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imeternallylove · 1 month

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Don't grow up, it's a trap - Brian May; Prologue

Pairing: Brian May x Reader

Warning: none

Word: approx 1.3k

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If he knew he had grown up this way.

Perhaps it was preferable to be a youngster who knew nothing except eating, playing, and napping.

People beings grow up in many civilizations. Some are born under a lucky star and are unaware that there is a demon named afflictive and wounded existing in this universe. However, certain persons who were raised. No, it should be called 'lived on their own' 一will have a higher level of immunity than others.

That does not imply their goodness. But it was an essential weapon for survival when facing tough times; it was intended just for anybody like him who lived below the poverty line. It kept on threatening his life, shattering every piece of his bone and cruelly smashing them to the ground. Despite being awake, it seemed like a terror nightmare that he couldn't wake up from.

'Brian May' is an uncommon boy. However, it isn't actually noteworthy. It sounds tricky, doesn't it? But that was his life after his parents' disappearance due to debt, while the whole town was during the world war.

The boy recalled the hectic circumstances at home throughout that extended period of time, and how they remained to be that way, over and over. He nearly lost sight of the definition of happiness and the proper way to smile or laugh.

Delicious food was once the thing on each evening dinner table, but that is starting to change. There were just grilled potatoes obtainable lately, and the soup was given as a side dish to enhance the flavour of the tasteless potatoes that had to be consumed all in one bowl, for the whole family.

He heard his parents arguing constantly, and headphones ended up being his best buddy by default. However, that is not nearly as unpleasant as hearing the creditors' relentless pounding on the door, who appear prepared to burst in at any moment if they are serious about it.

Only in the closet could sixteen-year-old Brian give a hug to his younger sister. With her head pressed against his chest, he protected her even though he was conscious that he wouldn't be able to stop the door from breaking in. After their parents made the decision to disappear without a trace since they had creditors pursuing them. From that moment on, Brian's biggest duty towards his younger sister has been to be strong for her, even when it meant leaving only tears on her cheeks.

Yes, he understands that his parents weren't abandoning him or his younger sister. Nevertheless, it seems that things happened this way because they had to leave this environment. Because his parents are unaware of how creditors would make demands for money if they were there. Which was probably worse than the hammering at the house door, which scared the hell out of him and his sister and made them afraid to leave.

A sixteen-year-old boy whose sole pursuits in life are music and education. To continue living his realities, he had to give go of his fantasies. Give up on the band, put the handmade guitar in the cupboard, and start working a part-time job after school.

For a young boy who had never experienced hardship before, he was unsure about what to do with the remaining money and where it would take him and his sister. However, it was lucky that the uncle next door, who was a neighbour, constantly prepared meals for him. And thus, day by day, he and his sister lived. 'Betty May' is still quite young. Brian does not want his younger sister to have to worry about this. But he had no idea what to do. Because additional money is insufficient, he will soon have to pay tuition. He is unlikely to be able to provide for himself and his younger sister financially. However, requesting a loan from a neighbour, like Uncle David, would be excessive.

Brian sensed he was in trouble. However, seeking assistance from others should be done in moderation.

Humans have a tendency to do dumb things when they feel hopeless. Yes, Brian feels this is the case. When he sat looking at the square screen with his hands on the keyboard in a computer lesson, his friend from the computer science department was overjoyed to show him it was a prototype. He looked like he suffered from a lack of sleep while learning how to use with.

The sixteen-year-old boy stared at it for a moment before writing the tragic tales of his own life on a blank page, and thanks to his highest grade at Imperial College, he had the kind privilege of receiving a tiny article published in the newspapers for the entire city of London, which has at least three million readers per day.

Brian couldn't recall what he had written, and he didn't want to. It might be filled with disappointment in life, what he was excellent at, or the whole agony that has been suppressed in his heart. Asking for help in vain and not knowing whether anyone will respond with a boy who has no idea who they are and no interest in life.

But it wasn't too horrible. When God told him to believe in, 'the miracles' one more time.

Not long afterward, the professor contacted him to schedule an appointment. He said that someone had seen his letter in the newspapers and offered to help with schooling and monthly expenditures, even if it was a small amount. So he asked Brian if he still needed lend a hand in helping, because here was his opportunity.

The boy was dumbfounded by what he had heard. He was thinking about hitting himself in the face once to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. Is it truly feasible for somebody to reach out and support kids who do not know who they are? Brian sat calmly for quite some time, and his professor was silent, indicating that Brian, his student, wanted to concentrate.

Brian was still half believing and half unbelieving. It wasn't until he received a cheque with credit to cash at the bank, along with a huge shopping bag with a pair of black and light brown suit-and-tie sets and black leather shoes. He noticed a pair of freshly released flower pattern shift dresses for ladies in other bags, as well as maroon Mary-Jane heels, with a short message and charming calligraphy expressing delight in him and Betty, which the tall boy could guess was from whom.

The boy finally discovered the world wasn't all devils around him. Who were these people? How did the benefactors who saved his and his sister's lives appear? The boy was confident that they were angels. The boy vividly recalls the emotion of the first moment; even the corners of his eyes turned blazing red and his younger sister had to hold and soothe him.

Brian returned to see his professor the next day, this time wearing a new pair of gleaming black leather shoes. After staying up all night wondering, 'Why are the benefactors so kind?', he was keen to find out who the wonderful person was who rescued him and his sister from the demon hordes. Why did they decide to help? Because even if the entire world is full of lack of thoroughness, and depth of character and he is much too young to confront it, that person seems not to be concerned whether the message he has written is a falsehood or real.

As his professor consultant was done with some papers, he smiled softly as he informed his student. "Her name is Y/N..."

Brian fails to control himself; he gasps suddenly with his mouth open and barely knows how to breathe, just because he eventually discovered their name, noㅡ her name.

"Miss Y/L/N. Y/N Y/L/N."

oh hi

#imeternallylove #brian may x reader #brian may #queen #queen band #queenies #roger taylor #brian harold may #bohemian rhapsody #brian may fluff #brian may headcanon #brian may imagine #brian may x female reader #brian may x reader fluff #brian may x you #bohemianbri #freddie mercury #john deacon

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stevieschesthairs · 2 years

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“its not realistic for steve and eddie to date, it was the 80s” no omg youre so right we all just spawned when freddie mercury became famous 💀💀

#like are you dumb or are you dumb #anyway #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #the upside down #st4 #stranger things #freddie mercury #queen #steve x eddie #eddie x steve

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lovebugism · 4 months

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rockstar!eddie x shy!reader , christmas party shenanigans, shes so sweet she made cookies & sweets for everyone but she wasn’t asked to , run ins w celebs 🤭

hope u like it angel!! — a rockstar flirts with eddie munson’s girl minutes before corroded coffin plays a show (shy!reader, established relationship, fluff, 1.4k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Corroded Coffin’s got their own green room — backstage at one of the biggest music festivals of the year. There’s a team of people dressed in black waiting at their beck and call. Eddie’s pretty sure KISS is in the suite down the hall. As a boy from Middle of Nowhere, Indiana, he doesn’t feel very deserving of any of it.

He feels like he’s dreaming, really. The only thing keeping him from pinching himself is Dustin and Lucas’ roughhousing and Steve’s stupid belly laugh. Having all his childhood friends here is strangely humbling.

Eddie lazes on an expensive leather chair, totally unsure of what to do with himself when he’s not holding you. He’s trying to get comfortable in the foreign leather drab that stylists put him in when the door yawns open. It swings with such ferocity that the metal knob slams against the opposite wall with a low thud. It isn’t any surprise that the culprit is Robin Buckley.

She storms in first, followed more quietly by you some seconds later.

“Woah, woah, woah— what happened?” Eddie wonders aloud, already on edge with anxiety. Robin swooping in like a dark grey storm cloud doesn’t make it any better.

You shrug with a tin of Christmas cookies in your hand. Some are already missing because you wanted to pass them out to the workers. “It’s not like I don’t have enough to go around,” you’d said with a shy chuckle, nodding to the table lined with homemade pastries. You always bake when you’re nervous.

“We bumped into someone on the way back,” you explain in a gentle murmur, mindful of the emotional girl across the room. “I think she might’ve known him…”

“You didn’t recognize him?” Robin blurts from where she’s flopped on the leather couch. Her eyes go wide, the edges of them smudged with brown eyeliner. The look she gives you makes you cower.

“…No?”

“That was Roger Taylor,” she tells you. And then, when it still doesn’t hit you— “From Queen.”

Your doe eyes flood with a similar, more innocent look of shock. “That’s who that was?”

Robin groans and shoves her face into the fluffy throw pillow beneath her. She decides to talk to the only person in the room who could understand her and her wild emotions. Steve, sitting next to her with cookie crumbs all over his mouth, somehow manages to cipher her mumbled, emotional slurs.

“You don’t get it— it was like seeing an angel, Steve. He was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen— and I don’t even like men!”

“Yeah, so that’s definitely saying something,” the boy mumbles through a mouthful of pastry.

Eddie, still wide-eyed with amazement, turns to look up at you. You’re lingering at his side, a sweet thing dressed in pastel pink. He reaches over to smooth a hand over your pale tights. His ringed fingers are almost achingly warm when they curl around the back of your thigh. He tilts his chin to smile at you with all his teeth.

“I thought you loved Queen, babe,” he chuckles, squeezing gently at your leg.

“I do,” you insist, always shy in your way, as you shift your weight on your feet. Your sheepish gaze flits to the tray in your hand — to the hand-made snowmen, trees, and snowflakes. “I just didn’t know that’s what he looked like.”

“Was he pretty?” Eddie teases with a knowing squint in his chocolate eyes.

You shrug, burning with misplaced embarrassment. “I don’t know… I didn’t really look,” you mutter. His chest swells with something short of pride. “They just wanted to try my cookies—”

“That’s what she said,” Gareth quips. Followed by an audible slap when Jeff reaches over to smack him. “—Ow!”

“Was Freddie Mercury there?” Dustin wonders from across the room, smiling wide at the thought. His giggle is boyish and high-pitched. “That’d be insane.”

You shake your head in response. “No— but now that I think about it, that’s probably why they said they needed to take some extra for Fred. There was another guy there, though.”

“Yeah?” Eddie lilts to egg you on.

“Yeah. He kinda looked like a poodle—”

“Brian May!” the room choruses.

“Um…” you mumble under your breath. “Maybe?”

“One of the best guitarists of our time Brian May?” Robin wonders, a tad bit dramatic, and filled with life all over again. “Astrophysicist and super genius Brian May?”

Your smile is innocent and utterly sincere. “Oh, he’s an astrophysicist? That’s so cool!”

Robin groans again, and you flinch.

“…What?”

“Nothing,” Eddie answers for her, squeezing your leg to bring your attention back to him again. His rosy grin widens when your eyes meet his. “You’re just cute.”

Your face heats like it’s the first time he’s ever complimented you. Your warm cheek tilts to your shoulder as you smile quietly back at him. “Well, thank you,” you mutter shyly.

“Why can’t anything good happen to me?” Robin whines.

Steve doesn’t mean to laugh, but it tumbles out before he can stop it. “It did happen to you. You were there.”

“Well, it didn’t feel good at the time!”

The door creaks open again. Nancy and Jonathan walk in together, fashionably late. It wouldn’t be surprising if she stopped a couple of musicians for impromptu interviews and didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer — bound to be on the front page of Hawkins Post come Sunday morning.

Jonathan, however, looks a little bit dazed. “Is that— Is that Queen in the hallway?” he whispers to the group of you, like he’s scared the band might hear him.

“Yep,” Robin deadpans in response, popping the p.

“Ooh. Smells like a bakery in here,” Nancy lilts with a pretty pink smile.

You get all shy because it’s entirely your fault. “Yeah. Sorry. I kinda… went overboard with the cookies.”

“Don’t be sorry. I love when you bake us stuff,” she assures you, then bites the head off of a sugary snowman. She sighs at the heavenly taste and nods with it stuck in her cheek. “Don’t ever, ever be sorry.”

You giggle all pretty in response.

Jonathan reaches into the tray and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. “Woah. What’s this?”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry. I meant to throw that away—”

Nancy rips it from his hands. She straightens it out as best she can and squints when she finds writing on the back of it. She grins like she’s found some kind of hidden treasure.

“Wait, this is someone’s phone number,” she announces to the rest of them room. She reads it out loud for all of you, each of you on the edges of your metaphorical seats. “Thanks for the cookies, but I bet you taste sweeter. I’m free after the show. Call me. Roger.”

The room goes deadly silent.

Eddie is among the gaping mouths of shock, unsure if he should be jealous or amused.

“He wanted to try your cookies, alright,” Gareth chuckles under his breath. Jeff snorts out a laugh, then reaches over to slap him again. The curly-haired boy cowers. “Oh, come on! You thought it was funny, too!”

“Let me see that,” Eddie insists, rising on his feet to take the paper from Nancy’s painted fingertips.

His brown eyes flit back and forth as he reads it for himself. Once, then twice, then a few more times after that. He’s about to play a show for thousands of people, yet this is somehow harder for him to grasp.

“Roger Taylor wants to fuck my girlfriend,” he murmurs in amazement to himself.

For some reason, feeling the need to defend yourself, you rush to get the words out. “I didn’t know that’s what that was, Eds, I swear— I figured he thought I worked here, and he was just giving me his trash to throw away.”

Eddie turns to you, still silent. His chocolate eyes are slightly glazed over as he blinks at you — the sweetest thing he’s ever laid his eyes on, so polite in her shyness and aloof with it, too.

Still in a state of subtle disbelief about all of this — the phone number, the looming performance, and the fact he ever landed you in the first place — he shakes his wild head with a dumbfounded smile.

“I love the shit outta you, you know that?” he says with a burst of low, boyish laughter. He doesn’t give you the opportunity to answer before wrapping you up in his leather-clad arms and pressing a smothering kiss to your mouth.

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #st drabbles #eddie spaghetti drabble #event: blurbcember

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astroboots · 9 months

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Punch-Out Love

Artwork by @guruan

FIGHT NIGHT

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You're lucky enough to score ring-side seats at a boxing match on Friday night. Getting the best view in the house of boxing champion: Miguel O'Hara.

Word count: 1,500

Next Chapter

Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist

You know fuck all about boxing.

About the only thing you know about the sport was from the glimpses you caught watching scratched up old recordings of Muhammed Ali fights on the boxy mini-tv of your old childhood friend's house.

It always seemed barbaric. The practice of watching two human beings beat the shit out of each other for spectator's entertainment. It seems like something that was better left in the Ancient Roman times. Have we all human beings as a society, really not come further some 2,000 years later?

Your bestie used to get mad at you for this. Constantly defending the sport from your criticism, because (according to him) it's not just about smashing each other's faces in. Supposedly, there's an art to the sport. Boxers are taught to respect their opponents and adhere to the principles of good sportsmanship. It takes great mental discipline, dedicated work and years of hard and punishing training to master boxing.

You never saw any of that in the matches he showed you. All you saw were two men needlessly being hurt, sustaining brain damage for rich people's enjoyment.

Then again, he was more than a little bit biased, considering it was his dream to go pro one day. Tall and gangly, with his scrawny antelope legs, thick-rimmed glasses and big-ass braces, he looked like he couldn't punch his way out of a paper bag, much less another person. You never understood how exactly he thought he was going to make it as a boxer.

But you never found it in you to burst his unrealistic bubble when he used to point at the screen excitedly, drawing your attention to Ali's footwork and the artistry in it.

"It's like he's dancing," he used to say.

Except dancing is done with swelling music in the background. In dancing you often have a partner. It's an embrace. It's gentle and kind.

Boxing... was not that.

So you don't know how you managed to find yourself in the ringside seats of a local boxing match on a Friday evening, staring up at the boxing ring with the glaring ring lights shining into your eyes.

"Aren't these seats amazing?" Jess shouts excitedly over the familiar lyrics of ‘We Will Rock You' being belted out by Freddy Mercury on the loudspeaker.

You smile, and nod, because boxing-fan or not, she's right, these are some amazing seats. And considering you didn't have to pay a dime for them, personal aversions aside, you're never going to turn down free stuff.

Jess' husband tested positive for covid at the last minute, and you're the only one in your social circle that is anti-social and single enough to not have any plans on a Friday evening.

On the monitors above you, the menacing headshots of the two fighters swish into view.

"The first guy is an old reigning champ," she explains to you, as she leans in, shouting into your eardrums (and yet you can still barely make out what she's saying over the music). "The challenger is some new kid on the block. Has an amazing track record. Zero losses in the season. He's something else."

You look up at the gigantic screen, at the sharp cut cheeks, strong thick brows and the intense pitched brown eyes staring down at you.

Angry looking dude.

...Handsome too.

With a face like that, surely he could've gone into other careers. Calvin Klein model, movie star, or a news anchor. You wonder what makes a guy voluntarily have his face bashed in for money as a career.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a loud booming voice announces from the stage.

You jump in your seat from the suddenness, as you see a bald and overly formal dressed announcer in the middle of the ring.

"Welcome to the electrifying boxing showdown of the century! Are you ready to witness some knockout action tonight?"

The crowd around you cheers with a pandemonium of shouting and whistling.

"Introducing our first fighter, a true hometown hero! With an impressive record of 20 wins, 15 by knockout, and only 2 losses, standing at 6'3 feet, and weighing in at 340 pounds of determination and strength, give it up for ‘the Knockout King’ Bobby Kane!"

You watch as the reigning champion walks down the tunnel to the midst of adoring cheers as he waves and gestures at the crowd like royalty.

Every inch the king that he is nicknamed, he jumps over the rope and stands tall and proud over the ring.

The man is huge, bulging with almost grotesque muscles. He's so large that you almost expect each of his steps to send a reverberation throughout the hall, as if this was Jurassic Park and he's a T-Rex.

"Now, entering the ring with the confidence of a warrior, fighting out of the red corner, with 15 wins, 10 by knockout, and no losses, standing at an astounding 6 feet 9 inches, and weighing in at 310 pounds of raw power, let's hear it for tonight's challenger, ‘Steel Jaw’ Miguel O'Hara!"

Wait what? You do a double take at the announcement. Six foot nine?!?! What kind of giant is that?

From the far corner of the hall, you see his silhouette emerge, and your eyes go wide at the sight of him. Tall doesn't even begin to describe him.

There's a 200 year oak tree at Central Park, and with the shadow this man casts, you think their height must be nearly comparable. If you thought the Knockout King was tall, the "King" is practically tiny compared to this challenger.

You watch, as the man with cheeks so sharp they mind as well be blades (and god never has a nickname made more sense to you) as he strides towards the stage. He reaches the rope and barely even has to climb over it with how tall he is.

He's leaner than his predecessor. Every inch of him is cut muscles and tanned gorgeous skin as he stands in front of you. His presence is electric. The air crackles where he stands, towering over the stage.

You swear that his towering height blocks out the ring lights with it, casting the stage in the darkness of his tall shadow.

Somehow, he's even prettier in person compared to the still image of him blown up and plastered on the big screen. Soft brown curls and pouty lips. You don't understand in what world a man like that is a professional fighter.

From this distance, with the way that the light refracts from his irises, his eyes almost glow with a scarlet red that takes your breath away as you look up at him and meet his eyes.

If you didn't know better, you'd think he was staring at you.

The bell rings out, but he's not looking away. The intensity you find there is enough to make you swallow your tongue. Your face prickles with heat and for several long moments you forget to breathe, until the air seems to thin around you and your vision starts to swim.

Then he turns to face his opponent.

You're not quite sure where to look. There's so much happening at once. For his size, Miguel O'Hara is surprisingly deft on his feet. His footwork is somehow both unpredictable yet intentional all at once.

The King throws a strong punch, as he lunges forward, after his tall opponent. But O'Hara dodges them seemingly without effort. It's followed by punches so quick, the movements blur together.

Strike after strike. The King is giving it his all. But none of it properly connects. With every failed hit, you can see him growing increasingly more frustrated.

Your heart is in your lungs, and despite how close you are to the stage, you almost want to get up from your seat for a closer look.

Safe as you are behind the ropes, adrenaline rushes through your veins with a fury. You can't recall the last time you felt this ecstatic about... well, anything.

With each punch O’Hara dodges, you feel yourself lurch back in your seat, trying to dodge the punch with him.

It's titillating.

Exciting.

O'Hara's movements are precise and honed with intention despite the ferocity in his movements. Each one is measured and intricate and if you didn't know any better you'd almost call it graceful.

You think back to those moments in your childhood friend's home, and his excited words buzz in your ears now. For the first time ever you finally understand what he had meant.

It is like a dance.

Before you, O’Hara's eyes cross over in your direction and for a split of a second, you swear your eyes connect again. His gaze holds you there, pinned to your seat, and excitement shoots through the entirety of your spine until you feel lightheaded from the attention.

Then he finally steps forward, no longer evading.

It's brutal and efficient.

An uppercut that connects cleanly to his opponent's jaw.

Spit and blood flies out from the man's mouth, the flabby flesh of his cheek vibrating from the impact as he lands on the floor with an ear-shattering thud.

Then the guy is out.

Barely even eight minutes in.

There's a stunned and shocked silence. The crowd seems both enthralled and disappointed at how fast it all went. On the ring floor, you can practically see the circle of cartoon birds flying above the defeated King's head.

You may not know anything about boxing, but you know that this man is not getting up anytime soon, no matter how far the referee counts.

Tearing your eyes away from the motionless body splayed out on the ground elevated above you, you can see the victor towering menacingly over the body.

But Miguel O'Hara isn't even looking at his defeated opponent

No, his eyes are staring straight into the sea of awestruck spectators. Except he’s not looking at them.

He's looking at you.

~ Next.

Author's note: What's that you say? CiCi wtf are you doing starting another series when you already got one going on? ... Idek man. But I hope you guys enjoy it, cause I had a blast writing it, smut will ensue in later chapters I promise!

Dedications and Credits: Buckle up it's gonna be a big one!

Firstly to @guruan when I say she's my muse THIS IS WHAT I MEAN! Look at that beautiful artwork. I am drooling into my panties. I am crying between my legs. I am so damn horny! I cannot thank this amazingly talented genius enough. Please please give this wonderful brilliant human your love by following her, and drop by her KO-FI SHOP cause the art this woman bless us with is UN-fucking-REAL

Then to @djarinsbeskar who put this idea into my head. In my mind she is the OG Boxer AU champion and mastermind. If you are in the mood for more boxing content, she has a wonderful, devastatingly sexy series Boxer!Din AU that is just woof woof bark bark.

#miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #oscar isaac #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse fanfiction #spiderverse #spiderverse fanfiction #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you

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luveline · 1 year

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Would KILL (not you) for a bit of Hotch rn.

Like just started dating, all new and neat. Shy reader at home while Hotch is at work and is having a lonesome girls night, face mask, pizza, dancing, the whole thing. Hotch then pays an impromptu visit. Pls and Thankyou

Love you you’re amazing 💕

thank you for your request! hotch x shy!reader ♡

You're tucked up on the couch trying not to get face mask in your pizza, or cheese in your face mask, when the doorbell rings. You drop your slice back into the box, eyes widened of their own accord. There's no way you can answer the door, not when your hair's sweaty from your latest karaoke dance routine, you're in your ratty pyjamas with a hole in the collar, and your face is blue. It's not happening.

You turn the volume down on your TV, sink down on the couch, and pray whoever it is didn't hear you laughing at your own Freddie Mercury impression. That would put you in an early grave, you'd die from embarrassment alone.

There's a heavy rap at the door. Your phone starts ringing on vibrate beside you. You slide off of the pillows and onto the floor, grabbing your phone and answering with as much grace as you can.

"Hello?" you ask.

"Hey, are you home?" Hotch's voice comes thick and steady through the speaker, and you swear you can hear a hint of amusement you'd rather have missed.

"Is that you, at the door?" you ask, knowing it is, and knowing this is the worst day of your life.

"Is that alright? I brought wine. I tried to call, but it wasn't going through, and you said I could come by whenever, now that we're–"

"Yeah," you say, getting to your feet. You're breathless suddenly, because you're very attractive boyfriend is at the door, and he's only been your boyfriend for a week —though he'd 'courted' you for far longer— and seeing him is a delight no matter how flustered he can get you. "It's alright, of course it's alright, um, uh, just– Aaron, I'm not very presentable."

"Could I be the judge?"

You look down at your fluffy socks. "Yes, I suppose so."

You go to the front door and open it. There's an abject moroseness to your actions, like defeat. This is where Aaron realises he's made a mistake, and he breaks up with you, and it breaks your heart forever. He really is handsome.

"Oh," Aaron says, standing on the short stone step outside of your house with a bottle of wine in hand.

"Sorry," you say, cringing.

"You're blue."

"Yes. I'm blue."

Aaron tilts his head slightly to one side, and his resting stern face lightens. "You look cute."

It's like being winded. He might as well have slapped you flat in the chest with the front of his wrist. "Thank you," you say, hoping that the floor will miraculously collapse beneath you and the earth will swallow you whole.

"Can I come in?" he asks, head still tilted. "I've missed you so much."

"You have?"

He laughs like this is extremely funny as you step back to make room for him inside. The bottle of win gets put on the sideboard that houses your shoes, and before you know it you have arms wrapped around you. Aaron gives perfect hugs; they aren't too tight, and they aren't too loose. His cheek rubs against your temple.

"You'll get blue on you," you say, trying to push him away.

And when he pulls back, you're right. Blue face mask has transferred from you to him, wet on his chin but quickly drying. You try to scrub it off of him with your thumb but the colour spreads around and makes an even bigger mess.

"Oh, sugar, I'm sorry," you say, your hands all over his face.

"You missed a spot," he says.

"Aaron, I've missed lots of spots."

"A particular spot, right..." He holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger and leans in for a long, chaste kiss. "There," he says, pulling away.

He has face mask on his cupids bow and the tip of his nose. You blink, dazzled, and prompt a laugh from your unsually smiley boyfriend.

"Cute," he says again, with an air of finality. "Want to order in?"

"I already got pizza."

"Oh, good. I thought with all the singing you might’ve been too busy."

If your face wasn't blue you'd drop it into your hands and weep. Aaron twines your fingers together, leading you into the living room for more pizza, blue chin and all.

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flem17ng · 7 days

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Vault Dweller's guide to perpetuating America:

Lucy Maclean x Fem!reader

Summary: Lucy is getting married and reader is forced to watch. but vault tech never planned for the inevitability of Sapphics…

Content: Fluff and angst, systematic homophobia, happy ending, no use of y/n

Authors note: Let me know if you want more of this or have any prompts to send it :)

Word count: 3.1K

Gay people were not a thing according to Vault Tech. They did not add to the breading pool, they did not fit into the nuclear future, they simply did not fit in the vault. Unlike sperm, cola, and corn, homosexuals did not play a key part in perpetuating the American dream. This was a good enough explanation for anyone willing to enquire (and enquire they had in the early years of Vault 33), but overall, as the years of confinement and isolation dragged on, and marriage for the sake of breading continued, homosexuality was quite simply... forgotten.

Rely on a schooling system created by greying, rich, white men to eradicate historical depictions of minorities. Education in the vaults was about the great west, cowboys, the splitting of the atom, the creation of the commonwealths, and the importance of capitalism; education was certainly not for understanding the distant Stonewall riots or the ancient tunes of "Freddy Mercury". heck! This was the new world! a once in a lifetime opportunity to reshape society! If Vault Tech could systematically remove a section of society that could not reproduce and thus could not recolonize the wasteland then they sure as hell would do just that.

Now let's be clear: Vault Tech loves and values all its customers! The fight against the Reds was the fight for American freedom, for the dream, for the nuclear family, for the blue, white, and red! America celebrates freedom for all! but even in the great year of 2077, scientists at Vault tech simply couldn't work in the variable of homosexuals into the Vault system. At least not into the control vaults. Systematic eradication is, by all means, easier than acceptance.

Vault 33! One vault in a triad with 31 and 32. A dedicated meritocracy built on the values of one's good deeds. Lucy Maclean prided herself on her merit and her ethics. She knew how to de-escalate a conflict, she knew how to stand up for her beliefs, and she knew the importance of kindness. She also knew her valuable role as a woman in the Vault 33 society.

As a woman, the daughter of the overseer, she would be a community leader, a history teacher, and maybe later in life, she would run for council. As a woman, she would also get married (preferably not to her cousin) and have little vault babies who would grow up, learn their own merit, and so on and so on. To say that Lucy was comfortable and fulfilled by this prediction of her life would be... a vast exaggeration.

Yes, she understood her importance as a potential mother! Yes, she loved and valued her community, her family, and her job. But something stopped her from becoming stagnant. Something about this perfect path she had been given just wasn't right for her. It grated at her relentlessly, a thorn in her side, a nagging hunch she couldn't shake. Surely it would change on the day of her wedding. She would meet her husband, kiss, make babies, have cake and everything would settle. The unease she felt would lessen and she would accept her designated role.

"I am so glad your marriage application was accepted! I just cannot wait for you to join us wives!" Steph squeaked, one hand cradling the ever-growing bump in her tummy while the other waved around to illustrate her excitement. Steph was the carbon copy of what Vault Tech stood for: she was a wife, a soon-to-be mother, smart and strong-willed. She was drop-dead gorgeous with well-maintained hygiene. when you thought of the "American dream" you thought of Stephanie Harper.

Lucy grinned back, fighting the urge to roll her eyes (eye rolling was rude and there were more effective ways to respectfully communicate your disdain).

"Oh golly! to think in a few short hours I’ll be on my way to furthering the vault's great aim!" She smiled for real this time because she knew her discomfort did not stem from contempt for motherhood.

"Oh, Lucy spare me the lewd details!" Steph giggled before winking.

"I know you don't mean that Steph. you and me both know you want as much detail as I can give." Lucy chuckled, picking at the canned tuna on her plate.

The dining area near the cornfield was particularly packed today; everyone wanted one last glimpse of Lucy Maclean before she was assigned to the ranks of wife. The stares and whispers were not unwelcome, however. They reminded her of the community that she was a part of the community she had been raised to help and to eventually add to.

"I hope he's handsome" Steph breathed, looking begrudgingly at her own husband who was standing awkwardly next to the Nuka-Cola machine with Chet. Lucy just swallowed hard and nodded. It was easier to think about the more fun parts of marriage than linger on the particulars of her mystery partner.

She was grateful for the marriage of course. It meant an excuse to cut things off with Chet who had been steadily grating on her nerves since she was 15 (he seemed to love her and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't begin to think of him like that in return. his warm body was truly his only perk.) It was also a milestone for her, a badge of honor to her community service. This is what vault tech wanted! This is what America wanted!

Lucy pushed back from her chair, suddenly feeling nauseous.

"Lucy, are you ok? you look a little pale dear?" Betty called from the seat next to her father. At the sound of her voice, the vault dwellers looked up to find Lucy standing awkwardly by her table.

"Oh! Yes, quite alright thank you!" she shrugged, teeth glinting with faux charm. "I just... I just wanted to have a nap before it gets too chaotic." lying was wrong. You were taught that very young in Vault 33. Lucy pushed down the stab of guilt before turning on her heels towards her family's shared apartment.

You watched her stand up from her table with a start that made you furrow your eyebrows and look away quickly. You would never admit to anyone that you had been staring at her, but you knew you had been. She was easy to stare at! She was a figure of authority, in a sweet and slightly clumsy way. Your excuse, should anyone catch you, was simply that you admired her can-do spirit! (that wasn't a lie though you couldn't label it as the truth either).

The other part of the truth was that you had been staring at her like a lost puppy since her marriage arrangement was announced. You and Lucy's friendship was... complicated. You had grown up together (as all vault children did), and your families were close (but not related as a "fun class DNA test" had proved during your school years). things got rocky as you got older though: Lucy was outgoing, confident, and stunning. All together just all the things you wished you were. That is, not to say you weren't pretty! In fact, you had received a few proposals in the past year (mostly from an anonymous admirer you knew was Davey, and a couple from Chet after he realized things with Lucy wouldn't work out). You and Lucy where still close, and to her, probably as uncomplicated at a friendship could get!

The complication was simply that to you it had become increasingly obvious that you were desperately in love with her.

You had noticed it first when you were about 14. Lucy was stunning, having never suffered the "awkward teenager" phase of adolescence, and was quickly discovering her hypnotic power over Chet. You weren't jealous of course! at least... not at first. But then it was more than Lucy's teasing flirtation: it was kissing, it was spending time with him more than usual. Suddenly you were jealous. Jealous in a way that couldn't be explained by the "Vault-Tech: Guild to female friendships" or "Vault-Tech: female adolescence in the Vault" or even by your mother's trusty copy of "surviving the teenage years: a manual sponsored by General atomics."

It got worse when you turned 17. Sex Education was vitally important in Vault education. it prevented the spread of disease, enabled knowledgeable future mothers and fathers, and fostered respect and dignity between men and women. It was in one of these detailed lessons that you caught yourself watching Lucy's expression: laughing at times, cringing at the birth diagrams, blushing at parts with a quick side eye to you.

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks as your eyes fluttered to her lips and lingered there for a moment too long. It hit you again at 18 during your "prom" when Lucy danced with you slowly as the light from the 2.5D Telesonic projector scattered across her cheekbones and lit up her doe-eyes. you remember almost pushing her away from the force of it. The force of the feeling, the emotion, the unholy urge to press your lips to hers that caught you like a punch.

That night you had curled in a ball and prayed. you did not know who "god" was, but you'd heard about him in class before. You prayed to him to make you a boy, to change your emotions, to make things make sense again. Your mother had stroked your hair, not truly understanding your grief but accepting it and holding it for you like only a mother can.

In your world of perfect underground utopia, the truest sorrow you had ever felt was the realization that you loved Lucy Maclean.

It took you a split second to stand up and follow Lucy out of the atrium. A second in which your mind reeled and hesitated sickeningly before you shut it up. Lucy was your friend, and she needed you now. Your footsteps echoed down the hall as you took the familiar path along the "street" toward Lucy's home. The door was only just sliding shut as you reached it and you rushed to duck under.

Lucy was where you expected her to be: knees to her chest, curled up on the sofa. Her hands were clenched in front of her, and her eyes were set at some point just beyond the "radiation king" television set that was blasting its usual nature documentary. She didn't look up as you entered, but the slight dip in her shoulders told you that she knew you were there.

"Lucy?" you called quietly, kneeling on the rug near her. she turned to you slowly and smiled politely as she was raised to.

"hey" she muttered, clearly trying to keep her tone cheerful.

you fixed her a look before sitting softly next to her on the sofa. She remained in her tight ball.

"pre-wedding nerves?" you asked, ignoring the lump that formed just next to your heart at the thought of Lucy's marriage. You watched her expression for confirmation, but it never came. Instead, she furrowed her brows and looked back at the nothing behind the TV.

"I'm sure everyone gets nervous before their wedding Lucy. Steph could tell you a million stories of her 'pre-wedding wobbles'" you chuckled, remembering Stephs wedding day not long ago.

"Its... it's not that." Lucy finally responded, tightening her grip around her legs.

"Then wha-"

"What if I don't want this... Like I thought I did" she blurted, the words mushing together as she fought to get them out of her mouth. You pursed your lips, desperate for her to continue. After a moment of silence, she started again, quieter and more measured.

"I feel so... Wrong. and I don't know-" she cut herself off, swallowed, and began again, "I don't want what Steph has anymore."

"What? the wedding? I'm sure your father would agree to a smaller celebration if you told him! I think he just likes to make a fuss of you."

Lucy shook her head. Finally, she let her legs fall away from her chest as she turned to face you with a dramatic sigh.

"I've always been so certain. and now... well I am certain but just not of the things I should be." She shut her eyes, needing to get away from your face for a moment. The lessons flashed in front of her eyes in quick succession: reclamation day, the purpose of the vaults, reproduction, male anatomy, romance, how to be a wife, the American dream. It flashed and flashed and then sank into her gut like an over-set Jello cake.

You watched her face shift from carefully masked to strangely tortured and back again before she opened her eyes once more. how you missed those eyes in that moment you couldn't see them.

She reached forward and held your hand, her finders dusting over yours curiously as if she was handling some strange new specimen. she'd held your hand before, countless times in the 20 years you'd known each other; and yet her fingers felt tentative in a way they hadn't before.

"Lucy... it's ok to be scared, it's ok to feel unsure. heck, you know I spend most of my time feeling unsure." you cast her a weak smile, "I know you, and I know you will be an amazing bride to whoever you marry. You'll be a perfect wife; you’ll be an amazing mother and one day I know you'll make an amazing overseer as well. And Lucy? even if it feels hard, you know I'll always be here." You had long ago settled into your role of best friend, nothing more. You would be there, and you would love her (in a way approved by social expectations).

Lucy stayed quiet for a long time, still slowly tracing over your fingers with her own. It had clocked for her the moment you had entered the room after her dramatic exit from the atrium. she wasn't unsure, she wasn't uncertain. I fact, she felt as though she had never been more certain in her whole life.

Maybe it had started when she was 12, when you had helped her take her first ever stimpack: holding the needle steady, wiping her eyes with your own hand and giving her a little Vault-Boy band-aid to cover the little hole.

Maybe it had started when she was 15 and getting a steady stream of attention from boys (mostly Chet) and could only watch your disdained reaction to her suitors. Even then she had a hunch that she cared more about your opinion on her "boyfriends" than the boys themselves.

Maybe it was when she was 18, pulling you through a maintenance tunnel by your hand with a high-pitched giggle and a determination to find a good meeting place for when you no longer had school to attend. She remembers your initial reluctance, followed by rebellious cheek that pushed you both further into the guts of the vault than you had planned on. She remembers the oil that had got on your face that she insisted on wiping away herself.

She tore her eyes away from your hands and stared at you with all the intensity and authority that the overseer’s daughter should possess.

"I’m not scared. and golly I feel about as far from unsure as a girl can be." her hands tightened around yours. "This vault... we are told what we do and what we feel. heck, they even tell us who we should marry! Maybe I'm being silly but that doesn't fit into the 'American dream' they are always yammering on about!" her voice rose had she got more passionate. you watched her with a mix of shock and awe (an emotion you often felt yourself feeling when you were around her)

"I've always nodded along to what they've told us! who am I to doubt the rules?" she continued, her eyes never leaving yours, "but this marriage... I don't want that!" she concluded with a huff, finally blinking and pursing her lips as if she'd suddenly gotten shy.

It was your turn to reach out to her now, freeing one of your hands from her grip and placing it softly on her shoulder. you put on a calm expression, but your heart betrayed you: beating rapidly as if trying to escape its spot behind your ribs.

"What is it you want if not the marriage?" you whispered, feeling the moments fragility.

a beat.

Lucy sighed, stealing herself. her eyes were no longer full of angry passion, but rather softer, watery. her expression seemed to mirror the way you knew you were looking at her.

"I think- no, I know... Gosh, I want you so badly" she breathed.

Another war could have started and ended, and you wouldn't have noticed. The air stilled despite the constant circulation of the vents and the clock on the wall must have stopped ticking. Silence, a long silence that must have only spanned a fraction of a second.

Her words, like the flash of light as a fission reaction begins, followed by a lull followed by...

You launched forward before Lucy could hesitate, before you could leave her hanging, before she could dare think that you didn't want her back. her lips touched yours and it reminded you of the desperate prayers you used to send to the man called "god" (you thanked him now that he never changed you). There were no fireworks like the books said, no large, forced explosion, no splitting of an atom. Instead, it felt... inevitable, like the slow decay of an element, like aging gracefully, like coming home.

Her lips slotted against yours perfectly, softly and she gasped as she kissed you back. you kissed not for the purpose of "perpetuating America" or building the next generation of vault dwellers, but simply because you wanted to.

She pulled back after a while, bleary eyes and pink-cheeked with a grin that made your heart grow.

"I did... know we could..." she let out before laughing, one hand covering her mouth while the other found its way to the side of your face where it lingered. You laughed too, sides splitting and eyes watering.

"Who the hell cares" you spluttered between laughs, leaning into Lucys hand.

"If it wasn't clear... I want you to. in a um... kissing way"

"Oh really? I wouldn't have guessed" she drawled playfully, "well then... I think we have a wedding to wreck."

"What will you tell them?"

She shrugged and scooched a little closer. "That's a future Lucy problem. Current Lucy is preoccupied..." She smiled at you in a manner that was really more of a smirk.

You had barely enough time to squeak out a rather excited "Okey Dokey" before it was her turn to shut you up with a kiss.

#lucy maclean x reader #lucy maclean #fallout #ella purnell #x fem!reader #fallout x reader

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guess-my-next-obsession · 1 year

Text

Elementary, Chapter Six:

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x sarah’s teacher!reader

rating: E (18+ only, talks of bisexuality (reader is also bisexual), unprotected PIV, just so much fluff it’ll make your teeth rot)

wc: 3.4k

a/n: as a bisexual person who’s known from a very young age that they were different but never had someone to go to about it, i felt it was really important to showcase a relationship between a paternal figure/mentor and child wherein the child feels comfortable seeking advice about the things going on inside their head. if you have an issue with it, you’re entitled to your opinion, but from personal experience i know that pretending as though pre-teens aren’t capable of understanding the complexities of gender and sexuality only leads to them having more questions and more unnecessary shame over things they cannot control. if you don’t agree, please just keep scrolling. everyone is entitled to their own views on this, and i just ask that you respect mine just as i respect yours. 🤍

series masterlist | joel masterlist | elementary playlist

After a weekend of pure bliss, and maybe a bit too much sex, it was time to say goodbye to the man of your dreams, at least for the next three days.

Joel had heeded your advice about whisking Sarah off for a little trip, choosing to take her down to Corpus Cristi rather than San Antonio so that they could enjoy the ocean for the first time in a long time.

At the present moment, you stood in the driveway of his two-story suburban home, the Texas sun setting behind the houses across the street. Joel was in the garage with Tommy, changing the tires on their truck while you contentedly looked on, a glass of fresh lemonade in your hand courtesy of Sarah and Jessie.

“Hey, baby?” Joel called, the pet name slipping from his lips as casually as a breath. You forced your grin to calm at the sound.

“Yeah?” you replied.

“Would you mind goin’ inside and grabbin’ us a couple beers? Pretty please,” he sweet-talked you, his hands covered with grease, his face and neck glistening from sweat. How could you deny him his request when he looked like that? When he looked at you like that?

“I suppose I could,” you smirked. “But it’s gonna cost you.”

“What’s your price?” he asked, matching your smile.

“A couple smooches.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Tommy groaned at the cutesy game the two of you were playing.

“You can pay up later,” you spoke to Joel, your eyes flickering over to his crabby brother. Joel chuckled and nodded, giving you a wink before returning to his task.

Inside the house, Sarah sat with Jessie in the living room, the two girls occupied by the 1995 film adaptation of this month’s book club pick: Sense and Sensibility.

“How’s it going in here?” you asked with a friendly smile. “The movie any good?”

“It’s alright, I just thought the guys would be better looking,” Sarah replied.

“Yeah, isn’t Willoughby supposed to be…hot?” Jessie added, looking to you as you stood in the kitchen.

“Hugh Grant isn’t ugly,” you argued with a laugh. “Never been my cup of tea but a lot of women seem to find him good looking.”

“Well, they need to get their eyes checked. You know who’s hot? Justin Timberlake,” Jessie proudly declared, earning a gag from her friend.

“Yeah, so hot with his ramen hair,” Sarah snarked sarcastically. “Have you seen Usher?”

“Yeah, he’s cute, too,” Jessie agreed.

“You know who I was really into when I was a teenager?” you asked, and both girls looked full of interest. “Freddie Mercury.”

“Who’s that?” they asked in unison, making you gasp.

“Who’s that?” you repeated. “Oh, girls, your parents have failed you. He’s the lead singer of Queen,” you waited for them to place the rock star in their minds. “Bohemian Rhapsody? We Will Rock You?”

“No clue,” Sarah shook her head. “You think my dad would know him?”

“If he doesn’t, he’s crazy,” you chuckled. “Anyways, I gotta go bring these out before Tommy gets an attitude. You two have fun arguing about Justin Timberlake and Usher.”

“And you have fun daydreaming about Frankie Mars!”

“Freddie Mercury!” you corrected with a chuckle.

Back outside in the garage, the boys greeted you with a cheer as you handed over their beers. Joel planted a kiss upon your cheek as you leaned into his side, his hand too dirty to hold your waist so he refrained.

“You both know who Freddie Mercury is, right?” you asked as they took sips from their cold amber bottles.

“Yeah, Queen,” Joel replied and Tommy nodded in confirmation. “Why?”

“Sarah and Jessie had no idea who he or Queen was,” you chuckled. “Called him Frankie Mars.”

“My god,” Tommy shook his head. “Yet they’ll talk your ear off about B2K and N-Sync.”

“Sign of the times,” Joel sighed and chuckled before tilting his beer towards you. “Hey, where’s your drink at?”

“I gotta drive home,” you reminded, earning a pout.

“Thought you might stay the night,” he murmured just for you to hear. “Since I’m gonna be gone for the next few days.”

“Well, I never got an invitation,” you snarked with a tilt of your head.

“Go get a beer,” he ordered with a smirk.

The boys remained outside well after the sun had set over the horizon, tinkering with the truck and letting the radio play, the sounds of 80’s and 90’s love songs filling the night air. Jessie had gone home, leaving Sarah to join the three of you outside.

“Baby,” Joel turned and locked eyes with you as “Weak” by SWV came on the radio, a charming, pleading smile on his face as he held his grease-covered hand out for you. “Dance with me.”

“These two,” Tommy rolled his eyes and chuckled, shaking his head in disgust as he looked to his niece. “Can’t wait til this honeymoon shit is over.”

“As long as you wipe your hands off,” you ignored Tommy’s complaining and stood up off the hood of your car where you’d been looking at the stars with Sarah. Joel pulled a rag out of his back pocket and cleaned his hands as best as possible as you walked to him. “This is gonna be our song now, you know?”

“It’s a damn good song,” he argued, placing one hand on the small of your back while the other held yours in slowdance form. He pressed his cheek to yours and led you to the music, slowly swaying you around to the beat.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” Sarah teased from the car, an amused smile on her face at the sight before her.

“I can’t,” he replied.

“You’re not too shabby,” you mumbled in his ear, earning a squeeze to your waist. Joel turned his face to whisper into your ear.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about gettin’ you alone all damn day,” he confessed, making your heart skip a beat. “You think I haven’t noticed you checkin’ me out?”

“I’m always checking you out,” you admitted with a smile. “The whole sweaty man working with his hands thing just makes it even harder to look away.”

“Hmm,” he hummed in thought for a minute before speaking again. “This might be a good incentive for me finally gettin’ around to fixin’ shit up ‘round here.”

“As long as you invite me over to watch.” Joel laughed and nodded.

“I think you’d faint if you saw me at work.”

“And I think you’d be very, very bored if you saw me at work.”

“You kiddin’?” he asked rhetorically. “The idea of you teachin’ multiplication drives me crazy.”

You pinched his side and rolled your eyes, laughing at his sarcasm.

“Although, I do love those dresses you wear to work,” he husked, his tone still light but there was an undeniable desire in it. “Those actually drive me crazy.”

“Joel, can you and your lady love split up for a goddamn minute so you can help me change out this oil?” Tommy called over the music, forcing a deep sigh from his brother. Joel pressed a kiss onto your cheek and hummed.

“We’ll continue this dance later,” he promised. “Alone and in the nude. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like you better hurry up and finish,” you pulled away from him with a smirk. Joel mustered the strength to leave your embrace, heading back to the truck while you walked back to the car, resuming your place next to Sarah on the hood.

“I was trying to find the Big Dipper,” Sarah started as you got comfortable, her small hand pointing around the night sky. “But I can’t see it.”

“Hmm, well, I think that’s the Little Dipper,” you pointed out a vague constellation, the street lights making the stars harder to spot. “No clue where the big one is.”

A beat of comfortable silence fell over the two of you as you laid there, eyes searching the stars. You wondered for a moment if looking at these bright little orbs in the sky affected her the same way it affected you, forcing you to think about your humanity and how lucky you were to have found this beautiful family in such a vast universe. Though you’d long since given up on wishing on stars, perhaps one of your wishes for true love you made as a little girl actually came true, the brown eyed man in front of you brought to you by some unseen force, some magic worked by the Cosmos.

“Hey…can I ask you something?” Sarah tilted her head to look at you and you did the same, nodding your head at her. “It’s silly, and…well, I don’t want you to think anything—whatever, I’ll just come out and ask. Is it…is it possible to maybe like boys…and girls?”

“Oh,” you sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flickering to Joel as he leaned underneath the hood of his pick-up truck.

“It’s just…well, when we were talking about celebrity crushes earlier, Jessie knew right away that she liked Usher. But for me, I had two people pop into my mind. Usher and Beyoncé. And then when Jessie and I were talking about boys we liked at school, I thought of José G and, well, Jessie. But I didn’t tell her that, obviously.”

“You know, I can only speak for myself, but I’ve always liked both women and men,” you spoke carefully, knowing that not only was she your pupil, but also not your child to influence. The last thing you wanted was to cross a line with Joel, not that you thought he’d be against his daughter’s potential bisexuality—he’d been incredibly supportive when you confessed your own to him on your first date. “But this might be something you could bring up with your therapist, or even your dad.”

“What if he gets mad?” she asked, her eyes turning to watch her father as he wiped his oily hands clean.

“You know your dad better than I do. Does he really seem like the type to get mad over something like that?” Sarah chuckled and shook her head. “If it’s something you’re nervous about, I could bring it up to him for you.”

“Really?” She turned to you with a smile. “That would take a lot of the pressure off.”

“Of course,” you smiled. “And as for Jessie, I think the best romances are born out of friendship. You guys are so young, you don’t need to worry about all that other complicated stuff for now. Just…be her friend. It’ll all work out how it’s supposed to in the end.”

“I’m really glad my dad found you,” she spoke sincerely. “It’s been hard for both of us after mom died, but it’s been even harder watching him be so alone. And not only do you make him happy, you’re also there for me. It’s…really nice.”

“You’re gonna make me cry, kid,” you chuckled and wiped your teary eyes.

“What’s goin’ on over here?” Joel approached the hood of the car and both of you sat upright, chuckling at his cluelessness.

“Just talking,” you replied.

“Alright, well, it’s gettin’ late, baby girl,” Joel tapped Sarah’s shoe. “We’re gonna head out early tomorrow, so I think it’s bedtime for you.”

“And you,” she countered, poking his stomach as she walked past him. “Night y’all.”

“Night,” you waved at her as she walked up to Tommy to hug him goodnight.

“You gonna fill me in?” Joel tapped your shoe.

“Yeah, upstairs.” You stood up and walked into his open arms, allowing him to squeeze you close and sway you.

“Tommy’s spending the night so we’re gonna have a full house,” he mumbled into your hair. “Gonna have to be extra quiet.”

“What makes you think you’re getting lucky tonight?” you teased, lifting your head just enough to rest your chin on his chest. Joel’s smile had you weak in the knees as he looked down at you, still hugging you close.

“Gotta pay up for those beers somehow,” he replied.

After wishing Tommy a good night, you and Joel headed upstairs to his bedroom, his hands grabbing at your hips the entire way. Once the door was shut, he was all over you, pressing his lips to your neck as he backed you towards his en-suite.

“Need to shower,” he husked against the shell of your ear.

“So do I.”

“What ever will we do about that?” he grinned against your skin, earning a few giggles that sounded in the acoustics of his bathroom. Letting go of you, he walked over to the shower to get the water going while you stripped out of your clothes.

“I didn’t bring anything,” you frowned, just then realizing you’d be going without a toothbrush and a clean set of clothes.

“Hold on,” he walked out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, opening his dresser to retrieve a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. “Here’s your pj’s,” he set the clothes on the bathroom counter before opening the drawer beneath the sink and grabbing a brand new toothbrush still in its packaging. “All good?”

“You just keep a spare toothbrush on hand?” you asked, grinning as you opened the package.

“I got it for you,” he replied sheepishly. “Figured you’d stay over at some point.”

“You are…annoyingly perfect,” you breathed out a chuckle, shaking your head. “And I love you.”

Joel’s grin widened at the sound of your affections, those three words still new to both of you.

“I love you,” he repeated through his grin. “And I need you, so I suggest you get your fine ass in the shower.”

“You gonna make me?” you purred, reaching for the button of his jeans and popping it undone. Joel shivered as you reached inside his underwear to palm his stiffened length, his brows lacing together.

“You got me wrapped around your finger, baby,” he moaned breathily, his hands cradling your jaw as he leaned in for a slow and sensual kiss. “Do I gotta get down on my knees for you?”

“Maybe,” you grinned into the kiss. Joel lowered himself to the ground in front of you, his hands resting on your thighs as he peered up at you with those brown, doe eyes of his. Pushing his hair back, you smiled at him softly. “You look good from down there.”

“Can’t say I’ve got a bad view myself,” he smirked and leaned forward to press a kiss to your mound, right about where you needed him most. Guiding his eyes back to you with a tilt of his chin, you smoothed over his beard.

“Come on, cowboy. Let’s get in the shower before the water gets cold.”

Joel stood up and followed you into the steamy tub, pulling the curtain closed behind him while you let the stream of hot water wash over you. His hands found your hips and his lips pressed against your throat as you tipped your head back to wet your hair, his cock prodding at your belly.

“So beautiful,” he mumbled against your skin as though he didn’t mean for you to hear it. “Every inch of you…perfect.”

You guided his lips from your chest back up to yours, swallowing down his moan as he hugged you close under the stream of hot water. You gasped as he turned you around and pressed your back against the cold wall, one of his wide-spread hands gripping your ass, the other lifting your thigh to wrap around his hip.

“Need you,” you breathed into his ear as he sucked a mark into your neck. Joel let out a choked groan against your heated skin and nodded, the hand on your ass moving to grip his length and guide it into your heat. You sighed in unison at the feeling of his cock burying inside of you, your walls sore from the constant fucking ever since Friday night. “God,” you mewled as he stilled deep inside you. “Gotta go slow. S’too sore still.”

“Do you wanna stop?” he asked, desire straining his voice.

“No,” you quickly shook your head. “God, no.”

Joel lifted his head from your shoulder to look at you, his hand reaching to cup your face as he slowly withdrew himself. His thumb swiped across your bottom lip as he pushed back in, his eyes studying the way your face scrunched from the pleasure.

“Love you so much,” he moaned, his eyes glossy with lust.

What started slow and tender soon turned ravenous, his cock spearing into you once you were relaxed enough to take him properly. His grunts were muffled as he pressed his lips against your cheek while you bit your lip in an attempt to silence your cries. Your body moved against the wall as he thrust up into you, stroking against that spot inside that blinded you with bliss.

“God,” he choked out into your ear. “Pussy’s so damn good.”

“Joel, touch me,” you begged, needed just a little bit of help from his fingers to help you reach your climax. Joel was quick to act, sliding his hand down the front of your body so that he could strum over your clit in perfectly pressured circles. “Just like that, oh my god.”

“Baby, I’m so fuckin’ close,” he whined, his eyes screwed shut as he leaned forward, resting his forehead on your shoulder. You held the back of his head and shoulders, clinging to him for dear life as your body went limp from your climax, pleasure shooting from your core down to your toes as he fucked you through it. “Gonna cum, baby, fuck,” he warned, hips stuttering.

“Cum inside me, baby,” you purred, drunk on your post-climactic bliss and kissing his temple. Joel moaned in time with his last few sharp thrusts until he stilled inside you, his chest heaving against yours.

“Fuck,” he chuckled, lifting his head to give you a lazy grin. “You’re makin’ me feel old, woman.”

“Maybe you are old, man,” you grinned back, tracing his smile with your fingertip. “I love you.”

“Never gonna get tired of hearin’ that,” he chuckled and leaned forward to give you a sweet peck. “I love you too.”

After finally washing up and getting ready for bed, you tucked into Joel’s side, resting your head on his chest as the soft hum of the ceiling fan threatened to lull you into sleep, but there was still one thing left to talk about.

“So, uh, Sarah asked me something earlier,” you began, only slightly nervous to bring the subject up.

“Oh yeah? That what you two were talkin’ about outside?” Joel rasped.

“Yeah,” you rolled over a bit, resting your chin on his chest so that you could look into his eyes. “She, uh, she asked me if it was possible to like both girls and boys.”

Joel’s heavy-lidded eyes widened, his attention earned. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you chuckled.

“What did you say?”

“I told her that I could only speak for myself, and that I’ve felt that way since I was a kid,” you replied, studying his reaction carefully. Joel nodded, thinking to himself for a moment before turning back to you.

“Why didn’t she…come to me about this?” he asked, frowning a bit. “Did she think I wouldn’t be okay with it?”

“It’s a hard subject to breach,” you reminded with a shrug. “I’m sure it wasn’t anything personal.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Should I bring it up on the trip? Does she know you told me?”

“Yeah, she wanted my help getting her foot in the door,” you replied.

“Well,” he chuckled. “At least now there’s a good chance she won’t bring any stupid boys home.”

“I don’t know, I’m bisexual and look at where I am,” you rubbed his chest with a smirk. “In a stupid, gorgeous boy’s bed.”

“That’s true,” he smirked at you for a moment before sighing. “God, I really hope she isn’t worried about what I think about all this. I don’t care what she is or who she likes, she’s my baby girl.”

“She knows that,” you assured. “And if not, there’s always time to let her know.”

“What would I do without you?” he hummed, giving you a squeeze and a kiss upon your forehead.

“You’re doing a better job with her than you think,” you combed his hair back. “All I’m doing is reminding you of it.”

“I’m gonna cry if you keep bein’ so damn nice to me,” he chuckled.

“Shh,” you laughed and kissed his nose. “Let’s go to bed before I make you shed your first tear in years.”

“I cry often, thank you very much,” he corrected sassily.

“My apologies,” you grinned against him as you cuddled him from behind, Joel’s preferred position. Kissing his shoulder, you rubbed his stomach and whispered, “Good night, baby.”

“Good night, honey.”

•

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fluff #joel miller #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller fic #joel miller fluff #joel miller reader insert #joel miller smut #tlou fanfiction #joel tlou #the last of us fanfiction #elementary

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undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

this year's love.

simon ghost riley x f!reader

wc: 5.5k warnings: angst. fluff. smut. feelings. usual jo things. summary: And then you begin calling him Riley. It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful. Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips. an: from the drabble where ghost 'dates' a non-militant he meets in a pub. this is dedicated to @yeyinde for reminding me why British pubs are adorable, and also to @guyfieriii because she hates my angst, but loves my fluff, and makes me want to write better.

simon ghost riley masterlist

He suspects he should stay away.

As soon as he began to crave the sight of you. Ignoring the fact he’s heard This Year's Love by David Gray three times already—and he has only been here an hour. The condensation beads from his glass pools on the picked-at-bar mat, drenching his fingers and wrist.

Not that he cares.

Ghost—

Simon knows it’s all part of the charm.

It has been since the day he turned eighteen and his boss at the butchers took him for his first pint.

The place hasn’t changed since. Everything from the same ten to twelve songs which crackle through the worn and tired speakers. The smokey air, and discoloured, yellowing wallpaper.

Things don’t get replaced either, the chipped glass ashtrays are the same as the ones he remembers. The same chipped mahogany tables with the ill-matching chairs and stools that are wobbly.

The scent in the place is familiar, a mix between festering ale and Mr Sheen, working men and cheap perfume, fust and smoke—both from the crackling winter fire and cigarettes—even if one hasn’t been smoked inside of it for years.

The place, to outsiders, would look like any stone-walled pub on the corner of two streets they’ll never remember. Then they’ll step in, their eyes glancing over the peeling wallpaper, moth-eaten curtains (that never close) and the once-white nets in the windows, before questioning what they’ve walked into. That’s before they’ve noticed the white ball on the pool table is in fact another black ball and that the dart board triple 20 has been chipped out after Bald-Andy lost his rag.

The pub has been a real gem to those who know what real diamonds are for as long as Simon can remember. None of the regulars care that the bar stools have burns from cigarettes being stubbed out, they don’t care that the musty smell doesn’t vanish even with Febreze and sheer will. It’s expected, just like how the bar is always sticky and the energy always feels right.

Here, he can relax.

When he’s home, he feels purposeless. A man with a map but no direction. But, he can unfurl his shoulders from his ears, even let his hood slide to the back of his neck.

Because in this place, strangers aren’t welcome. It’s a local pub, for local folk. Those who wander in, thinking the pub on the corner of quaint and quintessential will provide them with a typical British evening, normally leaving before Freddie Mercury has reached the bridge of whatever song is on rotation.

But, Simon isn’t just here for the bourbon or the ale, he’s not here because the wooden fire licks every wall of the place. He’s not here because it feels more like home than his actual home.

He’s here because there’s one thing that has changed, and it’s you.

You with a rosy, sweet laugh that usually accompanies a smile which makes his heart gallop. It calms whatever storm rages inside of him when you look at him—when you bore your pretty, fucking eyes into him before you lean over, hand on the beer pump as you call him Simon.

Simon.

His name has never sounded more serene than when it falls from your lips. The way you say it makes it seem less than ordinary, almost unique. Humour sways in your eyes, a glint he knows there’s more too—and wants nothing more than to explore.

You’re a vibrant surprise in the middle of my mundane, and it took him all of five minutes to discern you’re both difficult and charming all rolled into one.

And then you begin calling him Riley.

It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful.

Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips.

Women haven’t tended to last here—except Tracy. Tracy, who like the urinal cakes, has been here since Simon’s first pint. Her lines had deepened in her skin over time, but her hair has remained that putrid blonde she tries to claim is natural.

You, on the other hand, are far younger—kind, soft, unless someone gets lairy and then there’s a ferociousness to you that’s packed into something so small. He suspects you know what the men at the bar look at when your eyes aren’t looking, and it’s not the way you command the small space stuffed with offerings and glasses.

He’d paid no mind initially. Tried not to, anyway. He’d decided it would be for the best. Then you’d bite back at Dave that you may be too young to remember a song, but you could still get down on her knees without them creaking.

He had smirked at that.

Deciding his new seat at the bar, on the rickety bar stool was his new favourite seat.

To this day, you always smell floral, but the accompanying scent with it changes. Sometimes you’re sultry, sometimes you’re just sweet. Each time he is able to return ‘home’ he’s never sure which one he’ll get—but it burns a place in his nose all the same.

Hard to shift, difficult to smother, not that he wishes to do either.

Their first exchanges were simple. Contractual. Another? Yes. Your usual? Yes. Then you had placed a deck of cards in front of him, a teasing smile on your face in the quietness of a Wednesday evening.

Keep me company.

It was difficult for him to grasp how soft your eyes were, how it made his mind blank and his heart both hammer and stutter all at once.

Now, it’s normal.

He’s used to it, fucking welcomes the way they land on him. He thinks about them on the plane ride home, how Alan—the chef who’ll serve anything off-menu for a packet of fags—makes a mean all-day breakfast sandwich. But mostly, it’s you.

“You back for long, Riley?”

“No.”

“Never are.”

“You sound disappointed, sweetheart.”

You always smile the same when he calls you that. Always half-roll your eyes before shaking your head, as though flirting with you is oh so wrong.

Especially when you start it first.

“What would you do if I was?”

That’s new.

His fingers pick up a crisp, watching you lean on the pump in front of you. The star earrings hanging from your ears, catch the bar spotlights, making it seem as though you’re literally glowing.

But then, you are—to him at least.

Someone calls for you, pint raised in hand—saving him from answering. You wink, and mumble you’ll be right back, the words lingering in the space you once stood.

You’re too good for him.

Too normal. Too unscarred and untouched. He suspects a bad thing has never happened to you. You’ve not plunged a knife into someone’s throat, not shot a moving target with a precision that most try to replicate on their controllers and headsets.

For that reason, and that reason alone, he knows he should stay on this side of the bar. Even when it takes all of his self-restraint to do so.

It’s hard though.

More so when you give him that look—that one which makes his cock twitch and his thoughts turn feral.

Because the nice girl from the pub may have a sweet, soft voice, but fuck he knows you’re anything but.

You’re all red lips and righteousness, a siren and enchantress who chooses floral perfume to try and disguise the way your eyes undress him.

Not that he complains.

He’s done the same.

Fucked his own fist to the thought of the noises you’d make and how you’d feel enveloped around his cock.

Tonight he’d likely do the same.

Winter is in full effect when he next returns.

Snow was thick on the streets, the roads a horrid mix of ice, slush and asphalt.

You’re behind the bar, Bald-Andy and his wife in the corner near the fire, and the crackling, gruff voice of Oasis is playing. You look up, lips smirking, eyes glistening.

“The usual?”

He considers it. Sweet, caramel and vanilla notes hit his tongue in memory. But he shakes his head, pulling out a stool, and sitting opposite you as your perfume greets him.

“Surprise me, sweetheart.”

You stand fully, hair falling around your face, making his heart lurch and his stomach burn.

“Living dangerously, I see,” you say, turning your back to him as you pull at spirit bottles.

If only you knew.

He suspects something sweet when you place the glass in front of him. The sound of it meeting the worn wood so loud, not that the other two patrons look over. As though it’s just the two of you. No one else. His eyes lift, hooking themselves into yours—unwilling to let you tear them from him as he tries to bury the aches of war and fighting.

It’s caramel coloured, darker at the bottom of the glass than the top. Ice. So much ice.

“Go on, try it, Simon.”

And he does.

It’s sweet, and zingy. It’s mellow but spicy, and he tastes the hints of ginger and rum as the cold hits his teeth.

“What y’made me?”

“You like it?”

Yes.

The tip of your tongue swiping across your bottom lip, watching you lean smugly. “Dark and stormy… the epitome of you.”

A groan leaving his lips, your laugh tasting of sunshine and happier days.

A long moment stretches between the two of you, one that makes the air thrum and him having to shift his jeans. A continuous voice in his head, telling him no, telling him to put a stop to this now.

He drinks it. He even orders it again.

Time ticks fast—too fast. He wants it to slow. Ever since their first flirtation, if you’ve finished when he’s there—he walks you to your car.

You drive something small, your entire backseat is always covered in coats, shoes and books. Something normal, and so typically you.

He does the same tonight, hands in his jacket pockets, periodically scanning the area as you lock the big wooden doors of the pub. You shake them, ensuring you have, pocketing the keys before turning to nudge him.

Simple. Soft. Each gesture in the short walk is always seemingly effortless. You don’t worry he’ll take offence, that he’ll shatter or snap.

Not that he would.

His arm lifting, letting your small hand slide around it for stability as the snow falls thick and fast. It paints the streets in a blanket that crunches under their boots. And there’s something about the snow landing in your hair, on the tip of your nose, even on your lower lip.

He wants to brush it from your mouth, and trace the bow of your upper lip with his thumb.

Because it’s all a contradiction. Snow makes you look innocent, something close to a character from a movie or a Disney film. And, you’re not any of those things.

You’re snarky, huffed whispers and quick retorts when drunkards try to hit on you; you’re witty, funny and boldly brilliant.

So much so, he’s never sure why you work there. He knows you’re studying, knows you’re trying to better yourself. You’ve told him as much over a Pepsi Max in your hand and something stronger in his.

He knows it’s odd to keep staring at you. Your eyes staring up, making your eyes seem wider and bigger than they actually are—pretty sure the flurries of snow, stars and moon are shining in them. But it’s his treat—his reward. The thing he thinks about when he’s knee-deep in mud or covered in blood, sweat and bruises.

Your feet stop at your car, unlocking it—the beep and flash of your headlights casting light across the car park.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

Smiling, you lean against the rear window. “Never are.”

It’s a pattern, a habit. An exchange that has become the norm for the two of you as much as hello and goodbye.

Then, you sigh.

Something you rarely do, not to him—not with him. His brows knitting, tightening, heart thundering in his throat as you drag your eyes up his chest, and neck and land on his face.

“Do you know how perfect it would be, if you grew a pair and kissed me in the snow, Riley?”

Your hand slides into the handle, opening it as your smirk turns into a grin. One which is brighter than your headlights, the moon—hell, the fucking sun.

“Guess I’ll have to wait for a shooting star, instead.”

And, you laugh, leaning your back against the car—expression blended with vulnerability and searing heat that should melt the settling ice on your face.

“Y’seem like the sorta woman to make me work for it.”

“Oh yes, because eighteen months of will-they-won’t-they hasn’t been tedious enough.”

He grabs your elbow, roughly pulling but finds you fall into him with far too much ease. The snow continues to fall, leaving soft cold kisses on his face, but he doesn’t feel cold.

How could he? You’re staring up at him with the searing heat of the sun.

“Y’want me to kiss you, Sweetheart?”

“More than I want to go home and sleep, Riley.”

His hand cups your cheek, warm meeting cold as he pulls your lips to his. Cold, soft lips slide against his, and he tastes the orange from your cordial swirling with his bourbon-covered tongue. Your car groans when he presses you against it, your hand clutching him with the same desperation as he’s flush with your body.

Your cheeks are warm against his hands, eyelashes fluttering open as the two of you break apart.

“You… you want to come back to mine?”

Yes. Fuck yes.

But—

“Next time.”

“Yeah?”

His fingers brush down your cheek, and he nods.

He got your number.

For convenience. You tell him he didn’t need to come in and drink one of your piss-poor beer pulls just to get in your knickers.

So he doesn’t.

He doesn’t text when he first lands. He gives himself a day—a moment to shed the Ghost and become Simon. When you do you don’t reply with anything witty, just straight-laced—just like he likes it.

A time. An address.

He expects you to size him up at your front door, even bracing for a changed mind. You don’t do either. You let the door open, standing two steps inwards dressed in something lace and rippable.

Fuckin’ fuck.

It’s the only thought he has before he slams your door behind him, striding towards you and practically throwing you over his shoulder.

You don’t taste like what he expects—it’s better.

His tongue flattens against you, two fingers inside your warm cunt as you whimper. You reluctantly still clutching to the promise you’d made earlier. The one where you informed him it’ll take more than a few fingers and a skilled tongue to make you scream.

So he sucks. Bites. Nips.

He finds that squishy part, stroking it as your thighs twitch by his ears.

It’s then he grants himself the chance to look at you, finding your lipstick spread in a way which seems deliberately chaotic—even if he knows it isn’t. Your lashes wet, eyes clamped shut as you try and try not to give in.

So fuckin’ stubborn.

Your hands, all smooth and soft, clutching your breasts, the pink of a nipple poking out between your index and thumb as your chest rises and falls as you fight calling out his name.

He likes that you have convictions—it gives him something to break.

His tongue swirling, knowing already what he needs to do to undo you.

And then—

Simon—fuc-k, Simon.

It’s better than classical, better than whatever is number one on the fuckin’ charts. The sound of you coming hard, and fast, trying to bury it in a whisper than the scream you actually want to release. All of it is a better sound than his knife plunging into some unsuspecting op—because he will make you scream.

He laps up every ounce you give him, your pleading whimpers and nails in his hair making him groan against your cunt until you almost snap his neck—or try to.

“Take them off. Now.”

He doesn’t like orders.

He fucking detests them. He gives them. Normally loud and booming. But your voice, all sweet and high-pitched, trying to give stern eyes when your lashes are coated in tears he’s caused…

Your eyes widen when he stands naked. And he knows he’s big.

He’s very fucking aware of it. He’s seen plenty of evidence to support the fact in the wild, surprised eyes of those who he’s dropped his trousers for.

You now being one of them.

But fuck, he fits in you perfectly. So much so, he wants to mould your insides to match him, to ruin you for every other person who thinks they stand a chance with you.

Because they don’t.

But then neither does he.

Not that he’ll squander a moment to fuck with heaven—to hear the cadence shift when he hooks your leg over his hip as he drives his cock into you all the way to the hilt.

He coaxes another out of you, your tight cunt like a vice around him as your manicured nails leave scratches on his back. His tongue swipes across your jaw, before haphazardly capturing your mouth.

You taste like mint polos and sex—a taste he is already sure he’ll crave.

And he wonders to himself if you know how fucking perfect you are. If you have any idea of how stunning you truly are.

Especially like this. Your body shimmering with sweat, each thrust making your breasts bounce as your fingers tease his hair at the nape of his neck.

And then he wonders about something else.

Something far from coating your walls in his come.

Would you fit in his life?

Would you fit as well in it, as he does inside your cunt?

And then you’re clenching, hips lazily trying to meet his as you whimper, moan—

And then you scream.

Not Riley.

But Simon.

Mission accomplished.

It has become a habit.

You have become a habit.

He lands. He waits a day. He fucks you until you are raw, sore and breathless. His lips are on yours, hands still on your hips as he hears how hoarse your voice is.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

But this no is different.

It’s tinged with half a teaspoon of regret and sadness.

You hide your face when he answers now. Sometimes by slinging your arm to shield him from your eyes or by turning from him. It’s like you know he likes them. Likes being able to see each infliction of emotion in them—shimmering, dancing, storming across in front of him.

Somehow, you’ve fit into his life too well—cutting yourself a hole, forcing your way in, and making it seem as though you were always there.

Simon lets you be, too.��

You have one of his t-shirts, baggy, black and covered in your perfume. He finds he has one of your hair ties around his wrist, not even realising until he slides on a pair of gloves. Flicking it against his wrist as he thinks of you, something he only allows himself to do briefly.

Things have changed. Shifted.

But the Earth hasn’t fallen off its axis and he’s not fucked up a mission. So he counts his blessings. He doesn’t know if he believes good things can happen to him, but he could be persuaded that he can have nice things. A belief he even starts to accept. A reality he begins to wish for, rather than keep at arm's length.

You’ve left the pub. You hadn’t been working every night for a while. Your studies had ended—receiving a photo of a cap and gown without your face when he was in the middle of a desert.

Now you’re working a better job, one you deserve more—it’s creative, more you. You make the world brighter, and better while he’s getting dirty and riding the world of darkness. You text him once, the day you got paid, that you bought him something nice.

Something he ripped with his teeth when he landed—much to your annoyance.

You’re no longer the girl in the pub. You’re perfectly applied make-up he fucks off your face. You’re high heels and pencil skirts—and sometimes fitted trousers that hug your arse so beautifully, he’s almost a bit jealous. You’re the pink sky at night, laughter that warms his chest, and a smile he thinks about as he falls asleep.

“What would my alias be?”

Your hand slides over a plate to him. Cheese on toast. Nothing big, nothing major, but he stares at it all the same. Because you’ve made him something.

You’ve been doing it for a while, and each time is as perplexing as the last. His brain is unable to figure out how, why and what he’s done to deserve it. Even if it’s toast, a sandwich, or a fucking meal.

Because it’s something outside of sex. It’s outside of holding the back of your head as he fucks your throat; outside of him pinning you against the dark alleyway of the pub he first saw you in, making you both cold and warm all at once.

Even if he knows—constantly turns it over and over in his mind—that this isn’t just sex. He’s not entirely sure what this is. Except…nice?

You take a bite of your own, the crunch filling the air, crumbs littering your top—his top. “My call sign.”

Simon isn’t sure why he told you about what he did. You were in his arms, warm, smelling of sex, flowers and something sharp. And, it fell out of him. Still drunk off your cunt, lost in the tenderness of your fingers on his chest, playing it a pattern with your nails.

Not everything. Fuck, he couldn’t tell you everything—wouldn’t. But you know enough.

Enough for him to know you’re not running, that you still want him knocking on your door whenever he lands—whether it's morning, noon or night.

Now, you’re making him food. Legs long, his black t-shirt skimming your thighs—all his. Looking ever so inviting, making it hard not to push you up on the counter and give your neighbours something to talk about.

“Egg.”

You snort, sharp and light. “Egg?! You’re fuckin’ rude, Riley. Egg? No, that’s shit, give me a better one.”

“But, true. You’d shatter, you’re more yolk than shell, you.”

“C’mon, be serious.”

He gives you a look, finding the one you’re giving him sultry, teasing—demanding.

“Snow.”

You stare for several seconds before you hum, crunching the corner of your food with your teeth. “Lemme guess because I’m oh-so-delicate?”

No—

It’s because you’re fucking perfect.

Because you’re his favourite season and favourite moment.

On some deeper level, he suspects it’s because you’re pure. That you’re unruined. Untainted. Your body has no scars—except the one from chicken pox and one on your hand from a glass bottle shattering. But, that’s it. He’s kissed every inch of you to know, to be 100% sure.

You’re Snow because each time he sees it, he thinks of you. Those red lips, all that fucking audacity and the way you kissed him, tasting as warm as bourbon and as sweet as sugar.

“Yeh, ‘cause you’re all pure and innocent, Sweetheart.”

You laugh, richly. Head thrown back, perfect thin neck exposed to the air—to him.

And he wants to kiss you.

He wants to taste your laugh and smile, let his hands run around the back of your thighs and feel you against every inch of him.

That’s when your eyes land on him again—all full of questions and spice. Your tongue drags across your plush bottom lip, wiping up the grease from the cheese as he swallows.

His throat suddenly dry.

Because the girl he met in the pub—the one standing before him—is standing in his t-shirt. Looking every bit delicious, good enough to eat and never come up for air.

And he thinks—

Realises, he actually, might—probably—miss you when he goes back to Price.

It’s stretched on for months. A year.

He lands, uses the key you gave him and stamps the snow from his boots, half smiling to himself as he does. Whenever he gets here, he doesn’t wait, he finds his way to whatever room you’re in.

Sometimes he doesn’t get far, your body colliding with his. All curves in his hands and arms around his neck, and he’s not sure what the fuck this is, but he likes it.

Loves it.

It’s something like a song about falling in love and a peaceful Sunday morning; it’s those moments you see in movies that make your eyes swell with tears as he stares at you, wondering how on earth you’re so goddamn amazing.

It’s familiar, and yet he has no idea what is happening next or why.

Mostly, though, Simon knows it’s something because he said your name to Johnny.

Not because he was dying, not because he was hurt. But in the middle of a normal conversation, one exchanged on some dark rooftop, stars twinkling, and eyes fixated on a building down a scope.

Normally, he wouldn’t have answered. Would have ignored him.

If y’could be anywhere, right now, Lt. Where’d y’pick?

He didn’t need to think.

He didn’t say home. Because home wasn’t his place, the pub or even the fuckin’ city he’s always ever known. It’s wherever you are. It’s where your heart beats and your bed is placed; it’s where your annoying, shitty music taste is blaring and that sleepy smile is when he wakes up next to you.

So, Simon said your name.

Simple. Easy.

Except it wasn’t simple or fucking easy. It was messy, and complicated. Because Johnny tilted his head, in that obnoxious way he does, demanding more information than he is ever prepared to ever share.

‘Fuck off, Johnny, before I punt y’off the rooftop and tell Price you’d been a cunt.’

Because you are locked away when he’s here. You are chained inside his chest, the deepest fucking secret—one no one will ever fucking take no matter how much they dig, how much they push him too.

You are his.

Something only he gets to enjoy—gets to see, hear and taste.

He’s done all of that for the last hour. Getting some sick satisfaction from edging you until you’re pleading with him, begging him with every breath you have to let you come as you wriggle and wiggle, urging him to lift your legs—just like he likes it, how you like it, and make you see fucking stars.

Now, you’re barefoot.

A different t-shirt of his hiding the welts he’s left, the growing bruises from the way he’d needed to hold you in place. Watching, observing—admiring—the oddness to your steps as you flick on the kettle. He’s always close—looming in the sun’s shadows across the kitchen he knows better than his own.

He has to be. Wants to be.

You’ve not just carved a place in your life, but in his chest—his heart. You’ve seeped into his skin, into his soul, merging and bringing to life something he thought had wilted and died. He doesn’t care that he’s vulnerable, that he’s not jagged edges and sharp stares.

“You wanna go out with me? Tonight?”

You pause, tea bag in hand, looking over your shoulder at him as if he’d asked you to slaughter a pig, a child, a whole bloody family.

The moment is tender, almost fragile.

It trembles under the weight of his question and the silence of your thoughts.

Then it stills—

“You don’t… you don’t have to do that…”

“What?”

Dashing the tea bag into the cup, you turn. Hips leaning against the counter, sigh falling from your swollen, pink lips as your arms fold. The air scented with that familiar smell your home always has—jasmine and pineapple, the sun kissing your toes and legs as your face shows thunder and rain.

The air shifts, changing. It’s speckled in ice with a cold breeze punctuated by you suddenly not able to meet his eyes.

“Date me. Change… this. I know that you… I know you don’t have time for that.”

Except he doesn’t hear that, he hears me.

He suspects you don’t say it to hurt him.

But it does.

It wounds—

It fucking burns. It’s on par with a bullet or a rusty knife, twisting and twisting until it’s hitting nerves and making muscles quake.

It worsens when the kettle clicks, ready—waiting. It blows steam under your cupboards, billowing out around the edges before it rushes to the ceiling. Twisting, turning, desperate to escape the uncomfortable space between the two of you.

But, he just wants to pull you close—impossibly close. He wants to cradle and fucking hug you, even if he never hugs anyone. Simon wants to tell you that he hasn’t been doing this with anyone else. That it’s been over a year of this, and even he knows it’s something.

Admittedly, yeah, he didn’t think he’d have fucking time for someone, and then you came in and blew that all to shit. But, on some level inside of him, he knows they aren’t the words he should be saying. So silence fills the space instead.

Doubling. Tripling. Expanding like foam and smoothing over crevices as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

And he knows he should just ask again.

Softer. Maybe with a bit more emotion. Counting in his head. One. Two, fucking Three.

Your body turning, holding out a mug you got him—big, black with tiny ghosts on it. Because you’d pestered and pestered to know what he was called. What his alias is when he shoots people. The mug made you grin when you handed it to him last time—tired of him taking your favourite. The one with a quote from a television show you keep promising to show him. Sarcastic. Almost makes his teeth show when he smiles. He almost does the same when he takes the mug, and you turn away from him.

Now when he takes it, your eyes drop to the floor. To the space between the two of you.

The one which feels vast, and far larger than the bar ever felt.

All Simon wonders is why there’s a pit opening inside of him—why it is filling him with a feeling he wants to cut out of himself. It’s not light or nice, it’s dark and twisty.

Because he’s the same person who goes on stupid solo missions where the percentage of survival is low, and still fucking comes back to base with whatever was asked of him. He’s Ghost—a man who many fear. Who is often coated in more of other people’s blood than he is dirt.

And yet this—

You.

Terrify the living fuck out of him. Not that he’s showing that. He knows he’s stood with a stiff back, and a face devoid of any emotions.

“You said it when we first… Just… I know your job is important. I know you can’t commit and I respect—”

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes meet his. Teeth biting your lip, arms crossing over your chest.

And shit, he hopes to never see this face ever again. This nervous, unsure face that he’s put there. One which complicates everything and pulls on every string inside of him.

You are an enigma, and he’s not even sure you know it.

You’re something he never deserves, something he never thought he’d have, get, or keep.

Yet, here you are.

Someone who has seen every inch of him. Knows what he does. Where he goes. You even know brief moments of his past, the parts of him that he’d rather take to the grave.

You are important. You matter.

He’s falling—free-falling, in fact—and has been for a while, he didn’t even acknowledge it. Pushing it down, letting it sit with all the other things he doesn’t want to deal with.

“Do’ya wanna go out with me tonight?”

Each word hits you, strokes you. He watches as each syllable lands, your eyes reading him.

“You back for long, Simon?”

His lips twitch. “Little bit.”

And then you smile. All devious and cunning, lips twisting as you unfold your arms and adjust your stance. “I think I’d prefer a takeaway. Keep you to myself, while I 'ave you.”

Standing, crossing the small space of your kitchen as he cages you in. Your hand clutching his cheek, soft, gentle, and more than he fucking deserves.

His head lowers, lips close to your ear as you curl your body into him as he whispers, all gruff and quiet so only you—and not a fly or spirit could hear—says, “I’ve always been just yours, sweetheart.”

Simon doesn't expect a response. More a kiss. Maybe even a roll of your hips.

It's why he doesn't expect the words, "I'd hoped so", or the way they make him feel like he's walking on air.

2K notes · View notes

petitemistletoe · 1 year

Text

The Concert

Pairing: James Potter x Reader

Warnings: smut, angst, dom! James x Regulus, some hate fucking sort of? enjoy this!

Word Count: 5K+

A/N: This is a part 2 to Hate, hope you all enjoy it :)

“I have such a good idea!” You said with a large grin on your face as you dropped yourself down at the table in between Marlene and Remus.

“Where did you come from?” Sirius asked, turning fully around to look behind him.

“Stayed to help Binns after history,” you grinned, helping yourself to a large piece of the meaty pie that was on the table for dinner.

“What’s your idea?” Lily asked, sensing the excitement radiating off you.

“I heard from Yaz who heard from Dorcus who heard from Daniel who heard from Michael who heard from his cousin who lives in Soho that Queen is doing a pub concert in London on Friday and we have to go!” You beamed.

“I don’t care for Queen.” Remus shrugged.

“The Queen sings?” Marlene cocked an eyebrow.

“No! The band Queen! Freddy Mercury, Roger Taylor, Brian May, John Deacon. Come on! They’re the biggest band in the world right now! How can you guys not want to go?” You were severely displeased with your friends’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Hey! I know I would love to hear the Queen perform. I’ve never been to a muggle concert before.” James said, getting up from his place across the table and squeezing himself between you and Sirius so he could wrap an arm around your shoulders.

“It’s just Queen, Prongs, and your opinion doesn’t count you would do anything to keep your girlfriend happy.” Remus rolled his eyes as he looked at you and James comfortably seated together.

“Uh, Remus? She’s not the only one who would be happy to see Queen.” Lily said with a grin, pointing her fork at Sirius. Remus turned to look at Sirius who was red faced with excitement and had somehow transfigured his sweater into a Queen t-shirt.

“Oh no,” Remus sighed, “don’t tell me you’re a Queen fan? Padfoot! What happened to taste?”

“I don’t know why you don’t like them, Moony. They’re amazing and you’re a snob. Also I’m excited for us to listen to a great band, get pissed, and snog uncontrollably.” Sirius crossed his arms and glowered at Remus.

“I don’t want to go if all you’re gonna do is snog,” Lily sighed.

“Yeah! I don’t want to watch the Potters and the Lupins snog all night. I’m out,” Marlene said, tossing her napkin on the table and crossing her arms across her chest in a pout.

“I’ll come if I can bring Roman. We’re supposed to go on a date but I’ve been wanting a dastardly little rendez-vous in a pub bathroom.” Mary shrugged, standing from the table and making her way over to the Hufflepuff table.

“Hold on, what makes you think I would take James’s last name?” You asked.

“Yeah! What if Moony and I wanted to hyphenate?” Sirius protested. Before Remus could rebut, Yasmine made her way over to the table and grinned at Marlene.

“Marls are you going to the Queen concert in London? I’d love to see you there.” She smiled at Marlene again who could only offer a goofy wave and a nod in return, her eyes trained on Yaz’s ass as she walked out of the great hall.

“Okay so what is the official headcount for the concert then? Who’s coming?” James asked, surveilling the group.

“We’re going,” Sirius said quickly, sending Remus a look. Remus rolled his eyes and nodded.

“I’ll come!” Peter said, his mouth still full of mashed potatoes.

“Roman and I will be there,” Mary said with a nod as she walked past the table, arm in arm with Roman.

“Marlene, you coming?” You asked. Marlene still had a dumbstruck look on her face as her fingers ghosted over her shoulder where Yaz had rested her hand.

“What about you Evans?” James asked, looking at the final member of the group who had yet to respond

“No! I’ll be the,” Lily took a second to count the people in the group, “ninth wheel. I’d rather stay back and do almost anything else.”

“Peter will be alone. You can go with him,” Sirius offered but to everyone’s surprise Peter shook his head and squeaked,

“I’ll be going with Dorcas.”

Lily looked like she wanted to die. You cleared your throat and sent a look Lily’s way.

“Lily, why don’t you bring Severus?” You offered her a gentle smile and you slapped one hand against James’ mouth and the other against Sirius’. You could feel both of their mouths moving against your hands but you weren’t letting go any time soon. You forgot, however, that there was another person in the group who despised Snape just as much as James and Sirius and you were out of hands.

“Why the hell would we want Snape at a concert that I don’t even want to go to?” Remus said with a look of disgust.

“Yeah!” Sirius said after biting your hand. You snatched your hand back and wiped it on Sirius’s shirt with a scowl, “That little snake will probably bring my brother too just to piss me off.”

“You think Regulus will be there?” James asked. You and James hadn’t really spoken about your incident with Regulus a few months ago where Regulus had watched you and James fuck. You tried to bring it up a few times but James shut it down, though you could’ve sworn you heard James murmur ‘Regulus’ under his breath a few times during sex. Regulus had been avoiding you and the Marauders like the plague since.

“Regulus would never be caught somewhere with that many muggles.” Remus shook his head.

“Lily is our friend so we have to baseline tolerate her friends. Lily why don’t you ask Severus if he’d like to come.” You said. Lily shook her head and sighed,

“I should stay home.”

“Lily you love Queen. Either come with us on your own or ask Severus.” You placed your hand over Lily’s and she made a face,

“Your hand is wet.”

“Sirius.” You rolled your eyes. Your other hand was still over James’s mouth and you finally looked at him and he smiled at you with his lust blown eyes. You moved your hand down so it was on James’ tie and pulled him up.

“We’re going now,” you said, looking at the group, “I’ll get us twelve tickets. We’ll talk more at breakfast tomorrow.”

“Walk him like a dog!” Sirius called after you both. You led James to the prefects bathroom and started undressing. James fell back into the steamy, bubbling baths and you set yourself down on top of him. He was kissing up your neck as you seated yourself on James’s cock.

James moaned into your open mouth as he helped move you, guide you up and down on his cock.

“God, I love you so much baby,” James was babbling, the way he usually did when he was close. He was moving you faster and faster and he choked out a desperate “don’t stop!” His hand was fisted in your hair and he stumbled out a “Regulus,” before he came. He took several deep breaths, resting his forehead on yours and smiling.

“I think we need to talk about something, James.” You said, getting off him and sitting next to him.

“Alright? What’s up?”

“Have you realized that since the incident with Regulus-”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“I know. But I think we need to. Every time we’ve had sex in the last two months you’ve moaned Regulus’s name. I think you want him James.�� You said. You could practically see the gears turning in James’ brain.

“I…this is really confusing.” James shook his head.

“You don’t need to do anything, James. Just think about what you want.”

“I want you!”

“I know you do. But you can want more than one thing.” You said with a small smile. You and James did not discuss it further.

Finally, Friday was upon you all and you were more than excited to see Queen. You had been ready for hours and you were sitting up in the marauder’s dorm watching the boys get ready. Remus was pouting as he sat on his bed wearing a normal pair of jeans, sweater, and tennis shoes. Sirius, on the other hand, was going all out. He was wearing a tight pair of trousers and a leather jacket with no shirt underneath. He was currently lining his eyes with a dark eyeliner and snapping at Remus,

“Moony so help me god if you don’t change I’m going to hit you.”

“I don’t even want to go!” Remus protested. You sat down on the bed next to Remus and laid your head on his shoulder,

“Remus. Just change so you can shut Sirius up.”

“Fine!” Remus got up and started rifling through his trunk.

“Where’s my boyfriend?” You asked, looking around the dorm. Peter was looking between two graphic tees that his sister must have sent. One was for the Beatles and one was for Bowie.

“Which one do I wear?” Peter asked, obviously bewildered.

“Bowie.” You nodded.

“I’m here!” James said, walking out of the bathroom. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a smart looking sweater, and a leather jacket. He was also walking uncomfortably, presumably finally breaking in the pair of doc Martens that you had bought him for Christmas a year back.

“You look good,” you said with a smile.

“So do you,” James winked at you. You were dressed how you assumed most girls at the concert would be, a Queen shirt that Mary had cut up for you, a leather skirt, and your own doc Martens.

Remus had finally changed and was now in a stiff pair of jeans, a thin long sleeve t shirt and a leather jacket. You had never seen so many wizards in leather. There was a knock at the door and you knew it could only be the other girls, finally ready. You let them in and Mary ran immediately to Sirius, helping him finish his eyeliner. Mary was dressed like you, with a cut up t shirt and a pleated mini skirt.

“Mary, is that your skirt from third year?” You asked.

“Yes! I needed a skirt I could cut shorter and Marlene knew a spell to expand the waistline!” Mary beamed. Marlene and Lily were dressed a little more conservatively. Lily was wearing a v-neck sweater and a pair of jeans and was twisting her ring on her finger nervously. Marlene was wearing leather pants and a tight top that rode up at times to show off her toned stomach. Marlene reached up to grab a flask that was sitting on a high shelf and Peter gasped and said,

“Marlene! Is that belly button piercing?”

Marlene blushed bright red and immediately tried to pull her shirt down.

“Ah ah! Too late McKinnon!” James said and laughed.

“How did I not notice that before? Did you guys see that?” Lily said, turning and looking at you and Mary, who both shook your heads.

“Yaz did it over the break,” Marlene mumbled, her face staying that same unnatural shade of red.

“So Lily,” you could sense that Marlene was getting uncomfortable so you changed the subject, “is Severus coming?”

“Ah, sort of,” Lily shrugged, “he’s going with a few other Slytherins. Said he’ll see me there.”

“Who are the other Slytherins, Evans?” Sirius asked, his eyes even more piercing now against the thick black eyeliner.

“I think Barty and Regulus.” Lily sighed.

“Oh my god! My damn brother! Get over here Moony! You’re wearing eyeliner.” Sirius commanded.

“What? No!” Remus protested.

“If Regulus is going to be there I need to make him as angry as possible. Seeing my boyfriend at a concert with thick eyeliner will do it.” Sirius snapped.

“Just let him do it, Remus. He’ll poke out your eye before he backs down.” James said with a head shake. So twenty minutes later, Remus’s eyes were thickly lined and you all were on your way to Hogsmeade to apparate into London. You and James apparated first, since Yaz had left the tickets at will call for you and as a half-blood you were one of the few in the group who were familiar with the muggle world.

“Hiya,” you greeted the man at will call, “picking up tickets. They were left by Yasmine Patel.”

“What’s the name on them?” The man asked. You gave the man your first and last name and he shook his head, “Sorry. I don’t have them under that name.”

“What!” You looked at James a little panicked.

“Is it under Potter?” James tried.

“Yep. Enjoy the show.” The man handed you the tickets.

“Why would Yaz leave them under your name? She told me about the tickets.” You said, taking your ticket from James as you waited for the others to arrive.

“Look again at the name on them,” James chuckled. He handed you the sticky note that was stuck on the tickets. Written there was your first name but instead of your last name there was Potter.

“Oh she’s hilarious.” You said with an eyeroll, crumpling up the sticky note. The rest of the group made their way over and took their tickets.

“What’s that in your hand?” Sirius asked you as you made your way into the pub. It was pretty crowded but your large group was able to spread itself over a few tables comfortably. Marlene ran off almost immediately to see Yasmine, Mary and Roman had disappeared, and you could see Peter and Dorcas chatting with a few Hufflepuffs. Seated at the table was just you and James, Remus and Sirius, and Lily. Lily offered to grab a round of drinks first, but you knew was looking around for Severus. It didn’t seem like any of the Slytherins had made their way to the pub yet.

“Oh, nothing. Look what Yaz left the tickets under at will call.” You handed Sirius the crumpled paper against your better judgement. Sirius immediately started laughing and said,

“Mrs. Potter! Thank you so much for arranging this visit!”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Lupin.” You teased back. Lily returned with a tray of drinks for you all as you heard a man tap a few times on the microphone.

“Hello everyone, thank you for coming to our pub. All shots of well liquor are half off for the rest of the night. Without further ado, Queen.” The man stood back to let the band run on stage. Sirius started screaming at the top of his lungs and grabbed Remus by the hand, running to the stage.

It was only 11:30 when Queen left the stage and everyone had had a great time, even Remus who nodded his head a few times during Get Down, Make Love. You all agreed to stay and continue drinking as a smaller local band took the stage to play some background music for the pub.

Remus and Sirius disappeared at one point in the evening and they returned to the table with Sirius's eye makeup smudged, Sirius was wiping his mouth crudely with the back of his hand, and Remus had a dumb little grin. Sirius took his seat back at the table as Remus disappeared off.

“Did Severus not come, Lily?” You asked. You were secretly a little upset that you hadn’t run into Regulus again.

“No, I don’t think so.” Lily said, a little crestfallen.

“Don’t worry,” Remus said, holding a tray of shots that he got from the bar for you all, “Snape, Reg, and Barty all have a table near the bar. Don’t worry, Lily, they’re as enchanting as ever.”

“Oh!” Lily shot up and ran over to the table.

“If they come over here, I swear.” Sirius said, grabbing his and Lily’s shots off the table.

“You think Regulus will come over here?” James asked. You could detect the glimmer of hope in his voice.

“Why?” Sirius teased, “Got a crush? Better watch out Mrs. Potter.”

“So,” James said hastily, “are we going to take this shot or what?”

“Sooner is better than later,” Remus said, nodding his head over to the group of Slytherins that were following Lily back over to your table. You all clinked the glasses together and took the shot, chasing it with sips of your soda, or in Sirius’s case chasing it with Lily’s shot.

“Look who’s here!” Lily said with a nervous smile. Snape was glowering at the group as was Barty. Regulus was only glaring at you.

“Reg,” Sirius said coldly.

“Sirius. You look like Bellatrix.” Regulus said, He hadn’t meant it to be funny but you all burst out laughing.

“You do!” Remus said between gasps for air.

“I’m going to go buy,” Sirius took a minute to count, “eight shots for myself.”

“Don’t be like that, Black!” Barty called after Sirius as he took a seat next to Remus at the table. The energy was a little uncomfortable at first but you quickly learned that the Slytherins had no experience in holding muggle liquor and they were very, very drunk. But, you all were very drunk to the point were words were being slurred.

“I can get the next round,” you said, standing up and immediately stumbling. Regulus reached out to steady you.

“Thanks Mrs. Potter!” Remus called.

“I’ll help,” Regulus said, following you to the bar.

“Thanks Reg. You know, you’re not so bad.” You said with a giggle, reaching up to ruffle Regulus’s hair.

“I hate you,” Regulus said. He had been chuckling so you chuckled back but his face became stony as he looked at you again, “I hate you so much. So much. It eats away at me. It makes my stomach hurt. Every time I see you I think about how much I want you dead.”

“Regulus,” you breathed in sharply and wrapped your fingers around the wand that was stuck in the waistband of your pants. You didn’t want to think about the consequences of using magic in front of a giant group of muggles but if Regulus really did mean you harm, the consequences of not using magic would be much worse.

“Everything okay over here?” James asked, his hand on your lower back.

“Fine,” you said, your heart still hammering inside your chest, “I’m going to get some air.” You walked out the back area of the bar where a few people were out there smoking cigarettes and talking on the payphone. There was a couple that were furiously making out and looked like they were near the point of stripping layers. You looked a little closer and saw it was Mary and Roman, unsurprisingly. You leaned back against the wall and fished a cigarette from your pocket and started patting up and down your pants for your lighter.

“Fuck,” you cursed, looking around to see if anyone around looked kind enough to lend their lighter. The scarce few smokers didn’t seem very friendly and more and more people were leaving the creepy back area by the minute.

“Need a light?” you heard a voice ask. You looked up gratefully but immediately drew your wand when you saw that it was Regulus. He was holding out a lighter but you refused, pointing your wand directly in his face.

“Get away from me, Regulus.”

“You didn’t let me explain,” Regulus took a step towards you but you snapped,

“Don’t come closer.”

“Okay,” Regulus said, his hands up. “I hate you because I’m so jealous. I’m so jealous of you and James.”

“Me and James?” You said, lowering your wand slightly.

“I just,” Regulus pressed his fingers to his temples, “I haven’t been able to think since that night in the history classroom.”

“Oh,” your heart was thudding in your chest but for a different reason now. James made his way outside and said,

“What’s going on?” He looked between you and Regulus and saw your wand drawn and he stood in front of you, drawing his own wand, “What did you do, Regulus?”

“James.” You finally lowered your wand and put your hand on James’ arm. “He wants you.”

“What?” James looked at you like you were insane.

“He wants you.” You repeated. James looked back and saw Regulus’s expression. It was odd, Regulus had a look of yearning and desire and a it was a little pathetic but you thought it was also kind of attractive. And it was certainly having a similar effect on James. His brown eyes were lust blown and he was breathing heavier than usual. He lowered his wand and looked at Regulus,

“Is that true?”

“Yes,” Regulus nodded. Before you could discuss anything further, Sirius stumbled out, laughing drunkenly.

“Hey, so I,” he paused as he took stock of the situation, “everything okay?”

“Fine.” You said quickly.

“Anyway. Peter threw up everywhere so they’re kicking us out of the pub. You all ready to apparate back?”

You all apparated back to Hogsmeade. There was an odd energy between you, James, and Regulus but everyone else seemed to be too drunk to notice. Sirius was practically hanging on you with his arm heavy over your shoulders. You had your arm around Sirius’ waist and you were using all your strength to keep him upright as he spouted his drunken nonsense.

“Oh Mrs. Potter you’re so good to me.” Sirius giggled, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Oh Mr. Lupin I wish you would walk on your own.” You responded. You saw in your peripheral vision that Regulus made a face when Sirius called you ‘Mrs. Potter’.

“I think I can get him upstairs,” Remus said, pulling Sirius’ arm over his own shoulders and heading upstairs towards the Gryffindor dorms, Peter trailing behind them. Barty and Snape made their back downstairs towards the Slytherin dorms and you, James, and Regulus were left alone in the corridor.

“We should talk,” James said.

“Let’s get out of the corridor before we get a detention.” You said. James nodded and pulled out the marauders map.

“Looks like the charms classroom is open.” James grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the charms classroom. You stretched your own hand out to Regulus but he shook his head and followed a few paces behind.

“What did you look at?” Regulus asked, looking over at the map that James was pushing back into his pocket.

“Just a map,” James said quickly. You made it to the charms classroom and you sat on top of one of the tables and just watched James and Regulus.

Regulus was nervous, you could practically hear his heavy heartbeat. James, curiously, did not seem very nervous. He was looking at Regulus with a calm and even expression.

“What did you say to my girlfriend?” He asked.

“What?” Regulus was gasping for breath. He looked uncomfortable under the piercing gaze of James’ dark eyes.

“You must have said something to her to make her draw her wand at the bar,” James seemed completely calm but you could see that his knuckles were white as he tightly gripped the edge of a desk.

“I, I…” Regulus was just gaping and struggling to form thoughts.

“He told me he hated me.” You said.

“That’s unacceptable,” James shook his head. “Take your shirt off.” He said it so suddenly and which such force that you had your fingers on the hem of your own shirt before you realized that James was talking to Regulus, not to you. Regulus tore his shirt off and you took a moment to appreciate his delicate, blemishless skin. His skin was so fair you could almost see every single blue vein underneath. Regulus looked back up at you before looking back at James, waiting for the next command.

“Take your panties off,” James said to you this time. You obeyed, pulling the red panties off and holding them in your hand. James walked over to you and took them in his own hands. He held them up to his nose and sniffed before focusing his attention back to Regulus.

“She smells good, Regulus. So good.”

“Can I,” Regulus wet his lips and cleared his throat, “Can I taste?”

“On your knees.” James nodded and Regulus dropped to his knees. James walked over to you and stuck two of his fingers deep inside you. You gasped and grasped James’ wrist in surprise. He didn’t keep his fingers inside you for long and he took them out almost as quickly as they were in. He walked over and held his outstretched fingers in front of Regulus’ lips. Regulus wrapped his lips around James’ fingers and sucked like his life depended on it. James grabbed Regulus’ jaw roughly and pushed his fingers down deeper into Regulus’ mouth. Regulus took them well at first but James pushed his fingers farther and Regulus began to gag and his eyes were starting to water but he showed no other signs on resistance.

“Good,” James said, a little breathless, as he removed his fingers. Regulus had a little bit of spit rolling down his chin as he kept his eyes trained on James. You felt soaking wet at the whole display and you shut your legs and started rubbing them together, trying to find some friction. Regulus’ eyes shot over to you then back to James. James then looked over at you.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said, walking over to you and pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I’ve been neglecting you.” He sunk down his knees and carefully parted your legs. He sent a look back at Regulus before diving into your pussy. His tongue entered and exited you quickly as his nose bumped up against your clit. Your fingers reached for his hair and you locked eyes with Regulus. Regulus was studying you like a painting as you moaned and bucked against James’ face. James added his fingers and pushed his mouth up to your clit and you were done for, panting and moaning until you came. James came back up and kissed you, his hand in your hair this time. He broke away and rested his forehead on yours, just staring at you. He stretched his arm out behind him and snapped his fingers at Regulus.

“Come here.” He said, without even looking over at him. Regulus scampered over and sat on his knees again, looking up at James.

“What do you want?” James asked Regulus, finally turning away from you.

“You,” Regulus responded, his eyes big and starry.

“Just me?”

“Just you.”

“Well you can’t have just me,” James said, gesturing to you, “we’re sort of a package deal.”

“I don’t want her,” Regulus pouted.

“Hey!” James slapped Regulus across the face, ”watch your mouth.”

“If it means I can have you, I’ll have her too,” Regulus said, swallowing against the lump in his throat. You felt awkward, uncomfortable, like you were intruding on a very private moment between James and Regulus.

“It’s not entirely dependent on your terms,” James exhaled through his nose.

“No, no! I can be good. So good I swear,” Regulus said, sticking two of his own fingers in his mouth to wet them before sticking them inside you. You gasped and looked rapidly between James and Regulus. “I’ll be so good!” Regulus repeated, using his free hand to pull James pants down and spitting in his free hand before stroking James.

Regulus was very talented with his hands, as evidenced by yours and James’ simultaneous moans. Regulus made you cum quickly and he pulled his fingers out of you to focus his attention on James. You got up off the table and joined Regulus, taking the tip of James’ cock into your mouth and kitten licking it. James was looking at you both, beneath him, with lust blown eyes. You outstretched your hand and gently pushed Regulus’ mouth towards James’ cock. Regulus took James into his mouth and you could hear him control his breathing as he took James as much as could. James was rougher with Regulus then he was with you and you could tell Regulus was trying to control his gag reflex but James was borderline fucking Regulus’ face.

“James,” you said softly, putting your hand on James’ stomach to slow him, “be gentle.” James slowed his movements and let Regulus pull off and take a gasping breath.

“I’m sorry,” James panted, “your mouth just felt so fucking good oh my god.” James ran a hand through his hair.

“Don’t be.” Regulus said, “It was hot.”

You were overcome for a moment and you pulled Regulus in and kissed him. Regulus was shocked at first but he kissed you back. It was sweet and gentle, lots of lips and tongue and soft breathy moans. You broke away and you pulled James down to your level. You gently pushed Regulus and James closer together until James finally crossed the distance and kissed Regulus. This was rougher, harder. More teeth and light biting and desperate moans. Regulus and James pulled away and James said,

“I want to try something.”

“Anything for you,” Regulus responded. James positioned Regulus so he was above you and Regulus pushed into you. Regulus’ body was a contrast of yours. His sharp contours against your soft ones. James watched as Regulus fucked you. Then, James pushed himself into Regulus. Regulus released a strangled moan and practically collapsed on top of you, his face in your neck so you could hear his moans. You locked eyes with James and James leaned over Regulus’ body to kiss you.

Regulus came first, inside you, an action that you would think about later. You came shortly after still around Regulus’s cock and you were far overstimulated but Regulus couldn’t pull out of you as James was still chasing his own orgasm. James finally came, pulling out Regulus quickly and cumming all over Regulus’ back. Regulus pulled out of you and you all just laid in the charms classroom for a few minutes, breathing and savoring the silence.

“Sirius is going to be so mad when he finds out about this,” you said, chuckling at the shocked expression of the two men in front of you.

Taglist: @skyesayshi

#James potter #James potter x reader #James potter smut #Aaron Taylor johnson #Aaron Taylor johnson smut #regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black smut #jegulus #jegulus x reader #dead gay wizards #marauders #marauders smut #sirius black #remus lupin

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starks-hero · 2 years

Text

Iris

Pairing: Crowley x human!Reader

Summary: “When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.” Or, Crowley finally decides to tell you, his human lover, that he is a demon. He's justifiably terrified.

Word Count: 2.0k

Warnings: hurt/comfort

a/n: shout out to the wonderful anon that chucked me headfirst back into my good omens' obsession. anyway, I'm not saying you should listen to Iris whilst reading this but–

Crowley loved your eyes.

Well, he loved the entirety of you. But there was just something about their alluring shade, the way they watched him so intently and with softness he couldn't recall last being regarded with. Their divinity reflected that of the cosmos themselves. Crowley should know, he built them.

He never really understood the whole ‘eyes are the window to the soul’ line before you. From Crowley's, albeit limited understanding, souls didn't have windows, and even if they did, it wouldn't be a very good indicator of one's character. Even the bleakest of days look more promising from behind the safety of a window.

You were the one to change that perception, to take it in gentle hands and mould it into something softer, more sentimental. You proved to him that maybe there was some truth to the verses he'd heard poets recite again and again over the millennia. When with you, Crowley could feel the unconditional kindness beaming from you like rays from the sun, a readiness and willingness to be good that made him fall for humanity all over again.

And yet despite everything your eyes inspired in him, you were yet to see his own. And for good reason. Crowley still didn't understand what miracle, (or lack thereof) had transpired for you to be with him, but he did know that he wasn't about to put it at risk. You were his anti-thesis; made up of all things good and loveable. The thought of how quickly you'd leave the moment you saw his eyes and all they stood for was one that plagued him daily. But on the other side of the coin, Crowley couldn't disregard the fact that you deserved to know. You deserved the truth. You deserved so much more...

It was time for the bell to toll.

And so, Crowley followed his usual routine of picking you up after your shift, only this time the music was cranked up double what it usually would be (already deafening) in an attempt to drown out his frantic overthinking. The windows shuddered with each guitar solo and Crowley was sunk so far down in his seat his foot was pressed uncomfortably against the gas pedal. If it weren't for the fact that the Bentley was somewhat sentient, he probably would have swerved off the road a mile or two back.

The moment he set foot in your home an uncomfortable burning sensation shot up his spine. He cursed whoever had blessed your house before realising that said uncomfortable feeling was in fact a combination of both his nerves as well as the conscious he forgot he had.

The drive back to the flat was tortuous, for Crowley at least. Your hand was on his thigh as he drove, drawing circles into the fabric. The ever-alluring sound of Freddie Mercury's voice droned on in the background as Crowley rehearsed what he wanted to say, swapping out words and rephrasing sentences before restarting altogether. The closer he got to home the more hopeless he began to feel and by the time he was holding the flat door open for you Crowley fought the urge to find the nearest cave, catacomb or other undisturbed dwelling to take a century-long nap in. He just wanted to wait this whole thing out.

The reminder that you wouldn't be here in a century served as an adequate kick in the arse as he closed the door behind him.

His shoulders were slumped and his steps slow as he moved through the apartment's halls in all their bleakness. The only room in the entirety of the flat that had any real colour was his conservatory, filled to the brim with succulents and tropical plants. The moment he entered said room he was met with the sight of green leaves and an earthy scent heavy in the air. It was an impressive sight, really; plants that stretched feet off the ground, leaves proudly pointed skyward, (although given Crowley’s presence it is far more likely this display was out of fear.) Ivy vines had begun to climb up the walls, something Crowley had intended to deal with before deciding he was rather fond of how they contrasted the greyness of the polished stone they clung too.

Among it all, in the very centre of the botanical display, the plant you'd gifted him proudly sat. A purple Iris, its petals bright and its leaves healthy and succulent. Its scent was sweeter than that of the other plants and the flower, despite its size, did not seem intimidated by the impressive foliage that surrounded it.

Crowley’s fingers delicately ghosted over the leaves. the sentimental side of him liked to believe that the flower’s flourishing beauty was because it had been gifted to him by you. Something about everything growing better with love. The more reasonable part of him acknowledged that it was due to the fact the plant had been placed nearest to the window as well as being the first watered each morning and night. The battle between his sentiment and rationality was nullified by the fact that you were also the reason the plant received such treatment, favouritism having quickly steered his hand.

You just had that habit about you; inspiring beauty whether you meant to or not.

As Crowley studied the flower that in so many ways reminded him of you, he imagined the leaves becoming dry and shrivelled, of the royal purple petals withering beneath his touch. He pulled his hand away.

He found you reclined along the couch, one arm covering your face whilst the other hung weightlessly off the side of the furniture. Your dramatic pose was reminiscent of some tragic renaissance painting and the sight was one that inspired such fondness Crowley didn't even mention how you had your feet up on the fine velvet.

“Tired, love?” He asked instead.

“You have no idea. Today was an utter nightmare.”

Even whilst talking about the most mundane of things your voice was siren-like, resonant with divinity. Crowley could listen to you for hours, for the rest of his life. Until his immortal heart stopped and the earth beneath him turned to ash.

“I feel better now that I'm here with you.”

The words sent a dagger into his side, the following guilt twisting it in place. He moved to join you on the sofa and with a gentle tap to your ankle, he watched you move your feet before taking a seat beside you.

Your eyes were on him, he could feel it. The tension in his body and the seriousness of his expression was not something you were used to. He spoke before you could voice your concern.

“There's something I want–” He swallowed. “Something I need to tell you.”

“Okay.” Your breathy laugh that encompassed the word was an admirable attempt to hide your nerves but Crowley knew you better. “What is it?”

Silence followed.

Crowley opened and closed his mouth a few times, no words passing from his lips despite how hard he tried to voice them. There was a building pressure in his temples and he felt like his forked tongue was tied in a knot.

“Crowley.” Your hand travelled across the plane of his thigh and grabbed his own. It was a comforting touch yet he fought the urge to pull away. “What is it? You're scaring me.”

Another twist of the dagger.

“I– I just, it's that...” Crowley made a noise that fell somewhere between a groan and a whine. “I... I'm–” foreswearing words altogether, he reached for his glasses. With shaking hands, he pulled them away. “I'm not... good.”

He couldn't bring himself to look at you, to see the horror and fear in your eyes. “I'm quite the opposite actually.”

He felt your hand leave his own, the skin you'd once touched feeling bare. His chest hurt, his eyes stung and when he finally turned to you your fear and disbelief sent another sharpened blade through his chest.

“What–” The word fell quietly, the beginning of a sentence you'd never finish. Crowley took the liberty of answering regardless.

“Demon, unholy horror, the reason children are afraid of the dark.”

When you said nothing, he continued.

“I wanted to tell you. I should have told you. I never meant for this to go so far. I tried to stop it so many times but then you'd say or do something and I– just never wanted it to end. And I know that's selfish but–” Crowley motioned to his eyes. “That's what I am. Selfish, unforgivable– a bad omen.”

As his words set in you remained unmoving. Your eyes hadn't left his, not since he'd pulled off his glasses and laid everything bare.

“Love...” There was another stretch of silence and Crowley felt like he was drowning; like he was back at Mesopotamia with wind and rain at his back and a wave so large it blended with the sky fast approaching on the horizon. “Please, say something.”

You said nothing.

Rather, you raised your hand against his cheek, thumb timidly tracing beneath his eye, as if to ensure it was real.

Crowley flinched.

“This is what you've been hiding from me? All this time.” You asked. “And here I thought you just really didn't like the sun.”

Crowley blinked a few times, lips falling in a frown. He backed away from your touch.

“Crowley...”

“You've just found out that I'm evil incarnate and you're making jokes.”

“What would you prefer I do?”

“I'm a demon.” Crowley ensured to emphasise the word. “I'd prefer you did what anyone else would do.”

‘Leave.’ This part was silent. ‘For your own sake.’

You didn't waver. Your hand fell back against his shoulder, testing the waters and when he didn't pull away you continued.

“From my understanding, demons are supposed to be cruel, unlovable. So if you're a demon,” your hand ventured to his neck, Crowley's eyes falling shut despite himself as you traced his jaw. “Then no offence love but you're not a very good one.”

Crowley couldn't quite place the feeling that took hold of him at your words, but it left him feeling both hollowed and relieved. His eyes stung again, but this time he was smiling.

“You're being far too conversational about this.” His fingers encircled your wrist, he could feel the steady beat of your pulse beneath his thumb. “This really doesn't bother you..?”

You shook your head. “And even if it did, I'm in too deep now to get hung up on something like that.”

Crowley tried to think rationally but instead, he thought of the beauty of the cosmos, of dark purple petals and perfumed air. Of your eyes and their warmth and this time the idea of a withering flower didn't even cross his mind.

“You're sure about this, falling in love with a demon. Dangerous business, that.”

“I'll take my chances,” you mused. “Besides, being without you is the only real hell I can imagine.”

Crowley chortled, boyish and pure, a noise that certainly should not have come from a demon. "Aziraphale been loaning you his books, has he?"

“No, but I am trying to cheer you up." You gently nudged his side. “Is it working?”

Crowley's reaction told you it was. His eyes in all their vibrant brilliance shone so bright you felt you were staring at the sun. When he reached for his glasses, your hand worked on its own accord to stop him.

“Leave them off, please? I want to see you." Your words were cleansing and for the first time in an eternity, he felt worthy. Worthy of adoration, of love, of you.

Crowley kissed you, and you did not wilt.

tag list: @bakerstreethound @miraclesoflove @doozywoozy @mywellspringoflife

#sir let me kiss your head and spend the evening complementing your eyes in every language I know #man oh man did I have a field day with the title (the song his eyes AND the flower) 3 for 1 #crowley x reader #good omens #good omens crowley #good omens crowley x reader #crowley x you #crowley imagine #crowley x y/n #crowley good omens

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