As much as I'd like that, I don't think you're ready for that kinda shit. Just tell me, what's your thought process?”

Staring at him for a little too long, you open your mouth and close it again. He rolls his eyes.

“Look, if you want me to help I'll help, but you gotta give me something here.” He looks as if he's about to get up and leave; your arm shoots out on its own accord, grabbing his leg to stop him.

“Sorry, sorry. I just, I've never spoken about this kinda stuff. I don't know about any process, I just… reach down and fiddle around?” You blush even more.

“So you don't like, watch anything? Or read anything?” He looks a little amused.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Porn, sweetheart.”

It's so blunt that you jump a little. “Oh no, I've never, oh no no.”

“Christ,” he whispers, “right, you can like, set the mood. Look at something to turn you on? It'd probably help you feel less awkward.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And do you ever just like, slouch? I feel like I'm back at school looking at ya.”

“Huh?”

“Just, come here.” He pats the little space between his spread legs and you hesitate for a second before you crawl over to him.

“How do you want me to sit, like cross legged or-”

He grabs your hips and spins you, forcing your back into his crotch.

“Stop trying to control every little thing,” he says in a hard tone, one you're too embarrassed to admit makes your insides tingle. Softer, he continues. “Look, if you're ever gonna get there you need to relax, stop trying to control it, and stop overthinking.”

“Great, all of the things I'm shit at.”

His laugh is loud, it vibrates into your spine. “I'll help you, OK? You trust me?”

“In a very limited sense of the word, yeah.”

“Lemme rephrase. You still OK to do this?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Just relax.”

You're not sure what you are expecting, but it certainly isn't his hands winding into your hair, fingertips rubbing softly at your scalp. It shoots tingles down your spine, your entire head feeling fuzzy and warm.

You stifle a whimper, biting your lip. His fingers stop.

“If you want to make noises, you can. Tells me I'm doing a good job. That goes for everything else too, alright?”

“Alright.” You whisper.

“You comfortable?”

“Yeah it's just- well-”

“Tell me.”

“I think it's your shirt buttons, they're digging into my back a bit,” you admit, feeling the sharp points down your spine.

“Easily fixed.” He taps your arm and you lean forward. Some rustling, and he throws his shirt to the foot of your bed.

“Now just chill sweetheart.”

His fingers begin rubbing at you again, thumbs sinking low to pop at the bubbles in your neck.

“Fuck, that's really nice.”

He hums appreciatively, working his hands lower and dropping them to your shoulders. The massaging continues, and you feel yourself melting, your body moulding into his. Your legs, once ramrod straight, have bent a little and parted of their own accord, the muscles loosening. Even your breathing has slowed.

“That's better, atta girl,” he says and you whine at the words, a little pathetic mewling sound that tumbles past your lips.

“Oh, you like that, don't you?” The smile is evident in his voice, a smug tone smeared liberally across each word.

“You, you're so-” you begin, but his hand drags across the front of your shirt, just over the tops of your breasts.

“I'm so what?” He whispers in your ear.

“So, so arrogant,” you huff. He laughs, a husky chuckle, and dances the tips of his fingers over your clothed nipple. Gasping, you grasp at his thighs either side of you.

“Yeah? What else am I?” He says, nibbling at your earlobe.

“You- you're cocky, and- and self assured- Oh God!”

Rudely interrupted by him tweaking your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, you swear, back arching off of him for a moment.

“You know,” he says in a gravelly tone directly in your ear, “those are pretty much the same thing.”

“You drive me crazy,” you huff, squirming a little against him as his hands explore your chest over your shirt.

“Good crazy or bad crazy?” He smiles, then bites softly at your neck.

“I- I haven't decided yet.”

“Good. I can say the same about you,” he admits, his hands trailing lower, pulling your shirt up so he can stroke at your bare sides. The touch of fingertips on your skin sends a river of sensations through you that run deep into your core.

“Are you going to- what are you doing, exactly?” You breathe, starting to move against him.

“I'm warming you up sweetheart. Why, don't you like it?”

Genuinely curious, you try to ask what you want to know without using the words.

“N- no, I do. Do you have to, erm, get warmed up? When you, you know.”

He lets out a little huff of a laugh. “Guys are a little less… complicated, than girls. For the most part.”

“Oh. OK, so you can just. I mean, you just, get excited?” Your breathing becomes more ragged when the tip of his thumb grazes the underside of your breast.

“Sweetheart, I got hard seeing you in these little shorts.” Running a finger down your stomach, he lightly pings the elastic of your sleep shorts as if to accentuate his point.

“Really?”

There's no denying it when he moves his hips up and you feel his solid bulge press into the small of your back.

“Really. Can I take this off?” He asks, twisting the hem of your shirt in one hand.

“Yeah.” It's a whisper. You're a little scared of being bare chested, but not having to see his face helps. Plus, he's wound you up so much you're on the verge of begging for his touches, pleading for more.

He guides your top up, up, up, revealing you slowly. Coaxing it over your head, you move your arms up so he can remove it. It ends up in a heap on top of his shirt. One tattooed arm wraps around your waist, pulling you toward him more, his hardness pushing against your ass.

His breathing is unsteady as he grinds his hips, pushing onto you further. Gasping, your fingers are vices, firmly attached to his thighs in a vain attempt to anchor you.

Suddenly his hand is winding into your hair, tugging your head aside so he can run a fat tongue across your neck. You shudder at the sensation, feeling the hard ball of his tongue piercing against your throat When he takes his pillowy lips and sucks at the spot between your neck and shoulder a moan slips out. Grunting in approval, his hands are on your bare tits, fingers pinching at your hardened nipples.

“Holy hell!”

He laughs, running rough fingers down your body, circling your new ink, then dipping down past your waistband. Those tattooed fingers barely brush your pubic hair, teasing you, then glide back up to your stomach.

“Eddie, please.”

Your voice is small, not your own. Eddie groans low in your ear, rubbing his length into the fat of your ass.

“Fuck, princess, I like you saying my name like that. You want me to touch you right here?” he says, pressing down hard over your clothed clit.

The sheer relief of having his touch where you need it gets you close to tears; a gulping shudder of a sob rips from deep in your chest.

“See, you're not broken, sweetheart. Can I take these off?”

Shaking, you hook your fingers into your sleep shorts and pull them down your legs, air hitting your most intimate area. Eddie huffs in your ear, his inked hands rubbing up the insides of your thighs.

“You're so fuckin’ sexy.”

Before you can retort, his fingers dip down to your entrance, gathering your slick. You can hear how wet you are, but it's not in you to think about it. You can't think, only feel.

When his fingers run up and start rubbing circles into your clit, your response is visceral. Bucking up, you chase the feeling, searching for even more.

“I'm gonna slip a finger in, alright princess?”

You nod, waiting for the pain, wincing before it even starts.

“It's OK, you're fine, you gotta relax baby.” He strokes your stomach with his free hand, pressing kisses to your temple.

The tip of his finger breaches you, and the pain doesn't come. Your soaking wet cunt invites him in, warm and pulsing with arousal. He slips it into the hilt, his palm pressing into your clit, and your moan is long and loud. It's never felt like this. Never has it stoked a fire in your gut, bubbled your insides like pop rocks and Coke, turned you into a writhing mess.

He fucks his finger into you, slipping a second in to join the first, and you move your hips, chasing the building tightness in your belly. Each thrust of his hand has you bucking, and in turn rubbing against his member trapped within its denim prison.

“That's it, good fuckin’ girl.” His voice is strained, as if he's trying hard not to lose control.

“Eddie, oh fuck, f-feels so- good, yes, please, please-”

You're not sure what you're begging for, and Eddie doesn't seem to be in any state to ask, but it doesn't matter. His fingers fuck into you in earnest, stroking hard against some spot inside that has you babbling and quivering around him.

“God, you're so tight, this little cunts gonna drive me crazy. So wet and perfect, Jesus Christ.”

The feeling seems too much and not enough, and it grows higher and higher, flooding your body with a pleasure so intense you're sure you black out. The only thing you're aware of is your voice screaming out his name as your body thrusts wildly into his grip. Finally, it dissipates, your body melting against his form, sweating and spent.

You take a breath, and another, trying to gather your wits enough to speak. Eddie speaks first.

“So sweetheart, everything you dreamed it would be?” He asks as he strokes your hair.

“Better. Fuck, Eddie. Thank you.”

“Anytime. Seriously. Any. Time. Day, night, weekends, holidays-”

You giggle, slapping his thigh, and sit up, grabbing your discarded shirt to cover up.

“Sorry, that was probably a little er, frustrating for you.” You say as you glance at his bare torso, drinking in the sight with your eyes for the first time. He's lean, but ripped, a faint sheen of sweating making his tattoos glisten in the low light.

“What do you mean sweetheart?”

“Well, doing that, not getting anything in return...”

He chuckles lightly, “Oh I wouldn't say that,” he glances down, gesturing to his jeans, “full disclosure, I came in my pants.”

“Really?” your eyes widen, staring at him with disbelief.

“I ain't lying. Wanna check?” He waggles his eyebrows at you, making you laugh again.

“You seem better already. Right, I better go.”

Shoulders deflating, you pout, “I suppose you better.”

“Hey don't look at me like that. I hoped that helped. Sleep tight, drink some water. I'll see you tomorrow princess.”

And just like that, he leaves. Of course he leaves, it was just a deal you struck, nothing more. A favour. you wipe stray tears from your eyes and try not to focus on the sound of the front door shutting.

As you collapse on the bed, exhausted, you think about his hands, his words. There's something screaming inside, telling you you're playing with fire, but as you drift off you can't find it in you to mind.

Taglist

@liminalpebble @eddies-puppet @rip-quizilla @micheledawn1975 @vanilla-demon @millercontracting @roanniom @josephquinnsfreckles @leelei1980 @mrsjellymunson @usedtobecooler @eddiesprincess86 @ali-r3n @choke-me-eddie @littlebebebunny @big-ope-vibes

#ms gexy writes #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie x you #tattoo artist eddie munson #tattoo artist!eddie #teach me/show me Eddie #eddie my beloved #eddie x fem reader

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ghouljams · 4 months

Text

With Love, König tags: König x f!reader/f!oc, regency era au, manners, collaring, courting, king!König, reader is mildly insane, König is going to marry you and that's a threat Summary: Your fiance runs off, your reputation is in ruins, and worst of all König has decided he's going to make you his queen. He doesn't even ask your father's permission to do it.

You receive word that your fiance has left you in the short hours of the morning. It comes in a carefully folded note, with his seal, and his signature. It's cruel, but not unexpected. You'd known for long enough that this was an engagement for nothing but your title. Still, you shed a few tears onto the parchment at the loss of your future, bleak as it might have been. You can rest assured that your parents, and the rest of the social world, have already received the news. You expect they'll start looking for another match for you soon.

The second letter is somehow more surprising. You don't recognize the black wax seal, or the handwriting. You don't know how it slipped past your family without being opened, but it's tucked on the same tray as your fiance's letter and you break the seal with cautious fingers.

"My Heart," it begins, and you frown at the familiarity, "You have bewitched me, body and soul. My every hour is spent with thoughts of you. The memory of your touch is only remedied by my own hand, and even that is not enough. I hope that you will accept this small token of thanks for the dance we shared, and look forward to our next meeting with the same fervor I do."

You look up from the letter to stare at the wall. You narrow your eyes at the wallpaper and do your best to try and think of who the fuck is sending you love letters. Certainly not your ex-fiance, he never did more than send you a note asking you to wear something "more appropriate" for the next party. You look back at the letter. It's a bit stuck at the bottom, likely to keep whatever token it contains in place. You slip your finger carefully under the edge of the fold to open it. A silk ribbon flutters onto your lap as you stare down at the king's signature. "With Love, König" in perfect royal handwriting.

You scramble to ring for your maid, you need to get dresses and you need to speak to your father immediately. Your maid seems to either not know or not care that you are received a letter from a king because she helps you get ready with her usual compliments and coos. Disinterested in the day ahead of you, you always assume. She ties the ribbon behind your ears when you ask her what to do with it. The black clashes, but you don't have time to argue.

König is already in the sitting room with your father when you finally make it downstairs. He stands almost as quickly as you drop into a low curtsy. Your father stands too and you're taken aback by how small he looks next to König. Your father has always been a proud man, a man to be feared as much as respected, but next to König he may as well be a child. You drop your eyes to the floor, proper and polite.

"Gott in himmel," König breathes, and your eyes dart to him. His brows are drawn together, like he's in pain. You can't tell if he's displeased when you can only see half of his face, his mouth obscured by a dark black cloth. You meet his eyes and are quick to avert your gaze, lest the heat in his burns you.

You rise from your curtsy and keep your eyes on the floor. "My lord," you greet, and hear him hum. He's pleased you think.

"My lady," The way he stresses "my" makes you shiver, his lady, "look at me when I speak to you." You're quick to follow his command, the tightness in his tone is intriguing, but you can't see a reason for it when you do look up at him.

Your father attempts to raise issue when König stalks towards you, his voice drowned out by the way the king fills your vision. You barely flinch when he grabs your chin, and turns your head. His skin against yours is unfamiliar and rough, it makes your skin prickle with heat as he sighs.

"You're wearing this wrong, Hummelchen," He tells you, his free hand going to tug at the end of the ribbon around your head. The black silk is tugged loose, falling delicately into König's grip. His thumb teases your lower lip, improper and entirely hidden from your father. "You want to wear this right for me, ja?"

You open your mouth to answer and he pushes his thumb between your lips, presses down against your tongue to hold you open. Your eyes dart in your father's direction, panic rising in your chest. König's eyes crease at the edges, he tips his head to watch your tongue try to work under his grip. You settle for swallowing, your lips closing around his finger as you nod your head. What else can you do in the face of a king?

"Braves Mädchen," He praises sending another prickle of heat over your skin. You feel like all your manners are just being thrown out the window, it's making your head spin. His grip loosens, his thumb sliding out from between your lips to smear the wetness against your hot cheek. Warmth pools between your legs, entirely too familiar, and entirely his fault.

König makes a twirling motion with his finger, and you don't hesitate to turn. You can hear his fingers pulling the length of ribbon between his hands, and you're glad to have your hair off your neck when he loops the ribbon around your throat. You have to tip your chin up, you have the sudden --and startlingly appealing-- thought that he could very easily choke you like this. König's fingers pull the ribbon tight, and you make a quiet noise of... protest? Approval? You make a noise, and it loosens just enough to be comfortable. He's quick to tie a neat bow, the tails of it hanging on either side of your spine. You touch your fingers to the silk. Like a collar.

König's fingers linger on your neck, and you tilt your head to afford him space to touch. Each brush of his skin makes your heart race, this monster of a man is so gentle with you. As if you were some treasure he could hardly afford. He curls over you, one of his hands sliding down your arm. He grips your wrist tight, and raises it to his lips. You turn your head to watch him, his eyes are dark when he catches you staring. His teeth flash dangerously in the light where they scrape against your pulse. Not so gentle then.

"You will accompany me to the next party," He leaves no room for argument in his command, states it like a fact predetermined by God, "We'll announce our engagement there."

"Your what?" You father asks behind König, aghast at the breach in conduct. You hardly notice it, entranced by the way he presses his cheek into your palm.

"Kay," You breathe for him. He's just like one of the heroes from your penny novels, better for being real. You wonder if he's ever killed anyone, he'd look good with a little blood on him.

#cod x reader #x reader #x oc #cod x oc #könig x reader #könig cod #könig mw2 #könig call of duty #König x oc #könig x f!reader #f!reader #regency au #king!König #oc: Bee #Bee I'm begging you #just notice one red flag PLEASE #Girl he's going to fucking get you

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frogchiro · 5 months

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So hear me out: it’s dark and very dingy in simons apartment, even more so when he’s go his equally as sleazy friends over. They sit around a rounded table with bottles of whiskey and beer (they are all very large they can drink plenty without feeling it) playing a card game and smoking. Only to hear frantic tapping on the door and a soft voice calling for Simon.

It’s you of course when he opens the door, scared and anxious and practically shaking, and it’s then that he sees what’s gotten you so frightened. There’s a strange man swaggering through the hallway after you slurring your name with a broken bottle in hand.

Simon tugs you into his apartment with a tank and closes the door behind you. He’s going to take care of the mean man who scared you so, but first, meet his old military buddies. They’ve been dying to meet you ;)

Oh my god yes :((

Simon's apartament is...just as dark, bleak and dingy as its owner and probably just like the rest of the building. Not all lights work, it's walls are chipping from the cheap plaster, the wallpaper is peeling off at the top, yellowing with age and cigarette smoke, the floor is creaky too; a very unpleasant, dark and cold place with few things intact and yes it becomes somehow even more dodgy when his ex-military friends arrive for poker and cheap alcohol.

He boasted a while ago that a cute girl moved in next door that's not a druggie or one that looks like a train wreck; it's clear that you don't belong here but you have few options and this is your best one. Tragic, really but that gives Simon an opportunity to stare and (discreetly) feel the pretty lady up. Since that time Gaz, Price and Johnny can't give up on you, often slurring after a few beers how they want to meet you and squeeze all the soft places.

Unknowingly to them, the opportunity to meet you came sooner than later when one cold night they were as usual gathered in Simon's dingy flat, playing poker and throwing around crude jokes when suddenly there came a soft knocking on the door with a voice calling out to Simon if he could please open up.

They shot up like bloodhounds even in their intoxicated states and they watched as the blonde walked to the door. There stood you, clad in those pretty pastel pink pajamas and a zip-up hoodie, trembling with tears in your eyes making the hairs on the back of Simon's neck stand up.

Before you could say anything there was a loud crash coming from the floor below and a loud, slurring voice calling out your name whoch made you jump and flinch in fright and without even asking what's going on, he pulled you roughly inside and closed the door with a bang.

You were clearly shaken up, stumbling over your words but he managed to put together something about this one pushy guy from the ground floor whom you helped out once and now he doesn't want to let you be.

Oh sweet girl how could he ever say no to you, especially in circumstances like this? Of course you can stay here, in fact he insists that you stay the rest of the night. It's Saturday tomorrow, you have off so one one will care if you sleep in a bit. Not to mention that his friends are here too! And they are so excited to meet you, you wouldn't say no to them right? Especially since they are all big, burly military men, they will surely protect you better than anyone!

You can hear various deep voices jeering and whooping, calling out to Simon to show them the little lost lamb and while you're still shaken from the events from outside, you feel like whatever haplens here isn't that much better, especially with the huge, scarred man's hand placed dangerously low on your back :((

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #sleazy neighbour!ghost #cod x reader #cod mw x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #141 x reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley

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eilidh-eternal · 2 months

Text

You don't like silence

Part of the Metanoia series | Part 1 | Masterlist |

The house is silent, but inside your head a brumous storm swirls, wispy tendrils of fog curling around delicate gray matter.

Your routine—watching Johnny walk Isobel to school, going to work and coming home, just in time to glimpse Johnny leaving to retrieve her—has changed.

You still watch from the window, mug bleeding warmth into cold, stiff joints from between your palms. Peer around the curtains every morning as the pair amble down the pavement together.

A new month brings a steady influx of meetings and end of quarter reporting, projected sales and last minute production tweaks, but your days are no busier than normal. Rarely miss a lunch break. Leave no later than three each afternoon.

Dinner, if you have any, is ready by five.

Even so, restlessness lingers in the midnight moons hanging beneath your eyes, darkens the air around you with somnolent clouds, and you list in the torpid deluge that rains down.

Sleep evades you altogether most nights, and you’ve made a game of picking out patterns in the knockdown. Faces, animals; nebulous, nameless things.

Some nights, when the faces of strangers, burned into your retinas, find their way into the patterns of textured drywall, you listen.

Isobels room must be on the other side of yours, beds sharing a wall. On the nights you manage to make it upstairs, you can hear them both. Isobel’s slow and measured pronunciations. The lilt of Johnny’s voice, filling in the blanks where she pauses on a word she doesn’t yet know.

They’ve finished all of her animal books, which means the imitated roars of big cats and bleats of farmyard animals have morphed into exaggerated accents. Sing-song rhymes about the importance of kindness, accepting differences, and other life lessons told through colorful illustrations and whimsical narratives.

Every now and then, if you’re lucky, she falls asleep within a few pages, and you can pretend that the low, pillowy rumble of Johnny reading is just for you. A gentle coaxing made of velvety words, swaddling your mind, heavy with exhaustion, and cradling it to his chest against the maelstrom you’re spiraling in.

Sometimes she stirs, woken hours later in the placid, milky hours before dawn, just as your eyes begin to droop. Tiny feet patter across the hardwood like rain, muffled in uneven intervals by what must be a rug or runner in the hall, on her way to Johnny’s room or the washroom maybe.

You wonder if it’s full of frilly, feminine things, her room. Pinks and purples, dolls and plushies. Does she have princesses or ballerinas on her bedding? Do posters and drawings line her walls or does floral, pasted wallpaper?

She likes Mulan, you remember. A warrior. Fighter. Soldier. Like Johnny.

Probably not so frilly, then.

Perhaps they could make a fighter out of you. Press you into the mold of their little family–strengthened by loss and galvanized with love–and breathe life into clay limbs. Carve a soldier from the malleable earth. Shape you into something useful.

Now, most of your nights are spent huddled in the living room, listening to the droning of the television. Throw blankets suck you down into the sofa like quicksand and each breath draws them tighter and tighter around you, filling pockets of air with crushed velvet and fleece. Tonight, you let them swallow you whole. Sink willingly into a latibule of plaid and warm cashmere.

The cold and quiet of your empty home isn’t so bad when you can hear Johnny moving about on the other side of the wall. Isn’t so unbearable when the warm timbre of his voice chases away the numbing fog that muddles your head.

There are nights that he calls you, like he knows. Knows that you're drowning in the silence.

He does that now, after he puts Isobel to bed for the night. Calls to ask about your week. Casts a lifeline into the churning ocean between you, procellous waves lofting you on spuming peaks, and calls your name from the battered, broken shore.

A lighthouse calling to a ship, lost in the mist on a perilous sea.

Last Thursday he asked about the cookies you made with Isobel. Asked if you would be willing to share the recipe with him–teach him–so that he could make them with her for a school event coming up in the spring.

The tenderness with which he speaks of her is a balmy breeze for your gelid heart. Soothes the burn of ice floes in your veins. Melts weeks of tension from aching muscles.

Now, his voice is somber, pensive, as it filters through the lack of insulation between you. “Friday. No, ah havnae told ‘er yet. Jus’ got the call.” He pauses, and you think you hear a muffled sigh. He sounds tired, too, accent thicker than honeyed whiskey rolling off his tongue, dropping consonants in favor of deep, throaty vowels. “Aye, ah ken. She’ll be happy tae see ye though.”

He’s on the phone, talking about Isobel. They must have family visiting soon, or a family friend if Isobel knows them well enough to be excited.

You wonder what the MacTavish family is like, if they’re a rowdy bunch. If they’re a large, extended family. Johnny seems like the kind of man who comes from a close knit community, one where you grow up down the street from your cousins and spend summers terrorizing small towns together.

“I’ll talk tae ‘er in the mornin’. Ah- No.” There’s a pause again, and even with layers of sheetrock separating you, you can feel the weight of his silence. “No, Mam. She’s… ah worry. Leavin’ ‘er like this. Piss poor timin’.”

He’s leaving? Without Isobel?

It’s muffled through the wall, and you feel like you can’t have heard that correctly. He mentioned the army, but you had thought, with a child at home, that his work wouldn't be the sort that requires travel.

Ice floes turn to glaciers in your chest, frozen spikes threatening to pierce brittle, fragile muscle, and the clouds swirling overhead descend upon you.

Lost in the mist, and he’s leaving.

He’s leaving, and he’s taking the sun with him.

“Ye cannae keep it from the lassie forever, John. Ye havnae even told 'er what ye do?”

Christ, this woman…

“She knows ‘bout the army,” he defends. “Cannae say much more.”

Fenella MacTavish clucks her disapproval. “Ye’re heids full of mince.” Dishes clatter and a cupboard closes a bit too forcefully on the other end of the line.

Johnny runs a hand through the disheveled strands of his hair, overdue for a trim, well outside of regulation length. “Mam—”

“Dinnae ‘Mam’ me,” she cuts in. “John Alexander MacTavish, ye tell that lass what she’s gettin’ herself intae—or I will.”

“Mam,” he tries again, voice pitched low, “Not yet. Cannae send ‘er off, naw like I do wi’ Bell. It’s safe enough here.” You’re safe with him here. “Dinnae like knowin’ she’s alone—Christ, I can hardly stand tae have the wall between us when I ken she’s hurtin’—but there isnae anythin’ I can do that’s naw already been done. Kate’s made sure of that.”

Fenella huffs and he can’t quite make out the garbled muttering on his end, but he has a fair idea of what his mother is blathering about beneath her breath. “Kirsten—have ye gone tae see 'er?” she finally asks, mercifully shifting the conversation out of your direction. “Has Isobel?”

“No,” he admits, and guilt twists in barbed coils through his chest.

He’s been meaning to, to drive up for the weekend and take her to visit her mothers grave, now that she’s older. Stay with her gran and look through the old albums. She's only ever seen the few photos they have at home, hanging in the hall near the kitchen.

Sometimes she asks about her. If she liked the things she likes. The way rain freezes on the tall grasses and tree branches in the winter, making glass gardens of trellises and window boxes. Extra whipped cream and blueberries for her pancakes.

If she would have walked with them to school in the mornings. Take her to the park down the block in the summer. Hiking in the fall, looking for wisps darting about beneath the fallen abscission.

Isobel is so much like her mother there are days Johnny swears it’s her refusing to eat the dinner he’s made. That it’s her complaining about cold weather and overcast skies in the heart of winter, bemoaning how long they have until spring revives the land. Swears it’s her voice that wakes him in the middle of the night. Her ghost, standing in the dimly lit doorway of his bedroom, a blanket pulled ‘round her shoulders and a teddy dangling from her hand.

“I’ll take ‘er, then.” Johnny can hear the grief that tempers his mothers voice, turning anguish to steely resolve. “I’ll come by tomorrow evening, let ‘er have a few hours with ye at home before ye say yer goodbyes.”

“Thank ye, Mam,” he says on a strained exhale, lungs rattling with fragments of his own grief. It slices into old wounds until pockets of air become sanguineous aquifers, bubbling up in his throat and leaving a sour, metallic taste on his tongue.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she reminds him. “Ye tell yer lass. Dinnae leave ‘er in the dark like ye did Kirsten.”

The line goes silent and Johnny sinks back into the old corduroy sofa, pushed up against the wall beside a shelf overflowing with picture books in the living room, and a ragged sigh unfurls from his chest.

The television across from him is dark, turned off when he took Isobel upstairs for bed, but he can hear an old rerun of Taskmaster playing softly behind him.

He listens, every night, for you. For the sound of your fridge, opening and closing. The soft ‘clink’ of porcelain against granite. The oven timer or the microwave.

He prefers the former. Knows, after these last few weeks, that you cook when you’re in a good mood. Usually go to bed soon after. The sound of the microwave precedes long, muted evenings and little sound from your side of the wall. He won’t hear the stairs creak beneath your sluggish feet until the wee hours of the morning. If at all.

He listens in the mornings, too, while he makes Isobel’s breakfast. Makes sure he can hear you doing the same. Smiles to himself when he glimpses movement in the window beside your door, a miniscule swaying of the curtain, and he holds Isobel’s hand a little tighter as they navigate lingering ice patches on the pavement.

The phone call with his mother, making arrangements for Isobel, masked the sound of your movements earlier, and his fingers twitch against his leather phone case.

When your side of the wall is quiet, he knows a storm is brewing; that you’re sitting in the eye of it, waiting for the walls to close in around you.

He doesn’t know if you’ve eaten tonight. Can’t hear anything beyond the muffled television and occasional creak of the sofa beneath your shifting weight.

So he calls.

One… two… three… four… “Hi, Johnny.” Soft and breathy. Like the air the words are spoken on has borrowed from the softness of your lips as it spills into the receiver.

This is the way you sound when you’re tired, he’s learned, all soft and rounded syllables. Too exhausted, even for your own nervous habits. You don’t have the bandwidth to explain every little thing like you normally would; don’t bother with rationalizing your actions aloud.

“Hi, bonnie. What’s cookin’?” It’s cheesy as hell, but it earns a huff of a laugh from you and it tempers the jagged edge of his worry—a knife, lodged between his ribs.

“I, uh… I had leftovers. Takeaway, from a work thing.” He’s never seen you with takeaway. Always canvas bags full of groceries and the occasional frozen box dinner.

How empty is your fridge? When was the last time you went to the grocer?

“Didnae take ye for the ‘easy’ type. Ye always make me work for it.”

“Work for it?” He can picture the pinch of your brows. The way your lips quirk to the side when you’re confused.

“Aye, got me makin’ puppy eyes an’ beggin’ for yer scraps.” You laugh again, more of a scoff, but it eases some of his worry all the same.

“When have I ever made you beg, Johnny?” He’s been begging any higher power that will listen to see you smile again, and he’d give anything to see the smirk he knows is dancing at the corner of your mouth right now.

“Could do it tomorrow,” he blurts before he can think better of it. “Come over. Show me that recipe again.”

Don’t make him tell you he’s leaving over the phone.

“I thought… you said the charity event is at the end of March, right?”

“Aye, but I think I’ll need a few lessons ‘fore my bakin’s fit for auction.”

He needs to know—needs to see—that you’re well before he goes.

“And you want to start tomorrow?”

“Why not?” He’d have you baking in his kitchen now if it weren’t for the late hour.

There’s a stretch of silence, interrupted only by the faint crackling of static and the sound of your breathing. “Do you have flour? Sugar? Anything to bake with?” you ask, and he answers with a proud ‘yes’. “Okay… okay. I can come over after work tomorrow.”

“I’ll ‘ave Bell home early then. She��ll want tae help.” Your amused sigh echoes across the line, followed by the faint rustling of fabric and then the soft pattering of stocking-clad feet over hardwood, fourth and fifth step creaking softly as you climb the stairs. “Off tae bed?”

Another sigh–on the tail-end of a yawn, he realizes. “Yeah. Well, trying. Don’t get a lot of sleep these days,” you admit, and though he’s successfully abated the storm of your thoughts, he wishes he could disperse it entirely.

Be the shelter you seek, at the very least.

He’d nestle you in the warmth of his bed, tucked close and sleeping soundly in the cage of his arms. Anchor you to him with a leg hooked between yours, whispering adulation against the howling, taunting winds.

He would make himself a rock to let your tempestuous thoughts batter and besiege. Weathered and whittled down to pebbles on a beach, he’d roll in the undertow alongside you. And when he is but sand on the ocean floor, still, he would drift and settle wherever the storm of you takes him.

“I used tae read for my sister when we were weans. She’d wake, spooked from a dream, and come tae my room in the middle of the night.”

“You have a sister?” A door clicks closed and blankets whisper over sheets as you settle in for the night. “What’s she like?”

“A lot like our Mam. Headstrong. Stubborn.”

“Are you the oldest?” You sound further away. Muffled. Like you’ve got the blankets pulled up to your nose and the phone beside you on the pillow.

“I am,” he lilts.

“She gets it from you, then,” you murmur, and his chest tightens.

“She got a fair number of things from me, I’d wager.”

He continues on, speaking just above a low, gravelly whisper. Reminiscing his early years and the trouble the two of them got up to. Thick as thieves and wild as the kellas cats roaming the highlands.

Your interjections dwindle, turn to soft hums and slow, even breaths. Sleeping.

He listens for a few more minutes to the soft, sweet sounds you make, little chuffs and sleepy hums, the susurrations of shifting sheets and nightclothes, and he whispers into the darkness, “Goodnight, sweet girl.”

Work passes you by in a blur, meeting after meeting chipping away at the hours and minutes ticking by on the analog clock perched on your desk.

The drive home is uneventful and it feels as though you’ve passed through a wormhole somewhere along the way. Can’t quite remember making the turn into your neighborhood from the main road.

Normally, Johnny would be leaving to retrieve Isobel from school right now, but as you gather your things and step out of the car you hear your name being called from several houses down.

Braids bounce and red wellies squeak as Isobel darts ahead of Johnny, weaving around patches of ice to get to you, and you step up onto the pavement just in time to keep her from running into the road.

She barrels into you, wrapping her arms around your leg and smooshing her face against your slacks. “Ye’re back!” she squeals, fingers curling into the fabric.

She’s leaving.

Your hand settles atop her head, soft wisps of curls tickling the pads of your fingers where they’ve escaped their plaits. “Where did I go?” you ask, and she tips her head back to look up at you.

“Bubby said ye were busy with work. Sometimes he gets busy too, and I have to stay with my gran.”

They’re both leaving.

Johnny’s caught up with her, lingering a few steps away near the walkway leading to your door. When you look to where he stands, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, windbreaker bunched up around his forearms where a tattoo peeks out, the corners of his eyes glimmer.

A smile curves the corners of his mouth, and it’s an odd mixture of grief and happiness that flickers there in the crook of his lips and set of his brow, sloped upwards and creased in the middle. His hair is longer than you remember, scruffy sides and tufts of mohawk curling at the ends, loose strands tousled around his face.

Wind blows at your back and a single tear tracks down the sharp plane of his cheek, disappearing in the dark shadow of stubble that lines his jaw.

“I have been busy with work,” you confirm, peering down at Isobel once more. “But I didn’t leave.”

You’re staying, and they’re leaving.

The wind picks up and she presses closer, shielding herself from the cold behind your frame. “Let’s get ye inside and put yer book bag away. Then we can catch up over cookies an’ milk,” Johnny says as he closes the distance between you.

“Cookies?!” Her excitement carries on the wind, and his smile sharpens, bright and hopeful, but the whetted edge of sorrow undercuts the warmth.

“Aye, but we’ll have to make ‘em ourselves.” He brushes a stray lock from her eyes, fingers brushing against yours where his hand settles beside it on her crown, and dread blooms low in your stomach where warmth should.

She ducks away from you both, bolting towards their front stoop, and you’re left with both of your hands hovering in the air, his half curled over yours, staring after her.

You pull away first, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I just need to sort this–” You gesture to the tote full of binders and your laptop. “–and I'll be right over.”

He fishes his keys from his pocket and takes a step back, towards Isobel. “We’ll be waitin’,” he says with a wink, and turns to take her inside.

There's flour in your hair and matching handprints on your slacks, and neither Johnny nor Isobel have fared much better. You’re all a mess, and the cookies you’ve made are tantamount to your disheveled state–lumpy, dry masses of something more closely resembling a biscuit.

“Dunno what ah did wrong,” Johnny muses, breaking one in half and inspecting the crumbly texture.

You sit beside him at the kitchen table, watching Isobel dunk half a cookie into a glass of milk. “It’s the butter and flour. The ratio is imbalanced–not enough fat.” She doesn’t seem to mind, stuffing the entire piece in her mouth and readying the next, fingers covered in crumbs that fall in her milk.

Johnny shifts beside you, sliding out of his chair and taking a bite out of his cookie as he moves towards the fridge. “Still tastes good,” he says around a mouthful and pours two more glasses, placing one down in front of you when he returns. “But I’ll need another demonstration when I’m back, I think.”

You take a cookie from the plate in the middle of the table, breaking off a chunk to dunk in your milk, and ignore the mirrored sensation in your chest. You knew this was coming. You know he’s leaving.

“When you’re back? From where?” you probe. No need to dance around the subject.

He shifts again, uncharacteristically nervous, and speaks softly. “Have to leave for a little while, for work,” he explains. Your cookie turns pliant between your fingers and you bite off the softened corner, chewing slowly while you listen. “Willnae know where they’re sendin’ me to until the briefin’.”

“When are you leaving?” You stare down at the crumbs swirling in your glass.

“Tomorrow morning.”

The foreknowledge of his impending departure doesn’t make the break any cleaner. The fracturing feeling in your chest widens into fissures and chasms, jagged edges crumbling, tumbling down into the festering darkness.

When you lift your gaze you find that he’s been watching you–studying you–and his hand has crept across the table, close enough you can feel the warmth of him. “How long?” It comes out wobbly. Unsteady.

You’re drifting out to sea again.

“Few weeks. Maybe a month.” Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

There’s a knock at the door. A canary in a coal mine, warning come too late.

“Gran!” Isobel’s chair nearly topples as she pushes back from the table, racing from the kitchen to the front door.

Johnny’s hand covers yours, long, callused fingers curling around your clenched fist and squeezing. “I’ll be back before ye know it,” he murmurs, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face and tracing the curve of your jaw as he stands.

He only goes as far as the kitchen doorway. Your heart’s already somewhere in the North Sea.

“Hi, Mam.” He’s greeted by an older female voice and pulled into a hug by a woman a whole head shorter than him. Isobel hovers nearby, bouncing excitedly from foot to foot, and tugs at the older woman’s–her grandmother’s–cable knit sweater.

“Gran, come meet our friend!” she says, and tugs again until she lets go of Johnny.

You stand from the table on wobbly legs, fighting to balance your listing emotions and put on a warm smile as Johnny’s mother slides past him into the kitchen.

The resemblance between the three of them is uncanny. Johnny shares his mothers dark coloring, rich hair and warm skinned, and they all have the same eyes–steely hues of grey-blue, spiraling outwards from inky pupils like storm cells.

“So, this is the lassie next door ye willnae stop glaverin’ on about?” she asks no one in particular as she openly appraises you.

“Mam–” Johnny begins, a simmering warning, but she holds up a hand to silence him.

They carry themselves in a similar manner, in the set of their shoulders and broad stance. She may not stand as tall as he does but she’s no less imposing, and it’s an effort not to squirm under her scrutiny.

Seconds feel like hours as she looks you up and down, cataloging the flour on your pants and in your hair, glancing to her left where Johnny stands in a state of equal disarray, and a knowing look flickers like lightning in her storm cloud eyes.

“It’s good tae finally put a face wi’ a name,” she says, smiling, and pulls you into a hug, too. “Call me Fenella, or Fen, whichever ye like.”

You return the gesture hesitantly, looking over her shoulder to Johnny for guidance and finding none. He simply smiles back at you from where he leans against the doorway, something unreadable in his expression lingering beneath it.

“It’s nice to meet you too… I- I’d love to stay, but should probably be heading home. I have an early morning and wouldn’t want to intrude on your visit,” you say by way of excuse.

“Ah’m naw stayin’ long, dear,” she explains, finally pulling away. Isobel returns to her side, pressing her shoulder to her thigh, and Fenella’s hand settles on the crown of her head. “Here tae take the wean for a stay wi’ her gran.”

“Is yer bag ready, leannan? D’ya have all yer books for school?” Johnny asks from where he stands, hands having found their way into his pockets again. His shoulders droop, broad frame deflating before your eyes. Leaving her behind, even with his mother, takes a toll on him.

Isobel leans around her gran to say, “I’ave all my books. And Mr. Ghost.”

“Goan an’ get yer things then, Bell,” Fenella ushers her out of the kitchen, climbing the stairs behind her to her room.

You watch until they disappear above the half open staircase, but Johnny has been watching you. Watching you navigate the shoal of your emotions, razor sharp rock scraping against a flimsy hull.

“C’mere, lass,” he entreats, one arm outstretched towards you, and your feet move of their own accord, carrying you forward until his hand settles on your shoulder, momentarily moored in the eddy of a tide pool. “Didnae mean to tell ye in the middle of… this.” He gestures above him to the sound of footsteps overhead. “Only got the call yesterday.”

With your hands folded at your front, you stare down at them, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “It’s okay. I understand—”

“No, lass, it isnae okay,” he interrupts, hand gliding up your shoulder, your neck, and coming to rest on your cheek. He lifts your gaze back up to his and he’s wearing that nameless emotion, staring down at you with a pained expression.

This hurts him as much as it hurts you.

“The job I do, it isnae always… predictable. Dinnae get much warning when I’m called in for assignments. I should have warned ye…” his thumb traces soothing arcs over your cheek, but it does nothing for the gaping hole in your chest. “I’m sorry… I should have—”

“It’s okay, Johnny. Really.” The lie feels like rubbing salt into a wound, burns the back of your throat like you’re speaking around a lump made of sandpaper, and your voice comes out scratchy and raw.

His hand lingers on your cheek, eyes darting from yours to your nose, lips, cheeks, brow. Memorizing.

“Let me walk ye home?” You nod, unsure if you can speak around the cordolium lodged in your throat, and his hand moves from your cheek to your waist, guiding you through the razor rock and churning tide to the front door.

His arm remains firmly around you, fingers digging into your softness as he escorts you across the meager expanse of your lawn.

There’s an SUV, still running, parked in front of both houses and left to keep warm while Isobel gathers her things. She and Fenella step out into the brisk evening air just as you and Johnny reach the top of your stairs, and Isobel waves to you as they descend. Your arm feels leaden as you lift your hand into the air, waving back to her.

“She‘ll miss ye. Talks about ye all the time,” Johnny says beside you, unwilling to let you go just yet. “I’ll be missin’ ye too,” he admits, and you thought you’d found the bottom of the pit in your stomach. Thought you were already lying at the bottom of it.

You were wrong.

The well of your affection for them feels bottomless. The floor crumbles, residual tremors of the quaking in your chest, and you’re falling, falling, falling…Even with his arm around your waist.

You fell in love with the man in front of you. Fell in love with the darling little girl climbing into her grandmother's car. You’re already in love with Fenella and her dedication to her family.

You’ve been falling this whole time, no safety net in sight.

“I- …” Your voice cracks, and you try again. “I’ll miss you, too. Both of you.”

You’re falling, and they’re leaving.

There’s little warning, just a tug of your blouse, before you’re being folded into his arms. A wide palm cradles your head to his chest, fingers threading through your hair, and he presses his cheek to your crown.

“Won’t be able to use my phone a lot, but I’ll call when I can.” He murmurs his promise into your hair. “If… if I’m not here an’ somethin’ happens… I gave my Mum yer number. Saved hers in yer phone when I gave ye mine.” He pauses. Sucks in a shuddering breath before he continues. “Whatever it is, she’ll help.”

You nod your understanding and he pulls back just enough to see your face, guides your head to look up at him and says, “Promise me. Promise that ye’ll go to her if ye need anythin’,” with a desperation you’ve never heard from him.

So you make another promise. Let your eyes flutter closed as he presses his forehead to yours and ghosts his lips across the chilled skin of your brow.

And then he leaves.

Isobel is sorted, buckled into her car seat and saying her goodbye’s to Johnny, and Fenella MacTavish stands beside the driver’s side door, watching.

She’s said this goodbye a hundred times. Sent him off to god knows where to fight a war she’s never heard of. It never gets easier.

Isobel’s door closes, and her son turns to her with pain in his eyes. “I hate leaving ‘er.”

“Which one?” she intones, and Johnny leans his hip against the B pillar.

“Both of them. The three of ye.”

“Then make sure ye come back tae ‘er–tae all of us,” she advises, and pulls him into one last hug. “I cannae bury another child.”

Next>>>

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

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nonsensical-pixels · 4 months

Text

it's finally done! 🎊 to the (multiple people) who requested this, i'm so sorry for taking so long to finish it up, but hey--it's here now, just in time for the new year! i hope you enjoy this conversion of @syboubou's enchanted dreams kids' set as much as i enjoyed making it 💓

there are 25 new build/buy items to delight your littlest and not-so-little sims, all low to medium-poly. this set features not just my first functional playmat (showcased above by babble broke!) but also a functional toddler bed cloned from one of @themediocresulk's, a one-tile crib cloned from @hugelunatic's, another monique's hacked computer, and much more! peek below the cut for the deets 👇

DOWNLOAD: SFS | MF 🌼

credits go to @syboubou for the original ts4 meshes & textures, @themediocresulk for the toddler bed as a pet bed (but for toddlers) that i cloned the toddler bed from, @hugelunatic for the one-tile crib that i based the wicker stroller off of, enjatoki (deactivated?) for the playmat mine is cloned from, and anyone else whom i've probably missed! 🥰

DESCRIPTION

Originally by Syboulette for TS4, converted to TS2 by nonsensical-pixels. Part of the SYB Enchanted Dreams Bedroom Set.

THINGS TO NOTE

The Crib has no animations, owing to its shaping, so expect clipping when babies are put in and out. The Changing Table has no trash can attached, so expect some awkwardness when sims throw trash into the void. The Computer functions as a Monique's Hacked Computer and requires the files from it to work. The Dresser is repositoried to the Changing Table. The Playmat is FULLY FUNCTIONAL and functions like the Baby Mat from the TS2 Store. The Trash Bin is completely decorative. The Wicker Stroller is cloned from a 1-Tile Crib by HugeLunatic and is functional! Only babies can be placed inside. The 12 Wallpapers each have two versions; to fill a whole wall with one alternate between A and B for seamless textures.

ITEMS INCLUDED

Bed Light - 400 polys, $49 Ceiling Lamp - 280 polys, $89 Changing Table - 556 polys, $349 Computer - 1298 polys, $1799 Crib - 848 polys, $219 Crib Drape - 864 polys, $109 Desk - 1148 polys, $399 Desk Chair - 1226 polys, $99 Dresser - 504 polys, $309 Ducks Toy - 1062 polys, $29 Kid Bed - 3658 polys, $299 Kids Books - 92 polys, $29 Lamp - 650 polys, $89 Little Alchemist Table - 2648 polys, $299 Lunch Box - 392 polys, $99 Nightstand - 240 polys, $119 Playmat - 723 polys, $100 Potty - 942 polys, $149 Rug - 2 polys, $79 Stuffed Rabbit - 1656 polys, $99 Toddler Bed - 1396 polys, $199 Trash Bin - 252 polys, $49 Wallpaper - 12 swatches, 2 variants each Wall Tree Light - 1128 polys, $99 Wicker Stroller - 1424 polys, $399 A collection file has been included for ease of browsing the catalog.

if there are any issues that you find with this set, please don't be afraid to let me know! happy simming, and when you download this, do keep in mind,

( @4t2ccdatabase )

#sims 2 download #the sims 2 cc #ts2cc #s2cc #sims 2 cc #the sims 2 #sims 2 #4t2 #4t2 conversion #4t2 buy #suggestions #sims 2 suggestions

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cordeliawhohung · 13 days

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Leftovers [3/3]

Simon Riley x fem!Reader | a non-canon addition to my mafia!141 series

part 1 | part 2 | playlist

you love him

warnings: non-con!!!! attempted suicide, self harm, abusive relationships, spanking/impact, threats, stalking, mind the tags!!! dead dove do not eat

wc: 5.2k

The dilapidating motel room that you were unfortunate enough to take refuge in smelled like Simon. Vaguely, anyway.

Damp air greeted you the moment you opened the door to your room, and the old, wet scent of cigarette smoke nearly suffocated you. You flipped the lights on where they greeted you with a flicker and buzz, yet hardly did anything to illuminate the dull wallpaper and discolored carpet. Every documentary about real life crime warned you against places like that; it was the type of room where people entered yet never exited without a gaping hole in their chest.

Its unpleasant welcome nearly had you second guessing your escape, and a pang of trepidation echoed throughout your chest. Could you really subjugate yourself to a night alone and survive? Solitarily rotting in bed just like you used to as a pet? A shaky breath expelled past your lips as you tossed your bag onto the foot of the bed as you locked the door behind you. No, that was a different kind of solitude. Not one that you were forced into. Not something intentionally loveless.

That was freedom. The only reason it terrified you was because you had never experienced it before.

The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:36 which did little to quell the lump in your throat. If Simon wasn’t already home by then, you knew he would be soon. He would come home to an empty apartment, devoid of the woman he so fondly called sweetheart, and that made your stomach protest something fierce. You had only ever experienced short bursts of his anger previously over minor transgressions you had committed previously. Ones that you quickly solved lest he completely burst. If he had gotten upset by you merely asking to have your phone back, you didn’t even want to imagine the rage that would erupt within him when he realized you were gone.

A heavy breath expelled from your chest as you sat on the edge of the bed. A thin layer of grime seemed to cover the sheets, but you knew you couldn’t expect anything more from one of the cheapest and low rated hotels in London. It was your own fault for trying to lay as low as possible; you weren’t sure there was enough money on your card to afford anywhere without bloodstains, anyway. Ignoring the uncomfortable filth that surely stained your clothes, you fished your phone out from your pocket where the screen lit up brighter than the light above your head.

John’s text messages illuminated the screen, and you felt your throat grow tight again. His terrible wish for you to be there with him and Mrs. Price, and that fucking video of the ultrasound. You still weren’t fully convinced that it wasn’t all some sort of cruel joke. Simon said he had told John about everything. How you were done with them, how you were tired of being treated like nothing. So why the messages?

Unless Simon had lied about that, too.

An unsteady sigh passed between your lips as your thumbs hovered over the screen. While John and his wife hadn’t exactly been the most loving, they had never once lied to you. Not that you knew of, anyway. Since you couldn’t get the truth out of Simon, maybe you could get it out of them, yet the task was so daunting you swore you would throw up again.

So you sat there, hunched over on the side of the bed with your phone in hand, until the red glow of the digital clock read just past three in the morning. Frayed nerves hindered your brain’s ability to hold a coherent thought, and you had spent so much time sitting there trying to think of something to say that your phone was nearly dead. Nothing good would come out of a conversation with John that late in the night, if he was still even awake. With lethargic thumbs, you typed out a quick message asking him to call you in the morning, and then the screen went dark as you locked it.

Answers. That’s all you wanted. But your fuzzy and exhausted brain couldn’t handle that. You had spent the last few hours running like your life depended on it — running like a bad pet. Come morning, you would get what you wanted. In the meantime, you would pray sleep would take you away.

That night was the first night that you slept fully dressed since you started living with Simon. Always had to have you bare with your naked body up against his while you slept. Such easy access to your cunt all he had to do was slither his hands between your legs to get you purring like a kitten. Some poor touch-starved creature that would do anything for the attention of something with teeth too sharp to love properly.

You tried not to think too hard about it as you set your phone face down on the nightstand and settled into bed. You weren’t brave enough to climb underneath the covers in the fear that something truly might bite you, so you curled up like a cat on top of the comforter. The lights stayed on that night, as it had been so long since you slept alone you weren’t sure you could stomach the darkness. Childish. That thought made you cringe, but that’s what you had been reduced to. Maybe it was all you had ever been.

When you hugged your pillow tight to your core that night, the full weight of the silence around you made your eyes sting. There was no heartbeat to lull you to sleep that night. It was one of the things you remembered craving so dearly when you lived with the Prices, something Simon had provided you without question. You wanted to cry. To mourn the things you had and the things you lost, but you refused to let those walls see your tears.

Once your eyes closed, you swore you only slept for a single moment before they opened to find the summer sun peeking through the tacky curtains. A dull ache in your neck blossomed and radiated from the back of your skull to your shoulder blades, and the sour smell of smoke had permeated into your clothes and hair. Rolling over to stare at the digital clock revealed that it was just before seven in the morning. You had hardly gotten any sleep at all, yet you already buzzed with anticipation and uneasiness.

An anxious hand reached for your phone where you quickly checked through your notifications. Several junk notifications clogged up your phone since you turned it on. Old emails that you hadn’t checked in months and stupid spam call notifications from weeks back. But John had yet to respond to your text, or even see it, and though that ignited a pit of worry in your stomach, you knew you had to give him time. He always got home late. Him and Mrs. Price probably slept in.

You hated that you still had their routine so ingrained in your mind.

No matter. There was a plan you had in your mind; steps you had to take in order to really be free from your old life. The first step was getting clean, and then getting the fuck out of there.

Time didn’t exist in the shower, and neither did the water bill. You had quite the time watching droplets of water dance on the foggy glass door as you stood underneath the stream's embrace. Each time one fell, another formed to take its place before falling too, like some neverending dance. You watched the streaks form as you washed your body with the skin stripping complimentary body wash the motel left on the counter. It hardly got sudsy, and it didn’t leave you feeling refreshed, but it replaced that stale smoke scent with the vague idea of green apples, and that was enough for you.

A thick veil of mist greeted you when you exited the shower, and you blindly nabbed a towel to dry your body off with. Its fabric wasn’t at all kind on your skin either, yet you still found yourself wrapping it around your body before exiting the bathroom. The sun had changed positions in the room as the morning meandered along, and you found yourself praying that John had finally answered you as you entered the main part of the room.

“Mornin’ sweetheart.”

Simon sat on the edge of the motel bed with his elbows on his knees. A dim light illuminated the silvery scars on his face as he scrolled through the phone in his hands. Your phone. His dark eyes broke away from the screen to look up at you, and the twitch in the corner of his mouth left your mouth dry. He turned the screen to face you where he then gently shook it as if it were contraband; something you weren’t supposed to have. Though you couldn’t read what it said, you could see John had responded to your request to call him.

“You’ve been busy. Been naughty,” Simon continued as he turned your phone off and tossed it next to him. “Didn’t even leave a note. Just think you could up and leave?”

Your hands gripped the knot in your towel as your body began to turn to stone. It was difficult to tell if you trembled because of the cool air of the room or if you trembled because of the fear that coursed through your veins. Either way, your mouth wasn’t able to form any response to his biting tone.

At your silence, Simon tapped his fingertips on top of your phone, causing it to lightly bounce on the old boxspring mattress. “Decided you had enough of me? Is that it? Wanting to go back to John? Go back to bein’ a fuckin’ pet?”

“No,” you said once your tongue finally decided to work. “I just… wanted answers.”

“Well, I’m all ears for any questions you have, sweetheart,” Simon snapped.

His tone had you recoiling against the wall, yet you refused to look away from him. If you did, you knew it would give him enough time to pounce like an animal, and he looked almost excited to sink his teeth into you. It was wrong. You thought you would have had more time. Simon wasn’t supposed to find you that quick; no, he wasn’t supposed to find you at all. Yet there he sat, on the edge of your bed, like an owner trying to wrangle a bad dog back home.

“How did you find me?” you asked.

“You used a card. Anything electronic is easy to track, ‘specially in a place like this. All it took was me saying I was your husband to get the lad at the front to give me your room number. Surprised you made it this far on your own, considering how pathetic you are without me,” he said with a sour chuckle.

“My card?” you repeated. “But… you don’t- how do you have access to my account? You can’t track me without-”

“One of the perks of working for John Price,” Simon deadpanned.

Every word that came out of Simon’s mouth unraveled you, and it only got worse. It was as if everything he had ever told you was a lie. How naive of you to think otherwise; of course they were lies. He had lied to you from the very beginning, and instead of running then while your feet were unchained, you chose to ignore it. Hope and pray it would go away. Now, it was too late. Every part of you seemed bound to Simon, and you weren’t sure you could stand to tear yourself from him.

“I thought you said-” you started.

“That I wasn’t working for him anymore? That I told him how you chose to live with me? No,” Simon interrupted. “He’s got too many resources. Besides, no one just ups and leaves the mafia, sweetheart.”

Your bottom lip began to tremble at that word. Mafia. Everyone knew about the violence that plagued London, even someone as much of a recluse as you. You didn’t want to believe him, but it made sense. Why else did John always work late? Why else would he come home some days with scuffed up knuckles? Besides, he only ever seemed to tell the truth when he tried to prod a response out of you. Simon’s smirk was faint but painfully noticeable in the crease of his lips as he tilted his head at you.

“Yeah, figured he didn’t tell you about that,” he huffed. “No one leaves. Not even pets. Not even you. Who do you think was protectin’ you from him this whole time? Who do you think removed his tracker in your phone? Why do you think we always used my money to pay for everything? If it wasn’t for me, you’d be right back where you started. Unloved, neglected and fuckin’ abused.”

His words cut you to pieces worse than anything else ever had. It was worse than learning Mrs. Price was pregnant. Worse than the first time Simon had ever lied to you. Hot, fat tears rolled down your cheeks while your throat constricted so tightly you swore you would choke. You made the mistake of looking away from Simon as a small sob rattled your shoulders. In a pitiful attempt to comfort yourself, you wrapped your arms around your front, keeping your towel in place as your knees nearly buckled.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Simon’s feet were surprisingly soft against the stiff carpet of the motel room, and it took everything in you not to lean into his touch. Warm fingers ghosted against your arms, and something primal and pathetic yearned for more. But you didn’t miss him. Not Simon Riley. You just missed the warmth of someone else; warmth you were certain you could find in someone less hurtful.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Simon urged. His thumbs rubbed against your shoulders, and something that should have felt like knives in your skin felt all too comforting instead. “Let’s go home.”

Some broken part of you wanted to say yes. To slap the band-aid back on and continue to let those pathetic feelings fester inside of you with no air to breathe. It would have been easy to say yes, to follow him back home like a wounded animal and continue to live in your cage. But you were so close to freedom, to living on your own without the need to be chained to anyone else.

You didn’t bother to wipe your tears before looking at Simon. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him, making your skin feel clammy. A few more tears blinked free from your eyes, staining your cheeks like glitter as you stiffened your upper lip.

“I can’t,” you finally said, though the words felt like they would kill you. “I don’t want to. I… just wanna be left alone.”

Simon’s face began to morph in front of your eyes. All that softness in his expression hardened into something more firm and demanding; dissapointment. It wasn’t until your back hit the wall that you realized your choice had already been decided for you. No wasn’t an answer. Neither was yes. It had only ever been what Simon had already chosen for you.

“Wasn’t asking,” he warned.

His grip seared your skin through your towel as his hands rested on your hips, but you had nowhere to run. Useless hands pressed against his chest as you tried to fight back against the immoveable object that was Simon Riley. Hot breath fanned across your face when he pressed his forehead to yours, and you tried not to flinch when he yanked your towel off of your body, tossing it aside where it fell in a limp pile by your feet.

“C’mon, you’re smarter than this, arent’cha?” he prompted. Simon began to move backwards, and his firm grip on your waist gave you no choice but to stumble after him. Shame pricked the corners of your ears with a searing heat as he dragged you around, naked, like a dog on a leash. “If you don’t come home, Price’ll find ya. You understand that, yeah sweetheart? I’m the only thing keeping you from an early fuckin’ grave.”

All it took was a simple turn and a harsh shove to get you face first on the bed. The mattress was unforgiving as it hardly gave way underneath your weight, knocking the breath from your lungs. Sweaty palms dug into the crummy comforter as you tried to push yourself up, but once Simon’s knees sunk into the mattress next to you, his hand pushed against the back of your neck, keeping your face into the bed.

“Simon!” you cried. “Wait- please stop. I’m sorry! I just- please don’t. Please, I didn’t mean to upset you I just- there had to be a reason for it! For them to treat me like that!”

Ignoring your pleas, Simon snaked an arm underneath your hips and pulled up, putting your ass on display. An angry hand rested on the crux of your bum where his fingers twitched with anticipation.

“A reason? It’s because they saw you as a fuckin’ pet. Nothin’ more than an animal to feed and play with,” Simon bit. “Until I found ya. Saved you from that shit, didn’t I sweetheart? Then you fuckin’ run out on me. Ruinin’ everything I worked so hard to build for ya. Ungrateful slag.”

“Please stop!” you sobbed, cries half muffled by the bed.

He allowed you no more time to continue to snivel before his hand raised from your bum only to slap against it with a firm palm. Its sting pierced through your skin with such force it stole your breath away, and with Simon’s hand still on the back of your neck, you had nowhere to run from the pain. Your chest heaved with a sob at the sensation, and you felt your feet involuntarily kick behind you.

“Quiet,” he warned, voice dangerously low. “Don’t need you causin’ anymore trouble than you already have.”

Once more his hand came down with a sharp crack where pain prickled across your skin. In some pitiful attempt to ward him off, you reached your arms behind your back as if you could push him away. All it did was make him chuckle as his thumb rubbed against the back of your neck.

“Yeah, ‘nuff of that. Of all of it. I’ll set you straight and take you home and we can forget all about this little stunt of yours,” Simon hummed.

Despite it all, your body could only react viscerally to the thought of returning home with him. That was the day you were supposed to become your own person without being bound to anyone else. Go out on your own and finally live your life as a human rather than a trophy. You were so close to tasting it you could scream.

“I can’t. I can’t…” you whined.

Another spank and your thoughts cut off with a squeak.

“Don’t fuckin’ understand anythin’ do you?” Simon hissed. “Either you leave here with me, or you leave as John’s. He’ll find and track you within a heartbeat, and he won’t be as kind as me. Dunno about you sweetheart, but I’m not gonna sit around and let him take you again. So you leave here with me, or you don’t leave at all.”

Not a single word rose in your mind at his threat. Tears and snot continued to stain the linens underneath you as you took his punishment, and as his hand came down on you once more, you started to believe that you deserved it. Every single bit of it. How ungrateful of you to deny him after everything he had done for you. Keeping you safe. Keeping you away from John. From the worst members of the mafia. Everything he had ever done had been to protect you, right?

“Did you really think I’d let you run off like that? After everythin’ I've done for you?” he continued. His weight shifted on the bed as he slipped from your side to your backside. With his hand no longer on your neck, you were able to take a deep breath, though the air felt stale and salty. “No, my girl doesn’t run away. Not the mother of my kid.”

Ice formed in your veins at his words, and you were too shocked to even cry about it. You blinked rapidly as you raised your head from the bed, and your stomach turned so violently you nearly puked all over the sheets.

“What?” you choked out.

Simon’s hands rubbed over your sore rump as if soothing the pain he inflicted on you only to fall from your skin a moment later. A sharp, distinct clink sounded behind you, followed by the unzipping of his pants.

“It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he asked as he pulled his cock free. “You said it yourself. You want what they have.”

Electricity jolted through your body when the head of Simon’s pre-cum smeared cock tapped the underside of your ass. Your breath hitched in your throat as he grabbed your hips and raised you higher up, angling you just right so he could press against your cunt. Everything in you screamed to run, but the prey in you knew you wouldn’t get far enough for it to matter.

“You wanted love, so I gave you that. They never fucked you, so I gave you that, too. Just wasn’t enough for you, was it?” Simon droned as he pressed into you. Without your arousal to assist, the stretch of him not only burned, but felt like it tore. Only the head of his cock had made it inside of your constricting cunt, and even that was too much. “Still cryin’ all the time. Still upset. The only thing that they have that we don’t is a kid. If you want one so bad, then I’ll give ya one.”

“Wait, please,” you choked out as you wiggled.

“What’cha so worked up for, sweetheart?” Simon patronized. “With how often I’ve fucked you before, you’re probably already knocked up anyway. No harm in trying a bit more, yeah?”

It was impossible to answer once Simon began to press further into you. Everything within you was wound up so tight with muscles revolting against him as he made you take every painful inch of him. His love had never hurt like that before. Never felt like it tore you open to fix what was never broken in the first place. Not until then as he speared you open with no regard for the way it ripped you to shreds.

It only got worse when he bottomed out, forcing your cunt to take what it didn’t want to. His hips snapped against yours with force so strong you were left breathless. Each agonizing thrust left you a mess as half created sobs erupted from your throat. No amount of begging would get him to change his mind or set you free. This was what you deserved for biting the hand that fed you.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Simon grunted. Searing anger kept his body going as he fucked you, hands digging into either side of your hips. “A man to fuck you. To be the sweet little trophy wife. Have a cute kid or two. Isn’t it? Say it, sweetheart.”

But you couldn’t. Even if it wasn’t for his cock bullying every breath from your lungs, you didn’t think you would be able to admit to anything. So you dug your face further into the sheets, no longer caring about the filth of it all; you just wanted to hide away as best as you could. Simon wasn’t impressed with your silence, and his hand came down hard against your backside as his relentless pace continued. You could almost feel his blood boiling in his veins from his touch alone.

“I said, say it,” he barked. “Tell me what you want.”

Agonizing aches ripped through your pelvis at the intrusion, and you found your hands pawing at your stomach as if you could soothe the pain. There was no love behind any of his actions. Perhaps there never had been. You just knew that you wanted it to stop.

“You!” you finally wailed. “I want you!”

“‘Course you do. Can’t fuckin’ live without me, can you sweetheart?”

It was enough to satisfy Simon, and he stopped verbally antagonizing you as he continued in his pursuit. Trembling fingers dug into the sheets as you kept your face hidden in the musty bed. It couldn’t go on forever, and as Simon’s hips began to stutter, you knew it would be over soon. You did your best to stifle your whimpering as he approached the end, yet he only seemed to pick up speed as if to egg you on.

In that moment, your mind painfully reminded you of the first time you ever met him. How he just appeared in your life sitting on the living room couch as if he had always known you. You wished that you had never obeyed John that night. Never allowed Simon’s arm to wrap around you as he intertwined your lives together to the point you could no longer undo the knots. It was too late for regret. You were bound to him, soul, mind, and soon to be body.

“Fuck.”

Simon’s groan was deep in his throat as he remained fully sheathed inside of you while his cock twitched unabashed against the screaming walls of your cunt. The aches only got worse as he kept himself pressed up against your bruised cervix, but you bore it as he gave you every last drop of his spend.

There was nothing left to keep your rump up in the air when Simon pulled out and away from you, and you collapsed on the bed as a mess of sticky flesh. His chuckle, once so soothing and melodic, sounded like nails on a chalkboard as he fixed his pants behind you. The bed rocked with his weight as he sat with his back turned to you, yet you paid no mind to it as you squeezed your eyes shut. You prayed that if you squeezed them tight enough, something would whisk you away and take you far, far away from that fucking motel room and away from Simon Riley.

But you never had such luck before.

That stale scent of cigarette smoke only grew stronger as Simon lit a fresh one. His chest expanded as he took a hefty drag, and you hoped that the ash would fall onto the carpet and burn the whole building to the ground. Half the cigarette burned by the time he turned around to face your motionless body on the bed. He cooed as he reached out for you, fingers gently raising your chin so that he could lean forward and press a kiss against your limp lips. A little bit of smoke still lingered in his mouth, and when you opened your eyes you tried to pretend that they watered because of the burn rather than the pain.

“Ready to go home, sweetheart?”

You didn’t remember if you fought against him when you got in the car. You didn’t remember anything. It was a complete mystery how you ended back up in Simon’s bed in that apartment, naked just how he liked you. All you knew was that everything hurt, and he had won. The next few weeks consisted of nothing but an incomplete recollection, like you looked at your memories through shattered glass. There was a vague memory of him bathing you in the shower, and another one of him feeding you by hand. It was all disconnected. Unreal.

Your body didn’t belong to you anymore. Maybe it never did. You had become an outsider, watching that useless hunk of flesh meander around an apartment you were too tired to escape from. There was nothing in the world that would save you from whatever curse that was wrought upon you; that Simon Riley.

The only thing you could somewhat remember were your dreams. One night, you dreamt you hid yourself away in the bathroom. It angered Simon, for some reason you couldn’t articulate. Mean hands pounded against the wood of the door as if he tried to break it down, all while he demanded you open it. You remembered voicing how you wanted to go home; how you just wanted to sleep. There was some deep dark feeling harbored inside of you that you couldn’t purge with your hands alone.

When the door finally came down, you suddenly were no longer in the bathroom. It was cold, but you were wrapped in more blankets than you could count while Simon wrapped bandages around your arms. They felt like cuffs. Like they were more chains to keep you tethered to him, yet you didn’t fight. You couldn’t fight. You knew not to anymore, because bad pets always got punished.

“Not leavin’ me yet, sweetheart. Not like this,” he mumbled.

Those bandages were still on your arms the next day, and you realized it had never been a dream at all. Just another bit of your life that was too fuzzy to fully experience. It was then that you finally realized that not even Death Himself could save you from Simon Riley. Nothing could.

It wasn’t until you were in the bathroom again that you were slammed back into your body. Each sensation that had felt so terribly numb before suddenly became painfully sharp. A terrible ache buzzed throughout your arms, stomach, and head the moment you returned to yourself. Something had stolen your conscience for a while just to kick it back in that silly brain of yours the moment it was bored, and your entire body grew cold with stark realization at what was in your hands. A pregnancy test, with two faint little lines that smiled up at you.

Adverting your gaze from that terrible object gave you no solace as you were met with the stomach-churning image of yourself in the mirror. Between the red veins that strained in your eyes and the peeling skin on your lips, you hardly recognized yourself. Still, Simon saw past all the broken parts of you as he stood behind you, hands snaking around to your front to grab your stomach. He was much too comforting for the pain that grew in your body.

“My sweet girl,” he whispered as he kissed the top of your head.

He breathed in your scent and you wondered if he could pick up on the notes of rot that laid underneath the smell of shampoo and product. He had killed you a long time ago, at least some part of you, and left it to fester and decay in a place you couldn’t heal. With shaky hands, you placed the pregnancy test on the bathroom counter as you let Simon pull you against his chest. His warmth threatened to engulf you, but you knew nothing would ever burn hot enough to ignite that smothered flame inside of you.

“I love you,” he whispered.

With a voice as empty as your eyes, you replied: “I love you, too.”

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut #dead dove fic #dark fic #dead dove

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justreadingfics · 3 months

Text

Sensitive Topic - A "Looking For a Heartbeat" One-Shot

Words: 4k+

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Six years have passed since Bucky and you got back together. You are married and you’re pregnant with your second child. Everything’s great. Until a very sensitive topic from your past comes back to haunt you.

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Jealousy, Angst, Fluff, Mention of Past Relationships, Part of a Series, Pregnancy kink, Pregnancy sex.

Based on this request: Smutty idea:

Sometime after they got back together, Reader goes through a brief period where she feels insecure about Bucky and Anna's past relationship and intimacy, so Bucky shows her all the ways in which he only ever touched and made love to Reader, not Anna.

A/N: Thank you Anon for the request/idea (sorry for taking so long), and thank you @flordeamatista for being such an amazing beta.

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

It's been six years.

Six. Fucking. Years.

You keep telling that to yourself, sitting on the couch of your shared apartment, running your hand with a wedding ring over your swelling belly.

You are married and pregnant with your second child with him.

And he loves you.

You.

So why the hell is your mind drifting back to that particular topic… that very sensitive topic, making your nerves burn with that twisted little feeling in your gut?

Jealousy…

Maybe you can blame it on the mess of hormones you’ve been going through. You don’t remember being quite like that when you were pregnant with Summer, your first child. The mood swings weren't constant then.

This second pregnancy, though, has been all about feelings swirling inside you unbidden. One second you could be laughing and dancing with Summer at one of her cartoons, the next you would be bawling your eyes out at the same fucking cartoon.

All of your feelings are mixed up. This one right here being the newest addition to the pack.

And it sucks. It so fucking sucks.

10 minutes before…

A light humming escapes your lips as you set the lemonade jar and glass on the trail. A smile plasters your face as you grab the set and head towards the new room.

The new baby’s nursery.

Your second daughter.

Well, he doesn't know it's a daughter. With Summer, your first, he chose to discover the sex, while you preferred to wait. Now he chose otherwise while you knew the sex.

You can't wait to see his face when he sees a baby girl. He’s such an amazing dad to Summer and already is for this one, whose name you still must figure out. You have yet to talk about the options, but between your work with the Avengers and his own as a stay at home dad (as he so proudly likes to call himself), time is short. Just now, he’s taking the little time Summer is at School to work on the new nursery.

Jesus, that firecracker of a girl is already a handful.With two of them, what are you and Bucky going to do? The thought makes you smile fondly.

Your memory flashes back to six years ago, when you were preparing lemonade for Bucky and Steve, who were working on Summer's bedroom.But that time you weren’t married still.

God…you had no idea what you two were at that time, practically living together, pining for each other like crazy, but none of you daring to step further, too scared to do so.

The memory makes you smile harder. You almost kissed him while he felt Summer kicking, placing his hands on your belly for the first time… only to be cockblocked by Steve…

Now, looking at the life you two have built together, that time seems like it happened ages ago. Another life. You know now that everything happened as it should be and you’re exactly where you are supposed to be.

With him and your little family.

And well, no Steve this time, you chuckle to yourself pushing the door to the nursery with your elbow.

The view before you makes you suck in the chuckle down your throat.

Bucky.

Your husband.

Shirtless.

Sweaty back to you as he’s up on a ladder, finishing to stick the teddy bear’s wallpaper. Pants hang low on his slim waist. Back muscles flex with the movement of his arms.

His fucking hair half loose half pulled back in a high bun. Like a damn warrior… an extremely hot one.

Goddammit.That man knows how to make your throat dry and you breath hitch without even trying. A sweet little coil twists your belly and lower. The tray feels heavy in your hands while your thoughts turn into images of you running your tongue up the muscles of his back to his neck, wrapping your arms around his broad frame and feeling his warmth against yours.

That’s when it hits.

And everything shifts.

Did she ever do that to him?

Did she ever touch him like that?

Did he like it when she touched him?

The mere thought is unbearable, agonizing.Cold lodges in your chest, freezing out all the growing heat you just felt.

You don’t wait to see if he knew you were there before you leave the tray on the working table and head to the living room with heavy feet to sulk on the couch where you are now.

Fuck.

You’re sure the trip down to memory lane ended up driving your thoughts to her.

Anna.

You haven’t thought of her in ages. The woman Bucky was in a relationship for the first months of your pregnancy with Summer. As much as it hurts to admit and remember, he wasn’t there with you then.

He was with her.

But in all honesty, you know you have no reason to be thinking of her now or to be feeling like you are. You and Bucky have been through so much to get where you are now and you love each other.

He loves you and only you, there’s no doubt of that.

Reason, however, is not what’s guiding your feelings now and bile rushes up your throat at the intrusive images of them touching each other. Of him touching her in a way he touches you now.

She got to see him, hold him, touch him. He touched her. You can't get rid of the thoughts.

He had sex with her.

The two of you have talked about his relationship with Anna, but you never actually got to that specific topic. He hasn't spoken out loud, and you haven't pushed it with him.

But you knew, of course, you knew.

After all, he was trying hard to make things work with her. And she’s a woman, a beautiful one, and he, well… he’s simply the type of man no woman would kick out of their beds, especially if they’re in love with him like she was.

Your jaw clenches, but you don’t need to turn your head towards the entrance to know he’s there. Don’t need to look at him to know there’s worry etched on his face as he takes you in, sitting there blatantly ignoring him.

“Hey,” he’s smart enough to keep himself halted as he calls you with his soft voice, “Are you ok?”

“Yes.”

“Sweetheart…” He tries and you huff, turning even more away from him.

That’s when he can’t help himself and rushes inside the living room. Kneeling on the carpet right in front of you, he places his hands gently on your knees.

“What’s going on? Did I do something?” He pleads softly.

There’s a hitch on his tone that makes you finally look at him. His beautiful blue eyes are focusedon your face, searching in almost desperation for any sign of what might be happening to you.

The anger you were feeling melts just like that.

“No, my love, no…” You sigh in almost defeat and your hand cups his face instinctively, caressing the light stub shadowing his jaw. You shake your head and then turn away from him, not bearing to look at him when you add, “It´s stupid… You’ll think I’m so stupid.”

“Well… Try me.”

When you glance back at him your eyes catch his bare chest and it’s her hand you picture running over his skin. Your jaw clenches at the offending picture in your mind and that fire, not the good one, starts burning again.

“Was it good?” You shoot.

“What was good?”

“With Anna.” You shift, making his hands drop from your knees.

“What?” He frowns and tilts his head at you.

“Sex with Anna… Was it good?” You keep the sharpness in your voice and cross your arms in front of your chest, staring right at him.

The frown deepens on his forehead and his lips part, as if looking for something to say and finding nothing. Sheer confusion twists his face.

“Fuck…” You sigh, covering your face with your hands for just a moment before looking back at him, holding back the tears threatening to spill. “Forget it, it’s stupid.” You repeat, shaking your head.

As he stares back at you, the confusion on his features starts settling into something else. Something you take as.. empathy?

“It’s not stupid if it’s making you feel bad.” He states matter-of-factly.

“It's just the hormones.” You try to brush it off with a laugh but it just sounds forced, even to your ears. You look away.

But, apparently, Bucky’s having none of it. There’s no trace of mock or amusement on him as he swiftly gets up to sit beside you, his front completely turned to you. Ever so gently, he takes your hands in his and places a kiss on the back of them. The sweet gesture makes your heart jump and you slowly shift to face him as well.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.” He asks, running his thumb over your hands, which he rests on his lap, linked to his.

His words come so naturally to him. Because that’s how it’s been now. You two talk. And it’s been the key to your happiness all these years. So you do just that. You talk to him.

“It’s just…” You look briefly to the floor before gathering the braveness to look back at him. “We never really talked about how far your relationship with Anna went. I know that you two cared for each other and I know. I swear I know that it’s in the past and you love me.” You make sure to make that very clear to him, before shrugging, “But I– Fuck– Something made me think of it, just now, and I kept thinking about you two…”

You take a deep breath. His soft eyes on you the whole time, his willingness to listen prompting you to speak, “You two in bed together… I kept wondering what it really meant for you. How did it happen? How did you feel?.Was it good? I mean–she’s beautiful and–Shit,” You curse under your breath, interrupting your blabbering for a second with a shake of your head, “I know it doesn’t make sense. I’m so-”

“Hey. hey,” He cuts you in, softly squeezing your hands before you could blurt out an apology. “Have I ever told you how I felt when you brought Harry over for that first time? Steve’s birthday, remember?”

You cock your head at him. Almost amused by the absurdity of you and Harry - the man you met at a supporting group - being anything more than friends. Even before you found out he and Natasha had hooked up (and then married), you had never seen Harry like that. You had a suspicion Bucky had been a little jealous back then, but you never really talked about that either.

“Harry? Are you serious?” You ask. A little smile on your lips.

“Dead serious,” he admits, nodding, “I wanted to kill the bastard. I felt like shit. And, honestly, it took me a long while to get over the feeling, even when I found out the guy was head over heels for Nat.” He blows out a puff of air, “Trust me, I understand.”

You let out a breathy smile. He smiles too.

But it's brief.

“I did have sex with Anna when I was with her.” He estates, his face serious again.

Your jaw clenches, the small amusement from seconds earlier vanishing into the air. You know that. It’s the whole reason for that conversation. But that doesn’t make it easy to hear it from him.

“You ask me if it was good?” He continues when you don’t say anything, “When I had sex with Anna, it was always an attempt at something. Trying, trying… It was always something like… an effort.”

You gulp at the admission, and he shrugs, not once avoiding your gaze, “It never felt…” He sighs, searching for the word. “Natural. It never felt natural. So, no. I don’t think good really applies to what it was. Not really. It may make me a jerk to say it, but that’s the truth.”

You have no idea what to say to him. All of a sudden, you wish you hadn’t started that conversation at all. You feel like he’s just revealed something you should be satisfied with, happy even.

But you don’t really know how it makes you feel.

If you would guess, you would say you feel sorry for himand her, even. How hard it must’ve been. To be in a relationship meant and designed in every aspect to make one of them forget someone else.

“And that’s because it wasn’t you.”

As he whispered his words, your breath caught. He reaches his hand, running the back of his fingers over your cheek. You lean against his touch. You have no idea why, but right now you feel so glad you’re here with him, like this. That horrible time in the past.

“It could be her or anyone else. It would never mean or feel like it is with you. And it would definitely never be as good. Not even close.”

He holds your stare and you do it back. So many feelings, so much has gone between you two. Good and bad. All so you could live your love as you can today. He’s looking at you as if he’s feeling all that, too.

And he’s as glad as you are.

“I fucking love you.” His jaw clenches, as if the words come out of him filled with some kind of deep force.

“I love you.” You take in a shuddering breath, letting the mighty power those words carry rush over you.

He shifts on his seat and something in his gaze changes. Just like that, the atmosphere turns into something else.

Oh.

The hormones inside of you are quick to notice the change as something you can only describe as a burning flame twists in your lower belly. You bite your lip, looking down at his. So soft. So lust and delicious.

So yours.

Before you could even think to lean in, he swiftly grabs you and puts you across his lap.

“It’s like my body was made for you.” His voice is low as his hold on your waist tightens. “You drive me fucking crazy… the way you smell…so good.”

He tips his head to run his nose over the dip between your neck and shoulder. Taking in and relishing in your scent.

Your eyes flutter. Your core cries for attention as you feel him already hardening against your ass.

“That thing you do with your fingers on my neck.” He grabs your hand to place it on the spot he just mentioned. You promptly do that little move you know he’s crazy about.

“Yeah, fuck,” he whispers and places a kiss on your neck, making a shiver run down your spine.

“Bucky…” you plead.

“The way you ride me.” He ignores your plea and keeps running his lips on your neck between words.

Desirous words that make your mind spin. “You sound so beautiful when my cock is inside you. Your fucking breasts...”

He shows you his meaning by grabbing a handful of one of your breasts through your dress. It prompts a whimper out of you and your fingers dip into his locks, undoing his bun in the process.

“God you’re fucking sexy, I have to hold myself back sometimes when there’s people around…But there’s no one here… Right, sweetheart?” His voice turns infinitely lower as his metal hand snakes under your dress.

That morning you had decided for a simple short tank top dress with a loose fitting to prepare yourself for the heat you’ve been feeling all the time. You had no idea how much it would come in handy.

Fuck.

You want him so damn much. So damn much it’s burning you. But the bastard, the bastard, keeps his touch under the skirt almost chaste, just massaging the skin and flesh of your thighs.

Not being able to hold yourself any longer, you turn his face to yours and grab his lips in a kiss. The movement is harsh, almost violent. Pouring all your need and desire for him in there.

Responding to the kiss with the same ferocity, bucky fiercely moves your hips with his metal hand and grounds you against the hardness beneath you.

“Do you see what you do to me? Huh?” His voice is hoarse against your lips. His hand moves with you, but he doesn't really have to make any effort as your body moves on its own accord, grinding itself against his.

Longing for a breath, his lips part from your as he leans his forehead against your, “Is it like that for you too? Tell me you want me as much as I want you. All the fucking time.” He grits out.

Words evade you as your hips keep moving against him, chasing a release for the burning sparkles inside your core. So, as a way to show him, you grab his flesh hand under your dress and move higher, moving it under your underwear.

You’re soaked.

He lets out a harsh groan and you bet it’s pure primal instinct when his fingers start to move against your most sensitive spots.

Moaning at the sensation, you bring your arms around his neck, and work on kissing every little piece of him you can reach. His ears, cheeks, temple, lips, neck, his touch is so right. Just where he knows drives you crazy.

God, you love how much he knows you.

You roll your hips in a frenetic rhythm, practically riding his hand and feeling how impossibly harder he’s getting beneath you.

As if he’s feeling the exact same thing, he lets out a guttural groan, “I love you. I want you so much.” His voice rasps as he leans back to look at you. “You’re gonna come for me.” He states rather than ask, and fuck if don’t almost melt at the mix of dominance and desperation of his tone.

You grind harder against his hand, ragged breaths slipping out of your parted lips while you stare right back at him.

“I need to feel you, I need to see you, fuck– I need you.” He pulls down the straps of your dress, leaving your dress bunched up in the middle and baring your breasts for him. He lets out a satisfied hum before dipping his head to suck at one of them.

You let out a loud moan and you arch against his lips with the intensity of your climax, that comes without warning. This only prompts Bucky to suck your breasts harder, going from one to the other with ravenous appetite while you come undone around his fingers

In a reflex, you quickly pull his hand away, the sensations too much, and drop your body limp against him.

You stay like that, sucking in some much needed breaths inside your lungs as he lazily kisses your bare shoulders, wrapping his arms around you.

It’s only instinct, primal and hungry instinct, when you start moving your body, grinding against his hardness, even if the angle of you sitting across his body just doesn’t allow you much.

“Hmm…” His hands travel around over you, “Do you want my cock, babe?” He offers in a sultry whisper.

“You did say something about riding.” You manage to let out between your still panting breathing.

He chuckles and bites his lower lip as, in a swift move, you adjust yourself on his lap, facing forward, while your back is to his chest.

Both of you don’t want to waste any time, so, as you lift a little to pull your underwear to the side, he makes quick work of pushing down his pants. What a sight it is to watch from behind you his thick and hard cock bobbing against his stomach.

He catches your hungry stare and makes a show of giving it a few bumps, “Come and get it. It’s all yours.”

You don’t need to be told twice before you align your entrance to his tip and, with his help, make your descent to sit on him again.

Your eyes shutter and your lips part at the familiar stretch, “Goddammit you feel good.” You breathe, already bringing your hand to circle your clit as you feel him bottom up.

Bucky huffs through his teeth, “Right back at you, honey.” He circles his metal arm around you, grabbing a handful of your breast, as you start moving.

“Fuck… Yeah, baby, that’s it.” He praises, kneading the soft flesh in his hand as you pick up your rhythm.

You're a mess at this point, your dress is a mess, your body is a mess, but you don't care, all you can feel is his cock inside you and your hand on your clit.

All you can listen to is his loud moans mingling with your ragged pants as you ride him hard and fast, your ass bumping against him while he runs his tongue over your back.

You cry out and your pace falters at the electric sensation of your pleasure. “Bucky,” you let out a vicious sound when your second climax reaches you like a wave, making your legs tremble. Your pussy clenches around him.

“Oh, God,” he reacts at the gripping sensation, and you deliberately do it again, just because he sounds so beautiful, “Oh God, oh Baby… Yeah, fuck, just like that.” Between the blabbering words, he takes control of your hips, moving you wantonly around his cock.

It doesn’t take long before he’s spilling his release inside you, groaning harshly and dragging sloppy open mouth kisses over your shoulder.

You lazily roll your hips around him to drag out the pleasure for both of you before you cease the movement and rest your back fully against his chest. He keeps himself inside you while wrapping his arms around your middle. Sighing, he draws slow circles over your belly.

You’re the first to gather the force to speak, “Fuck, that was…”

“I know, fuck… I know.” He agrees, a tad breathless, “You’re the only one who ever made me feel this way,” he adds, still moving his hands around you and kissing your neck from behind you, like he just can’t get enough. A warm sensation settles inside you.

“You’re the only one I ever wanted.” He nuzzles your neck, “Always. No one can compare.” He sounds so honest, a deep and desperate kind of honesty that makes your heart swell with love for him.

You tilt your head so you can look at him. He halts from ravishing your neck to look back at you.

“I know, baby,” You assure, staring deeply into him. You need him to be sure of that, “I love you. You’re the only one I ever wanted, too. Always.”

You lean in and kiss him. Not that desperate and needy kiss from before, but one of love, devotion, peace and assurance. Everything you want you two to have in your relationship.

And you do.

He sighs through the kiss, as if he felt everything you put in there.

That’s when the caressing on your body, your legs, your belly intensifies.

You break the kiss and lift an eyebrow at him when you feel his cock hardening inside you again.

The sheepish look on his face is almost comical. “You look so beautiful when you’re pregnant. And I had to keep my hands to myself last time.” He pouts, before his lips twist into a naughty smile, “Literally”.

A breathy laugh slips out of your lips and, despite yourself, a tight kind of want starts pooling in your lower belly.

He seems to sense that, as something dangerous laces his chuckle, “That firecracker of our daughter will be at school for a little longer, we’ve gotta make it count, beautiful.”

You don’t even have the chance to yelp before he easily handles you and you find yourself out of the sofa and on your all fours over the carpet.

And once again he shows you how much he wants you.

Only you.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky angst #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #looking for a heartbeat

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neoarchipelago · 4 months

Text

So I got to reading some facts about red pandas cuz y'all got me back on the redpanda!reader AU!

They sleep like 2/3 of the day and they sleep with their tails snuggled around their bodies like a blanket.

So like. Hybrid reader gets a lot sleepy during the day. Don't get me wrong, she's extremely efficient when she's awake but she'll often nap, anytime anywhere. On the plane back on the evac. While finishing a report, on the couch after a training and sometimes in the gym behind some training mats.

Random places anytime. When the boys don't know where you are they know you're probably sleeping. But the awful stress they got the first few times as they didn't know where you had decided to fall asleep this time was too much to bear.

"what's this..?" You ask with a raised eyebrow.

"it's a chipped tag." Price said. The man standing around, arms crossed.

"what?" You frowned.

"it'll track you at all times. In case we need to find you." Ghost said.

"you're gps tracking me??" You let out, now feeling slightly annoyed.

"don't get on the table... Calm down" Gaz reassured.

You felt your cheeks burn in embarrassment.

"listen bonnie. We spent 2 hours looking for you last time. You fell asleep in a tank!" Soap argued.

You opened your mouth but Price was faster.

"no. No discussion. Either that or your start sleeping in the dorms. Everytime."

"but... I don't control it... I get sleepy... And then I just nap."

"then I don't want to hear it."

Now you just keep it on you all the time. If it isn't a member of the base notifying Price of your new sleeping spot, they knew where you were.

Now the thing about all these little sleeping episodes. Is that what they started to understand. You needed those power naps. Being in the military didn't let you sleep as much as your hybrid body wanted to. So they often indulge you. You get cranky but mostly overworked. Tiredness eating at you if you go a full day without at least two power naps.

Compared to your kind, it's almost as if you didn't sleep at all!

Now they let you sleep in their arms, against their shoulders. You had been incredibly touched one day, as you were trying to focus through the blurriness of your tired eyes on an incident report, seeing the boys walk in with a blanket.

"You took a nap this afternoon?" Gaz questioned.

"on the couch lass! Nap nap!" Soap chimed.

Another thing is the way you sleep. You had first hid yourself away when you met the boys. Sleeping spots into dark corners or only your dorm. But the first time Gaz found you sleeping on an old office couch, he couldn't stop smiling. How you found this abandoned office was a mystery. But the way you were curled on the cushion, tail in between your legs as you held it like a pillow against you, face on the tip.

He bit his tongue, trying not to let a sound out at how cute he found you. He had left, only texting the team to let them know where you were.

Then it was on a particularly hard mission. The first time you had actually slept near the boys, nothing separating you. The small one room safehouse not giving anyone any privacy.

The boys had noticed your sleepy eyes closing themselves as they tried to chat about what they'd do once they'd be home, evac fishing them up the next morning.

You were eventually lulled to sleep by their deep voice, talking in a low tone. Wrapping yourself up again, tail around your curled body, ear twitching at the lack of their voices as they noticed it. The boys were in awe. Gaz admitted he had already witnessed it before. Soap immediately took a picture, Ghost smacking the back of his head before grunting.

"Send it to me..."

You were standing on a humvee three days later, having found out their phone wallpapers was a picture of you sleeping. Your red face as you scolded them from your high ground, the four men standing arms crossed looking up at you, too amused for your own taste.

#fanfics #fanfiction #fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost cod #cod mw2 #captain price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #redpanda!readercodau #hybrid!reader #hybrid

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soraviie · 11 months

Text

being given a hickey.txt

━ type: bts x gn! reader ━ navigation

━ about: fluff, some hints of angst and some suggestive hints

━ pictures taken from Pinterest

━ leave behind a comment and reblog or your every drink will always be at the wrong temperature

NAMJOON | The evening crawls by slowly. The setting of the orange sun bathes the apartment in bright, warm light before it’s inevitably replaced by the overhead lights. You shuffle around in your peace, alternating between cooking and cleaning up the dishes and though there is a vague sound of demo song rolling from Namjoon’s home office, you ignore it at first, having been subjected to much of his releases over the years. However, once the TV show you’ve been passively watching becomes too boring to endure any longer, you paddle towards the closed doors. Namjoon sits slunken back into the chair, wearing a deeply etched frown upon his face.

You poke a head into his makeshift studio, nose wrinkling at the smell of the stale air.

“Hey, Namu,” you call out, an unassuming lilt to your voice. “You coming to bed?”

He turns round, appearing a bit dazed as though he’d forgotten there was anything else outside the studio. You don't entirely put it past him. Namjoon takes a gander at you then at the small window facing the darkened outside, grimacing at the fall of the night.

“Yeah,” he drags out tiredly. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Alright. I cooked some dinner. The leftovers are in the fridge if you want them.”

Something about the sentence upsets him as the ends of his mouth draw downward and just a second after his hand beckons to come closer. You do so, slightly confused at the sudden request of proximity. Without saying anything, Namjoon wraps a hand around your lower waist, hoisting you up his lap, chair giving out a pitiful squeak underneath the combined weight.

“It seems that I have neglected you tonight,” he mutters, voice falling dangerously low. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“It’s alright,” you brush off, trying not to stroke his ego too much. Your heart might still be fluttering as his fingers brush a strand of hair from your face but god help he did not need to get any more complacent.

“It ain’t,” Namjoon shakes his head grimly. “Come here.”

He leans in with dead set eyes and you close your own, wholly convinced on receiving a kiss on the mouth but instead you feel his plush lips press up against a point just below your jaw and the subsequent teasing scrape of his teeth.

Your mouth falls open in a shuddery “oh” and Namjoon takes a deep inhale, smile noticeably curving against your slowly bruising skin.

He pulls away, letting you — a bit dazed, a bit stupid — off his lap where you come to stand shakily on the carpet.

“Run along,” he chuckles somewhat insidiously, clearly taking some amusement in your befuddled state. You huff, flipping him off in the rising frustration but you both know it’s all without bite.

YOONGI | “Yoongi—”

“Five more minutes.”

Briefly you think of arguing but sensing how despairingly his fingers dig into your sides, you relent with a heavy sigh on the lips and a complicit turn of the head.

“Good,” you hear him hum appreciatively, vibrations rolling against the blackened column of your throat.

“What’s with you, old man? Mid life crisis?” you grouse but it is graciously ignored. A hefty scent of whiskey wafts from his greedy mouth as it’s pressed time and time again, teeth and all, against your skin. Figures that the grandpa has to be drunk to wrangle you so shamelessly. You sit perched on his lap, confined there by his arms, having nothing to stare at but each individual detail of the living room’s wallpaper. It’s soullessly grey —you’d whined to him about it needing to be changed. Suddenly a sharp pain flares against the muscle in your neck and you let your discontent be known.

“Ow! Yoongi!”

Sinking your fingers into his hair, you pull harshly on the dark locks, instantly feeling some resistance.

“Jus’ a bit more,” he mutters lowly, pulling you closer, impossibly closer, as any second now you swear you’d melt into one another. Finally with a wet pop, he unlatches himself away, wiping the remaining saliva with the sleeve of his jumper. Possessing a slight yet somewhat understandable tremor in the knees, you sit back on his calves, feeling the muscle grow taut underneath.

“May I go now?” you inquire tiredly, recalling the bowl of batter that was forcefully abandoned on the kitchen counter. Yoongi looks up at you with hooded eyes and reflected in them is the whole mass of everything he felt but found too difficult to say out loud. And yet that just made you love him all the more. He seems to be enthralled by some deep passing thought and after a moment of consideration, there comes a clear answer.

“No, I shouldn’t think so.”

JIN | At most it was ten minutes. What with the recipe being something so crude as "toss the eggs into a pan" one wouldn’t expect more than that but then again one wouldn’t expect the hump attached to your back.

“You’re hampering with my breakfast,” you give a low hiss of warning but the sack only tightens his grubby hands around your waist.

“‘s not that important,” he mutters into the crook of your neck, the motions leaving a wet imprint upon your chin.

“Not that important,” you scoff. “You’re the one who woke me up saying you were hungry.”

“Not for food.”

You halt for a second.

“Leave.”

“Always so cold-hearted,” Jin whines, voice falling quite offended as he fondles the flesh underneath his warm palm. “You know how many people would kill to be where you are?”

“Then let them,” carelessly, you try to fight his grasp, having half the mind to just smack him with the spatula. “I want my fucking breakfast!”

“Me too!”

“Not like that!”

And then you feel it — unmistakable, intrusive — the literal biting sensation of his teeth meeting your neck. Your heart jumps in your throat and you hate the fact that even after all this time he has this much power over you.

The spatula comes soon after.

“OW!” in trying to evade the hit, Jin unclamps his jaws from your neck with a bothersome sound. Immediately, your hand darts to the sore spot, wiping off the saliva with perhaps too feigned of a disgust marring your features.

“No eggs for you,” you grumble but from the shit-eating grin lighting up his entire face, it’s not hard to guess that Jin didn’t give much of a shit.

HOSEOK | Drowsily moving the toothbrush along the inside of your mouth through the haze of sleep you examine the hues of purple alongside your lower neck and shoulders. One particular mark piques your curiosity and after spitting out the toothpaste, you lean towards the mirror, poking a nail at the darkest of bruises, marveling at the dent reminiscent of moon’s sickle.

“Good morning,” Hoseok’s gravelly voice can be heard in the doorway, before he enters the room, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of your head.

“What was with you yesterday?” you ask, hoping that the literal light of the morning will shed some insight on the proverbial dark.

“What do you mean?” Hoseok furrows his brow but once you point at the formed bruises, the wrinkles in his forehead smoothes out.

“Oh right,” you hear him whisper to himself before reaching into one of the closed cabinets. He quirks his head to the closed lid of the toilet and with a sigh, you sit down upon it, shivering slightly in the morning cold.

Hoseok misinterprets this and bids a quick though heartfelt apology.

“No, it’s not what I meant,” you rush to shake your head as Hoseok continues to slather the numbing cream onto your battered skin. “You just…I don’t know seemed somehow different yesterday.”

His lips purse together in a thin line whilst his gaze traces the dark spots with a thoughtful glare.

“I was in my head,” he finally admits somewhat sourly. “I was scared, you know, of you…forgetting me.”

“Oh, Hoseok…”

“No, don’t pity me,” he interrupts wearing an expression of hidden grief. “Just…don’t forget me.”

You almost laugh at the ridiculousness of such a plea. Like you ever could.

“I won’t,” you promise, reaching to wrap your hand around his that was still applying some lotion. He gives a gentle smile hearing it, before letting out a demure chuckle.

“And I promise to use my words instead of teeth.”

JIMIN | Because you so amicably ignored his first over-exaggerated huff of irritation, Jimin doubles down and after leaning up right next to your ear he takes a deep breath and then exhales with a loud noise of pointed discontent.

“If you’re going to be annoying, why did you want to come along?” you try to pry him off your shoulder with a shrug of the shoulder but Jimin being Jimin remains one obstinate cuddle bug.

“I thought you’d be quicker with it,” he whines, casting a damning glare towards the pair of joggers held in your hand as though they were the ones at blame.

“Well, you’re not exactly of help here,” you remark in a hushed tone as a pair of giggling schoolgirls pass too near. “You just say everything looks good to make me leave quicker.”

“You do look good in everything!” he cries out with a pout chockful with objection and though you shush him, glimpsing nervously around if everyone’s watching too near, his voice drops in volume but not in its offended quality. “Even if it’s not your style,” he continues his point.

“Ugh, you’re impossible,” you hiss, delivering an elbow to his ribs, eyes already scouring something good in the discount pile of the in-between season sales. Your heart goes out to the workers — it was a battlefield.

“I’m hungry,” a voice whispers in the shell of your ear, prompting long lines of goosebumps despite you wholly knowing who it was.

“Then go eat.”

“How dare you! We eat together, that's a rule!”

“We’re not kindergarteners! I don’t need to hold your hand as you eat.”

“Speak for yourself,” bitterly, Jimin mutters underneath the breath before he gains a curious idea, one that warps his mouth into a sly smile.

“Let’s go,” Jimin whines, leaning his full weight against your side. His lips come to nip at the side of your neck and you groan feeling the familiar sting of his impatient pecks. “Let’s go, I’ll buy you something tomorrow.”

“Ease up, Park,” you warn him, fruitlessly trying to shoo him away. The top of his hair itches the sides of your cheeks and you stifle the smile threatening to break out.

“Let’s gooooo.”

“Nooooo.”

He leans back, narrowing his eyes in a stormy expression before leaning in one final time - this one grasping a much larger area of the thin skin of your neck before passing it under his teeth.

“OW!” you cry out, quickly reaching to cradle the sore spot. Right under the side of your jaw. You swat at him lightly, forming a pout yourself but imperiously, Jimin only turns up his nose, though the arc of his smile betrays him in the end.

TAEHYUNG | “Your hand is sweaty.”

He immediately pulls away with a demure “sorry” under breath.

“I didn’t mean “let go”,” you grouse.

Peeking at Taehyung from the corner of the eye — it’s unmistakable. The way his gaze flits from one passerby to the next, the rhythmical gnawing of his jaw — a futile way to expel stress — he was nervous.

“Why are you worried?” you inquire gently, slowly moving through the bustle of the celebrating crowd. A national holiday — it was vain to hope you could get from point A to point B without much trouble.

He mumbles something as an answer but it's too incoherent to make out. His eyes move with increasing speed, jumping hurriedly across the moving wall of strangers.

“Let’s move to the side,” you urge and he complies easily with the pull of your hand, honestly appearing too overwhelmed to propose any sort of argument. You press him against the bricked up wall of the nearby cafe, forming a makeshift shield between him and the crowd at large. No one is paying any attention — the flowing bubbles, calls of the nearby vendors, the straying rays of warming sun — all of it is too much for anyone to cast their gaze to the side. You feel Taehyung’s fingers cautiously brush up against yours as if weighing on the thread between good and bad. You grip them back with ardent fervour and it’s not long before he slumps up against your back, head falling down into the crook of the neck.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he mumbles. “I don’t know why so suddenly—”

“Don’t worry,” you hush him, inspecting the crowd for any straying interest though there is none. “Let’s head home and watch something good, alright?”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters miserably, his breath tickling along the side of your ear. “I ruined a good day.”

“It’s still a good day,” you correct him, patting the arm that by now has moved on to tightly gripping your waist. “Don’t worry about it.”

Still he lays an apologetic kiss to your nape and seconds after you feel a somewhat shy nip along your throat — it was a comforting tactic for him and recognizing it, you crane your head to allow more access. If anyone does notice you two lingering in the corner, the sight is too intimate to stare. Once the swarming crowd thins out of the main street, disappearing down the more picturesque river, you scrape gently down Taehyung’s scalp, rousing him from whatever zone of comfort he’d sunken into. The side of your neck aches from the force of his bites but you don’t remark upon it. Blearily, Taehyung blinks down at you, a relieved sigh tumbling from his lips as he looks out and sees the street empty.

“Let’s go home,” you urge him softly.

JUNGKOOK | “Does it hurt?” he wonders, letting an inquisitive finger poke at the blossoming bruise. The flesh pales only to regain its full dark glory once the pressure grows lax.

“A little,” you admit quietly, hearing just the end of a vague hum in reply. “Do you feel guilty over it?”

Jungkook cocks his head to the side, admiring his “work” as his gaze drags ever so slowly upon each individual proof of his love. Or so he called them.

“Not really.”

He gives a shameless smile and dives in once more. Even now your breath stutters when feeling the scrape of his front teeth against the sore flesh. Inescapably, he meets the seam of your shirt and with a displeased growl, he yanks it away, leaving you practically bare chested.

You stare hazily into the ceiling of his apartment, listening with the ends of your ears to the soft music swirling the warm air. Jungkook’s curls itch at your nose which is a telltale sign —

“No, don’t,” you protest, giving his bicep a weak squeeze. “I’m tired of wearing turtlenecks.”

Somewhere underneath the mop of unkempt hair there comes a disagreeing hum but resentfully he abides to your wishes, travelling lower and lower, the curve of his nose tip brushing against your collarbone. The last bite is particularly harsh, reminding either you or himself of who's whose. It is a fleeting moment of possession, one necessary to upkeep the balance thus you don’t mind it so. After a good chunk of an hour, Jungkook finally disconnects, leaning back into the cramped sofa with a grin of pure victory. It is however quickly wiped away as Bam decided to make two into three, propelling all of his adult Doberman weight on top of Jungkook's back.

tagging: @pinkcherrybombs; @sukunabitch; @btsiguess-kpop; @belladaises; @halesandy; @seok-jinnies; @themochiverse; @cuteipat; @ratherbefangirling; @manchuria; @chimchimmarie; @smalliechelle; @koostarcandy; @flitzerj; @royallyjjk; @dreamamubarak; @anti-social-mochi267; @jung-nika-hoseok; @silverliningsandstorms; @ahewlett (I hope you don't mind)

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munson-blurbs · 2 months

Text

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Eddie lowered his guard during a late night conversation, revealing crucial details about his past. But was it enough for you to reciprocate? (4.3k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, homelessness, brief mention of neglect, brief mention of sex work, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter four: show me yours, i'll show you mine

If convincing Eddie to take the job wasn’t enough of a struggle, you still had to explain the situation to your parents.

Hi Mom and Dad, I invited a guest to help fix up the motel. The same one who stole a blanket–but don’t worry, I got it back. Oh, and he’ll be staying here for free.

They were understandably taken aback by your decision, especially without consulting them first, but you’d mustered up a strong argument: Eddie was young, he was easy to get along with, and he showed a basic sense of personal responsibility. Not to mention that the place could certainly use the repairs; peeling wallpaper was just the tip of the iceberg. Lightbulbs needed to be replaced, carpets needed to be scrubbed, and the outside of the building desperately needed to be power washed.

“Plus, summer break doesn’t start for another few weeks,” you hastily added. “We won’t need to worry about renting out Eddie’s room until then.”

Mom arched an eyebrow at the newfound ascription—not room four, but Eddie’s room—but said nothing, only looking at your father for his seal of approval.

He breathed out, long and low, trying to do the calculations in his head. Your heart flip-flopped when his gaze dropped to the ground, his signature move when he was about to tell you no.

“If he doesn’t help out, he can’t afford to stay here anyway. It’s not like we’re losing money if he keeps the room for a bit.” You winced at the slight whine in your voice, the opposite of the infallible exterior you’d wanted to present.

Dad laughed, not unkindly, but belittlement panged in your chest nonetheless. “Except for the water, air conditioning, and electricity he uses,” he pointed out, ticking off each item on his fingers. “Unless he plans to only sit in the dark, sweat, and never shower.” He sighed as unmistakable disappointment weaved into your eyes and filled them with tears.

Now you’d have to tell Eddie that the offer was off the table, that he was shit out of luck, that you’d let him down. You never should’ve opened your big mouth in the first place. Captain Save-the-World, except you only ever made things worse. If you wore a cape, it would get snagged on tree branches each time you tried to fly.

“You have a good heart,” Mom spoke up, trying to nurse your wounded feelings, “but kindness doesn’t pay the bills.” She glanced at Dad again, her mouth set in a straight line. “Maybe we can discuss this further.”

You fought to ignore the hope that bloomed from her words, but the corners of your mouth turned upwards before you could rein it in. “Thank you,” you murmured, offering them both a grateful smile.

People called you a ‘bleeding heart,’ teasing you about your constant attempts to solve problems beyond a reasonable scope. At last year’s Thanksgiving dinner, your uncle had informed you—unprompted—that he would never vote for you for President because “you’d just give all my money to the poor.”

While your parents were more realistic with their goals than you were, they did their best to encourage your compassionate spirit; there was no doubt that you got your sense of morality from them. After deliberating on Eddie’s fate for a few hours, they had finally relented—with one stipulation.

“Your mother and I are not going to supervise him, so he’ll have to work night shifts with you,” Dad had said sternly.

“Really?” You clapped your hands in celebration. “Thank you! I mean, um, Eddie thanks you.”

Dad gave your shoulders a quick squeeze; it was his version of you’re welcome. “Yeah, well.” He played it cool, keeping his tone breezy. “It’ll be good practice for when you take over the place.”

You’d nodded in response, your insides twisting in a clashing mix of excitement and shame. Eddie wouldn’t have to live on the street, but it required you to continue lying to your parents.

I’ll tell them the truth once Eddie finds a real job and gets his own place. I can only handle one crisis at a time.

That was how you’d found yourself spending your Tuesday evening with Eddie Munson. The motel was otherwise empty, save for your parents, a middle-aged trucker in room 7, and Phyllis in her usual digs.

You and Dad had spent the end of his shift covering the floor with giant flimsy drop cloths. They hadn’t been used in years, evidenced by the thin layer of dust that coated them when you’d dug them out from the back of the supply closet. You’d tried your best to shake it all off but instead sent yourself into a sneezing fit.

Eddie sauntered into the lobby at a quarter after ten. Gray sweatpants sagged at his waist, the drawstring noticeably missing from the elastic band, and his white cotton undershirt had a tan stain that spread across his left pec.

“Coffee,” he explained with a shrug, rolling a hair tie off of his wrist and pulling his curls into a messy bun at the nape of his neck. He looked at you blankly and waited for you to instruct him, but you had already dove into your schoolwork. “Um, is there a ladder? Tools?” He pursed his lips and scanned the room with indifference.

“Oh! Right, yeah.” You could have smacked yourself for not having everything set up for him. “We don’t have a ladder per se, but this step stool should work fine.” You pulled it out from behind the desk along with a scoring tool, a spray bottle filled with a vinegar and water solution, and a putty knife. “I also grabbed the clock radio from my room if you wanted to listen to some music. Might help pass the time.”

Eddie nodded, watching carefully as you switched the radio on and tuned the dial to a Top 40 station. He shook his head the moment the electric beat of Haddaway’s “What is Love” played through the tinny speakers.

“Absolutely not,” he said with a scoff, dropping the supplies right where he stood, footsteps heavy even with the cloth underneath him. Without another word, he spun the knob past the static until the sound of an electric guitar crackled through. He bobbed his head a few times, finding the rhythm. “This’ll do.”

“Not a Eurodance fan?”

His back was turned to you as he returned to the task at hand which left him unable to see the sarcastic smirk you sported. “Fuck no.” He stepped up on the tool and began cutting into the old wallpaper, puffing out an irritated laugh. “I can’t believe—scratch—you voluntarily—scratch—listen to that–scratch–shit.” His biceps flexed with each flick of the blade in a consistent rhythm.

Drumming your fingernails on the desk, you twirled your pen in your free hand as you reread your own handwriting. You’d stayed at the library and filled notebook pages with bullet points about early childhood development until a squirrely librarian kicked you out at closing time. The choppy sentence fragments begged to be fleshed out into a fully-formed essay, but you couldn’t bring yourself to focus.

Write words. Make edits. Add a comma. Do something, anything, dammit.

Almost an hour passed without you making an iota of progress on your paper. The words swam on the page until they just looked like inky squiggles with no real meaning, your brain blank as if you’d never written anything in your life. Cool air tickled your nose as you exhaled through your lips. Why couldn’t you just concentrate?

“It’s this music,” you muttered to yourself, too low for your company to hear. Your temples throbbed with frustration, and you reached over and snapped back to the previous station.

Eddie’s head whipped around at the sudden change, frowning when he heard pop music instead of the metal that had just been playing. “Seriously?” He leaned one hand on the wall and threw the other up in exasperation.

“Yes, seriously,” you bit back, teeth clenched in annoyance. “I can’t focus on my writing with that on.”

Eddie grumbled something unintelligible but went back to work, the scratching serving as a strange backdrop to the song.

Janet Jackson faded out to a too-chipper deejay. “You folks know what time it is!” His voice reminded you of old-school toothpaste commercials, over-exaggerated and unnaturally polished. “That’s right; it’s time for Rad or Retch—where I play a song from a new artist, and you call in and let me know whether you think it’s rad or if it makes you wanna retch!”

Eddie rolled his eyes, adding an exasperated “Jesus H. Christ,” under his breath.

“This one’s called ‘Watch Me Leave’ by Death’s Echo, a grunge group from—”

The announcement came to an abrupt end as Eddie nearly leaped from the stool to the desk and yanked the plug out of its socket. The two-pronged head hit the floor with a soft thud.

“Hey!” Your eyes widened in confusion and then disbelief, flickering over to where he stood. You expected him to wear a scowl that matched your own; instead, he looked like he’d just taken a knife to the gut, and you took a step back. “Whoa, you okay?”

Eddie tensed the moment he detected your sympathetic tone, shoulders pinched and jaw rigid. “‘M fine.” He pressed the heel of his left hand atop his right knuckles until they cracked. “Sorry.” He bent down and gently plugged the cord back into the wall, but you immediately flicked the power button to the off-position.

It was silent for a full minute, save for the scorer against the wall and the scratch of pen on paper. When Eddie finally spoke, his voice was so soft that you barely heard it.

“That was my band.”

Confusion creased your brows. You set down your pen and stole a glance at him. His body remained facing the wall, but he was no longer working, hands lamely at his sides. “What?”

“Death’s Echo was, uh,” he shook a rogue curl from his eyes, “that was my band.”

“Oh.” Awkwardness seeped into the room and filled every crevice as you wracked your brain for a suitable response. “But…not anymore?”

Eddie clicked his tongue. “Nope.” The p sound popped softly as though signaling the discussion’s end, but there was a pregnant pause before he started removing the wallpaper again.

“Why not?” The question sprang from your tongue, curiosity getting the best of you.

A hesitant chuckle accompanied his sigh. “I thought you didn't make small talk with strangers.” He climbed back on the step stool and ripped off a strip of paper.

“I thought we weren’t strangers anymore,” you quipped back, not missing the smile that ghosted his lips.

“Fair enough.” Eddie conceded easily, not at all angry to be proven wrong. He bit the inside of his cheek and stared up at the yellow-tinged lighting overhead before slicing into the wallpaper. “Sometimes you think you want something, but it turns out to be a steaming pile of horseshit.” The last word was punctuated by a grunt, and the last panel of wallpaper fluttered to the ground. “That’s the music industry in a nutshell.”

You nodded in agreement despite an obvious lack of knowledge.

“They sign your band,” he continued, aiming the spray bottle nozzle at the wall and pulling the trigger, “and you think it’s because they like you. Or at least your music, your sound, whatever.” He wrinkled his nose as he got an unexpected whiff of the vinegar solution’s pungency. “But you’re really just a front for whatever they want to sell. Which, apparently, is grunge.”

You had too many questions. They probably referred to record producers or agents or some other bigwigs, you surmised, but what did they do that made Eddie so cynical?

That was far too loaded to ask, at least in that moment, so you opted for a more humorous follow-up. “You mean it wasn’t all sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll?” you joked, but Eddie didn’t share in your lightheartedness.

“At the beginning, when we first got signed, yeah.” His brown eyes exuded wistfulness, remembrance of better times. He blinked twice and snapped himself out of it. “We put out a few albums that didn’t completely flop, I guess. And we were the opening act on a couple of tours. Got a good chunk of money in the bank.”

That explained the Calvin Klein underwear he was wearing on that first night. You capped your pen and leaned in, trying not to be overly inquisitive but unable to contain yourself. “So…what happened?” What led you here?

“We get called into a meeting, and we’re all thinking that the label’s gonna tell us we’re headlining, right? Maybe not, like, The Garden, but bigger venues than we usually played. But, uh…” he trailed off and rubbed the tip of his nose with an open palm, “it was an ultimatum: shift from metal to grunge, or get dropped.”

You listened intently as Eddie relayed the ordeal. The label executives had cited the increasing popularity of Nirvana and Pearl Jam along with decreasing interest in heavy metal bands. “Cobain’s selling; Ozzy isn’t,” they’d explained. If Death’s Echo wanted to play to packed arenas and have their music on mainstream radio, they had to adapt to the times.

“I told them we weren’t sellouts and to kiss my ass,” Eddie said to you, huffing out an annoyed breath. “But the rest of the band didn’t give a shit about that; if those suits told them to jump, they’d say ‘how high.’ So, I quit and waited for them to come crawling back.”

He didn’t elaborate after that. He didn’t need to. Because if they’d done as Eddie had hoped, he wouldn’t be performing manual labor just to live in a struggling motel, basking in the gloominess that he wore like a second skin.

“If you could go back and do it differently, would you?” You grimaced at your own intrusiveness. “Sorry, that was—”

“It’s fine.” Eddie didn’t give an answer right away, his teeth grating against his lower lip. “Y’know, I’d like to say no, but losing your record deal, your apartment, your girlfriend, your so-called ‘friends,’ and every nice thing you own can make a guy kinda cynical.”

Girlfriend?

It was far from the most dire item on that list, but it needled at you. Maybe it was the mental image of Eddie watching everything get taken from him and then adding heartbreak on top of it all.

“How about you?”

His voice yanked you from your thoughts and had your heart in your throat. “Huh?”

“You. Your whole deal.” He gestured at you with the scraper. “Why you’re always doing homework like a little nerd.” You couldn't detect a note of taunting in his teasing, only playfulness, just as it had been that very first night.

You scowled for only a second before a smile broke through. “Don’t you have wallpaper to remove?”

Eddie snorted out a laugh. “I see how it is: when it’s my shit, I’m free to talk. But when it’s your shit, I’m a lowly employee.” He held up both hands in mock surrender. “My deepest apologies, Heiress.”

You didn’t bother to argue, choosing instead to pivot to a new subject altogether. “How long does this take, anyway?” Walking out from behind the desk to inspect his work, you ran your finger down the wall. Once you got past the stench of vinegar, he was actually doing a pretty good job.

“You think you could do better?” He saw your gentle ribbing and upped the ante, holding out the putty scraper as if saying, be my guest.

Plucking it from his grasp, you smirked and chose a spot right at eye level. Challenge accepted.

Though the glue had softened considerably, removing it still required decent muscle. You put your bodyweight into it and pushed through the resistance, but you only managed to pull off a little bit.

You heard Eddie laugh through his nose as he stood behind you, watching you struggle. “Harder than it looks, huh?” He ignored your middle finger and stepped a half-inch closer. “Let me help.”

One calloused hand dwarfed yours, his fingers wrapping around where your fist held the scraper. The other found purchase on the bicep of your free arm where your T-shirt��s cuff met skin, stabilizing without entrapping you. You could easily get out of his grasp if you wanted.

You stayed there.

He tightened his grip around yours and made short, downward strokes, admittedly taking off far more glue than you had. “There ya go,” he murmured. His breath was warm on your neck, gooseflesh rising when he spoke. You hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Just like that.”

Butterflies beat their wings in your stomach, a result of the unexpected proximity compounded by an unmet need for connection that starkly contrasted the night shift’s normal solitude. A loose tendril of his hair tickled against your ear, and the realization of how close your bodies actually were shattered whatever spell had been cast.

Eddie pulled away quickly, the air cooling where his hand once rested. Did he also feel that sudden loss of contact, or was it all in your head?

With a shaky breath, you stepped aside and silently returned the tool to him. “Should probably leave this to the expert,” you muttered, forcing nervous laughter. “I have to get back to writing anyway.”

His eyes bored into you as you walked back to the desk, but neither of you said another word. You glanced over at him every so often, noting the perspiration dampening his collar and under his arms as he toiled away at the glue and wished you had a water bottle to offer him.

Maybe next time.

You got halfway through the first body paragraph when Eddie spoke again.

“You’re really not gonna talk?”

You looked up to see him swipe his forearm along his brows as he shot you a tired grin.

“We just had a whole conversation,” you pointed out, returning your attention to your essay.

“About me,” he said. He wiped his palms on his pants, leaving behind a sweaty print, and traipsed over to you. “I mean, every time I see you, you’re either going to school or coming back from school or doing work for school…”

You shrugged, no big deal. “Okay, yeah, I go to school.”

“For what?”

Shit. “Hospitality and hotel management.”

“Really.” Eddie leaned over and snatched up your paper. You reached out to grab it back, but it was too late. The bridge of his nose scrunched as he read the opening paragraph to himself. “Doesn’t look like hospitality to me.” Amusement raised his brows. “Care to explain?”

It was the last thing you wanted to do, but you felt strangely obligated. He’d confided in you, so you should at least moderately indulge him.

“Fine,” you relented, “I’m studying psychology.” That might have been the first time you’d ever said those words aloud in the motel lobby; it was oddly freeing.

Eddie nodded and continued to scan the paper. “You wanna be a shrink?”

“Social worker.”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s a tough gig. Especially if you’re working with kids.” He shook the essay pages for emphasis.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Right.” He shoved one hand in his pants pocket. “What made you decide to be a social worker?”

You breathed out a laugh. “You want the easy answer or the real one?”

He didn’t hesitate before answering. “Real one. Always.” He returned your essay and rested his un-pocketed hand on the desk. Inquiring eyes beckoned you to continue.

With less trepidation than you’d anticipated, you tell him the story of that fateful day in the summer of 1987, just two years after you’d graduated from high school.

You were still working the afternoon shift, and summer break brought its usual influx of guests. People came and went in blurs of luggage, but there was one particular patron who had made her presence known.

“Hi!”

You peered over the desk to find the source of the lively greeting. A young girl, no older than five, stared back at you, syrupy grape stickiness surrounding her lips. The cause was most likely a popsicle, as evidenced by the purple stained stick clenched in her right hand.

“Um, hi,” you said with a smile that was, for the first time in a long while, not encased in customer service insincerity. “What’s your name?” And where did you come from?

Unfazed by your bewilderment, she introduced herself as Izzy and asked you if you wanted to play. “We just have to stay here, or else my mommy will get mad,” she explained with urgency.

You nodded slowly, sorting through the information without raising any alarm. “And where is your mommy?”

Izzy’s hazel eyes darted back towards the hallway. “In our room. She’s with a friend so I can’t go in.” She dropped her voice to what she considered a whisper, but it was still clear as day. “Her friend is a boy.”

Your stomach turned. Of course. Instead of watching her child, this mother was probably shooting up with her boyfriend of the week.

“I can’t play right now, but you can sit here with me until your mommy and her friend come back out,” you said. “I have paper and pens if you wanna draw.”

This satisfied her, and she plopped down on the floor and patted the spot next to her. That day hadn’t been particularly hectic, so you obliged and sat.

“What’re you gonna draw?” Izzy asked, reaching for a blue pen. You didn’t have time to answer before she proudly announced, “I’m gonna draw a flower. Do you like flowers?”

“Mhm.”

Izzy smiled as she surrounded a circle with swirling loops. “You can draw a flower, too. Maybe a rose. Or a sunflower!”

Her excitement at the latter option was all you needed. “Sunflower it is, Miss Izzy.” You drew a circle of your own and filled it with a cross-hatched pattern, curating pointed-tipped petals around it.

“D’you have crayons?” she asked, not looking up from her own flower.

You put down your pen and offered a pitying frown. “No, I’m sorry.”

“S’okay. You should get some, though. ‘Cause you can draw prettier flowers with crayons.”

The two of you stayed on the floor for ten minutes. All the while, she quizzed you on your favorite color, animal, food, and TV show. She was halfway through a heated explanation of why Friend Bear was superior to Share Bear when a frantic voice called out her name.

“Mommy!” Izzy practically flew into her mother’s arms. You watched as the woman’s entire body sagged in relief, pulling her daughter in close. A man trailed behind her, discreetly zipping up his fly and walking out the front door.

“Izzy, I told you to sit in the hall and eat your ice pop,” her mom gently scolded, words muffled by her lips being pressed to Izzy’s scalp.

Izzy scrunched her nose in confusion. “But I finished it.” She pointed at the empty stick, now on the ground where she’d been sitting, as proof. In true childlike fashion, she jumped to a new topic without waiting for the first conversation to conclude. “Mommy, you wanna see what I drawed?”

“Of course, baby.” She easily feigned excitement as Izzy presented her with a series of scribbles that were meant to be various flowers, people, and farm animals. “Wow! I think you’re gonna be an artist one day.”

The little girl continued chatting, blissfully unaware of the panic she’d inadvertently caused. Her mom allowed herself to look away for just a moment to glance at you, mouthing a tiny “thank you” and blinking her tear-filled eyes.

“And…I don’t know,” you lamely supplied as you wrapped up the story. “I guess I realized that I had all of these assumptions, this sort of preconceived notion that this woman was a deadbeat parent, but she obviously loved Izzy more than anything.” You picked at your thumbnail nervously. “No one should have to sell their body for money just to survive. She deserved better than that.”

Eddie stayed quiet for a moment, absorbing everything you’d thrown at him. “And you wanted to help her,” he finally said.

“Yeah.” You thought back to the way her gaze simultaneously held gratitude and guilt. Her daughter was safe, but she knew that this was not the final time she’d be in this predicament.

The experience had awakened a realization in you: working at the motel was never your dream, but it kept a roof over your head and food in your belly. You weren’t left to navigate the world on your own. Independence was a privilege, not a mandate.

“For what it’s worth,” Eddie broke in, “I think you’ll be a great social worker someday.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk twice and slipped back to the awaiting task; despite insisting that you talked to him while he worked, he hadn’t touched any of the tools while you spoke.

Your smile was a thank you, and you tuned the radio back to the metal station Eddie had chosen earlier. He didn’t say anything else, but you noted the subtle tap of his toe against the drop cloth.

Eddie worked for a few more hours until he’d stripped the wall of all paper and glue. “All right,” he said, balancing the step stool on two fingers. Sleepiness softened his own smile, all lips and no teeth. “Let me know when the new wallpaper comes in. You, uh, know where I live.”

“Will do.” Your thumb absently grazed against the words you’d just written, smudging them. You rubbed at the black ink seeping into your skin, silently chastising your own carelessness. “Good night, Eddie.”

He stretched and scratched at the U-neck of his collar, exposing a sliver of chest hair.

“Sweet dreams, Heiress.”

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