#glimmer headers

[forklift-certified-catgirl]

Since my reblog isn't getting much traction here's part 2 of ponies with shitty pc setups

#melty art #melty talks #mlp #my little pony #rainbow dash #starlight glimmer #trixie lulamoon #derpy hooves #muffins #feel free to use these and pfps or headers or whatever you want

[hoolay-boobs]

Bi dyke banners 💜💛❤️

Requested by the very rad @pride-cat

#bisexual #bi dyke #dyke #banner #header #bi pride #oh no I forgot korrasami :( #bi sapphic #bisexual pride #bisexual sapphic #bi positivity #bisexual positivity #bubbline #harlivy #luz noceda #she ra and the princesses of power #she ra #spop #glimmer #entrapta #my headers #gif #dyke pride #adventure time #marceline the vampire queen #princess bubblegum #bi4bi #bi4bi couple #bisexuality #sapphic pride

[universestreasures]

Beserk Mode (also reffered to as the Awakened State) is a state of being Yuya can slip into following him and Yuto's uniting (AKA post Ep 37). It is a state that comes about through multiple means, but the main requirements are that Yuya's RAGE needs to be heightened, or he is in close proximity with the other fragments of Zarc (AKA Yugo and Yuri).

Visually wise, Yuya's dicrohomatic hues are replaced with glowing monochromatic golden hues. These eyes are meant to represent Zarc, and how Yuya is channeling his power. His voice is also deeper, colder, and is prone to yelling and growling. Some might describe it as...monster like.

This state grants Yuya a whole slew of different abilities. This includes but not limited to: the ability to make duel damage real far beyond Solid Vision's safety limits, the ability to manifest dark energy waves in and out of duels, the ability to manifest cards for a needed situation, and heightened, aggressive dueling abilities. In short, he becomes a BEAST of an individual who should NOT be messed with unless they wanna end up dead.

Yuya is usually incapable of controlling his mind in this state, however. It is more often than not him acting on pure emotion, or under the influence of Zarc's spirit that dwells within. And in most cases, he cannot remember what he did while in the state following it, making the situation usually even worse.

Beserk Mode Yuya will not hesitate to try and KILL or SERIOUSLY INJURE whoever is in his way, whether it's a friend or foe. He is a walking path of destruction and pain. So, anyone who encounters him should be cautious.

Ways to snap him out of this state generally include making him pass or tire out, helping him calm down (usually by helping him think of his friends and or Yuzu), or managing to somehow overpower him. It's not easy, but it can be done.

Expect Yuya when he's back to normal to be very remorseful about any damages he causes (the events are usually very traumatic for him if he remembers) as this state goes against everything he stands for.. It takes a great toll on his mental and physical state, and he hates it a lot.

Note: He does lose access to this state following his rebirth following the defeat of Zarc (something I'll go into in an eventual post canon hc post). So, he won't have this for any threads set for him Post Canon.

#💎 Entermate Treasure (Yuya Sakaki) #💎 Entermate's Destructive Rage (Beserk Yuya) #💎 Entermate's Glimmers And Glitz (Yuya Headcanons) #💎 Entermate's Treasured Homeland (Yuya Main Verse) #arc-v spoilers #tw long post #(Decided to go fancy with a header for this since i made the gif already LOL #(but yeah here is another yuya hc post and this time its for how his beserk mode works which is pretty similiar to his canon version

[softlyspector]

Honeyed

Summary: You hate being touched, but you might be willing to put aside your discomfort for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~11.7k

Warnings: slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, reader has issues with touch and is mostly touch adverse, tattoos and getting tattooed (the reader only has one tattoo that is described in any detail), description of a past abusive relationship and a bad experience getting tattooed, insecurity, anxiety, loneliness, implied undefined past trauma with men, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this

A/N: We're ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. I love this fic with everything I am and hope you all like it too. I'm trying something new with this header because none of the gif were giving me what I wanted, so I hope its not too cringe as I am not an aesthetic girlie. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

Summer is at its peak when you first happen by Joel Miller's tattoo studio.

The sky is a jewel bright, cerulean blue, the shining yellow saturation of the sun blurring the air around you in a washed out haze that reminds you of childhood summers past. 

Main Street’s sidewalk is hot enough to fry an egg, hot enough to boil soup. It sends shimmering waves up from the asphalt. Blinding sunshine pierces through the tired trees that line the road, undulating waves of emerald green and twinkling golden light shifting over the pavement. The leaves wilt in the heat. A single cloud floats on the sky’s horizon. 

The sun feels nice, maybe a little like you’re baking alive, but you don’t mind it. When you suck in a deep breath of that sun warmed air, you feel at home—it tastes like dust and heat and the slightly floral desert bloom. 

The town, just a couple hours outside Austin, already feels more like home to you than the city ever did. It’s idyllic, lush with shaded parks, an ice cream parlor and a coffee shop, plenty of restaurants and food trucks, a walkable little main thoroughfare not far from your apartment above a bookstore. 

It’s more than idyllic; it feels like a town straight out of a novel. Quiet and quaint and safe. 

And, apparently, it has a tiny tattoo studio that you’d somehow missed on all your walks through town. 

The shop looks a bit rustic—all raw wood tones and metal—but the art that hangs in the front windows is beautiful. Paintings that seem to be for sale hang next to artfully taken photos of healed tattoos. 

You step closer, pressing a hand over your brow to block out part of the glare that rains down from the sky in glimmering waves. 

The lone cloud in the sky slides over the sun in what feels like a moment of divine intervention, just for you, so you can see the displayed art properly.

It’s lovely, and your skin begins to itch and tingle with a need you know well. You know exactly what you’d ask for, from the hand of the person who’d created that which hangs in the front window. 

You want—need—another tattoo. You need this person’s art to live on your skin, to make a home there. 

You step back from the glass as the cloud drifts on and the sun reveals itself again, perfect golden rays slipping over your exposed skin. The world seems to filter back in to you then. The heat of the day, the hush of the breeze that does nothing to cool the air, the sweat gathering at the base of your throat. 

Children shriek at the park a block over, splashing in the fountain at the center of it all, parents reclined on benches in the sun, cold lemonade close at hand. The scent of sugar and sun and fried food burns through the air. 

The buzzing need only increases as you note the name of the shop and move on to the record store and then the clothing boutique, your mind still hovering in front of the studio. 

As much as you would have liked to just burst in, you want more than what a walk-in appointment could probably get you. That, and you needed to do some research about the place before you decided, no matter how much your skin itched with want. 

To your dismay, the tattoo shop seems to only have one artist, though it shouldn’t have surprised you, considering the size of the shop. It’s tiny and you doubt there was room for more than one artist to comfortably work there. 

A fairly new instagram account lists his name as Joel Miller, owner of, and soul artist at, the studio you had passed. The shop doesn’t seem to have a website, but the few google reviews that it does have are all glowingly positive. 

Bookings appear to be wide open according to the instagram bio, but a different kind of itch crawls under your skin at the thought of being tattooed by another man. Your stomach goes foamy, gives an uncomfortable lurch, at the thought of any man at all having to touch you. 

You scroll through the few posts that have made their way onto the account, the last dated two days ago. And, for the first time in years, you feel the need for this person’s art on your skin begin to outweigh your aversion to touch. 

There are no pictures of Joel Miller, just his art, though some of the posts give glimpses of strong hands and thick forearms. Despite yourself, arousal pools in your belly at the sight. A few scars run beneath the wiry black hair on his arms, thick veins snake beneath his skin to collect in rough, strong hands that speak to hard labor. It makes you wonder if he’d always been a tattoo artist or if he’d made a career change at some point. 

Some of the captions on the posts make you snort and you have to wonder if he runs the account himself. You somehow can’t picture the owner of those hands typing out the cheesy, often pun filled, lines. 

You ruminate on it for weeks, passing by the shop anytime you have to walk through town to admire the ever changing line up of photos and art pieces hung in the windows. The second week a drawing of a doe appears among the photos and paintings—big eyes wide, ears alert as she looks over her shoulder, surrounded by a thick forest bright with sun and shadow. Bumblebees hover around her alert ears. 

She looks familiar but you can’t quite place why. 

Sometimes you go out of your way to pass by, just to check out the new photos, even making a day of it, buying yourself an expensive iced coffee and lingering far too long in front of the window, just looking, pretending like the small shop doesn’t take up your every thought. 

You spend each evening hoping for a new post to the shop’s instagram page, hoping, too, that the new post contains glimpses of more than Joel Miller’s hands. 

The man remains an enigma, a mystery, and if he’s ever in the shop when you stand in the window, you never see him. You convince yourself that if you could just get a glance at him, you’d know. You’d know if you could handle being tattooed by him. 

You find yourself rolling your eyes at yourself often. You avoid hugs with friends, cringe your way through having anyone unfamiliar do your hair, tense at casual accidental touch. Phantom echoes of pain and want twin themselves around your heart, slide thick and cloying around your chest, breaking your breath from your body. 

It’s inexplicable, how much you crave touch and fear it. It’s terrifying, how you wonder what Joel’s hands would feel like. 

Probably it would feel like everyone else’s touch always has. Like your skin is too tight, like your heart might stop beating, like there’s something wrong with you for feeling like prey near capture, like the soft press of another person's hand might start burning. 

One hot afternoon, you finally find out what Joel looks like. 

The heat is relentless that day as it has been for weeks, the ice cream you’d stopped for at the local parlor rapidly melting as you completed your, now weekly, routine of stopping by the tattoo studio. As unbearable as the heat is, you somehow still find it blissful. On this day, a young woman stands outside the shop cleaning the front window. The door is propped open, frigidly cold air swirling out onto the street. 

“Sarah?” A voice calls from within, graveled and gruff and warm. “You ‘bout finished up out there? We need to get goin’. Tommy’s waitin’.” 

The girl, who could only be Sarah, turns away from the window, swiping a few errant strands of her hair away from her forehead, her opposite hand anchoring on her hip as she answers back.

You don’t catch her response, too distracted trying to glimpse the man just inside the door. 

All you’re able to see for a moment is a crop of dark hair laced with a fine sprinkling of gray before his broad shoulders that test the strength of the t-shirt he wears comes into view. Dark wash jeans fit snugly around his thighs and narrow hips, worn but well kept boots on his feet. He’s certainly handsome and looks rugged, and that both scares you and thrills you.

When you glance back up to his face, you meet his eyes. The slash of sun, a spinning shard of light falls over his gaze when he pokes his head out the door. In the warmth of the Texas sun, his eyes are cast in honeyed tones. The man you know must be Joel Miller smiles at you, one forearm lifting to brace against the doorway, the lines by his eyes crinkling up. His beard is threaded with that attractive gray too. 

“Howdy,” he says and he looks like he means to say more, but something seizes your throat and you avert your eyes and keep walking, barely managing to nod back politely. You don’t dare to breathe until you’re well past his shop.  

It takes you two blocks to realize the ice cream in your fist had melted over the edge of the cup and dripped over your fingers and that the man whose art you’ve been lusting over for weeks is just as pretty as his hands. 

Joel noticed you the first day you lingered outside his studio. 

He’d watched you cup a hand over your eyes, squinting against the glare of the sun. Your nose had scrunched up too as you gazed in at what was hung in the window. 

A curl of nervousness that he couldn’t exactly place had settled hard in his gut. But you just looked, eyes filled with wonder as honeyed sunshine fell in drafts around you. He half expected a colony of bees to buzz around you, like some long forgotten god. 

You’d reminded him then of a deer caught by surprise, big eyes and searching gaze pulling him in, something skittish and troublesome looming around you. 

It wasn’t in Joel’s nature to bother folks on the street anyway, but he suspected if he even cracked the door open you’d go flying down the street in a cloud of warmed sun, just like a deer that hears the first snap of a branch under a hunter’s foot. 

Eventually you’d moved on, and he’d tried not to feel too bad about it, not that he had any real reason to. 

His hand had itched as you walked away, to pick up a paint brush or a pencil or a whittling knife.

To his surprise, you start coming back all the time. A least once a week, and sometimes it seemed like you came by just to come by, like you didn’t have any other reason to be out. 

His girls notice, too, when they visit because of course they do. 

Sarah is kinder about it than Ellie who tells him to man up and talk to you. 

He just tells her to mind her own business, watching you look at the things he’d created with wonder and reverence. It flatters him, really, makes an embarrassing blush he’ll never admit to heat his chest. He considers himself a pretty average artist. 

But each time he thinks about following Ellie’s advice, he sees your doe eyes and knows he’d frighten you. 

There’s a drawing that hangs in the window now—several actually—of a doe with wide, curious eyes, not necessarily afraid but cautious. He can’t seem to stop painting, drawing, whittling deer.  

One deer really, a very particular doe that bees seemed to want to follow. 

He wonders if you know that that painting in the front window is of you, if you recognize yourself. You surely don’t, because you keep coming by. 

“Since when are you so obsessed with deer?” Sarah asks one evening. The light has faded from the sky in an orange and red blaze, the close blanket of night wreathing the street outside, street lamps buzzing haloing yellow light in patches down the sidewalk. 

“Always liked deer,” he comments, mumbling it more than anything. 

Sarah rolls her eyes. “Sure.” 

He’s right not to disturb you though. The day he finally gets the chance to say hello to you, when Sarah had insisted on washing the front window free of the accumulated summer dust despite his protests that he would do it, fear darts behind your eyes, nervousness seizing your shoulders. You don’t so much as look at him, head ducked, feet carrying you swiftly down the road away from him. 

A thread of worry that you’d stop coming by wrapped around his chest until the next week when you’d again lodged yourself in the window, peering in at the ever rotating catalog of his work. 

He figures that’s fine for now.

He’d rather you be there, unreachable on the other side of the glass, than have you disappear entirely.  

You are a creature of distrust. Of longing and starved skin, of loneliness and want. You aren’t sure where those things begin and you end, you aren’t sure where it started. Maybe you had been born that way, shoved onto the Earth and into existence with a mistrust of the world that shaped you into an infinitely lonely thing, an incredibly wary thing. 

There’s always been something missing inside you, that might let you bridge that chasm inside you, climb to the other side and put yourself in someone else’s hands and hope they didn’t burn the path behind you. 

Maybe you are skittish and adverse to touch by nature. Maybe it started when you were a kid, with your parents who have never been tactile, not even when you were a child, not even when you were hurt or in pain.

But you aren’t sure, you have never been sure. 

What you do know is that it's left behind a raw hole, aching with a loneliness you can't figure out how to battle.

The times you had slipped your heart into someone else’s palm, wet and sticky with blood, the viscera of who you are, admitting to the pain that vibrated always at a low level frequency below your skin, you regretted it.

Mostly because you’re never able to explain it. It just is. You just are. 

It’s who you’ve always been, and sometimes one step forward necessitated two steps back with how much you could handle. 

Touch wasn’t even always bad, sometimes it was just too much. And no one wanted or tried to understand that sometimes it just felt too good, overwhelmed you to the point of exhaustion, and sometimes to pain. 

You’ve always wondered if there would ever be anyone who’s touch felt safe, felt like it belonged. 

The aversion you have to touch and the deepening trust issues that grew wilder every year were only solidified by your last boyfriend, by the tattoo he carved into your skin. He confirmed everything you ever needed to know about yourself, that you were not worth cracking the code on, that no one would ever be willing to try to handle you with care, to expose you slowly, to meet you halfway. To know when you asked not to be touched that you weren’t mad or punishing them. 

If he wasn’t willing to put up with you, he’d said, to figure it out, then no one else would be. 

You swore off having a relationship, content in the loneliness that you were destined to have claw at your heart, at least in that way. 

But with that tattoo came too a deep mistrust, an aversion to anyone getting too close to you, a swearing off, a final nail in the coffin of trying for things to be thrown back in your face. He’s the reason you moved to this tiny town, away from Austin and all the memories that he’d left in you like jagged shards of mirror, reflecting everything you didn’t want to see. 

Before he tattooed you, you’d been tattooed several times before. The experience had always been good, one of the few ways you didn’t mind being touched. It had always been the making of a happy memory for you. And he had taken that from you. 

He hadn’t just stolen something you loved from you, but shut the door on vulnerability or intimacy with almost anyone. 

Joel Miller’s tattoo studio, his stupidly attractive hands, the deep drawl of his howdy, and most of all the beauty of his art in the front window of the shop, captures your mind, ensnares your every thought. It’s woven a net around all the thoughts and worries that normally flutter around your head and calls for them to be silent. 

“All I do is think about this damn tattoo,” you say to a friend back in Austin one evening, phone squished between your shoulder and your face as you cook dinner. “Is that normal? Like, I can’t just go get one somewhere else, by anyone else.” 

No one knew about the sharp fanged demons that lingered in your past. The distrust and loneliness that ate out parts of your heart, bite by bite, year by year. But Leah does know about your ex, about the tattoo on your shoulder that still aches with long healed pain.  

“You said it looks like he does walk-ins, right?” She asks, not unkindly. “Why not just go talk to him for a bit,” she eases you into it. “See if it might be the right fit. I know. . .things in your past haven’t been easy. But he might be alright. I can go with you, if you think that might help.” 

And that doesn’t seem so bad. Just talking to him doesn’t seem so bad. You find that you want to. Then you would know if you couldn’t be tattooed by him, no matter how much you admired his art. Leah reminds you again of the nice google reviews, the funny little captions on his instagram posts, that he is not your ex even if he is a stranger. 

“He’s running a business,” she says gently. “It isn’t like then.” 

She’s right, you know she is, and you miss the experience, you miss getting tattooed. 

So, the next morning you brace yourself and make the now familiar walk to the little studio, picking up an iced coffee to sip on the way so you hopefully won’t be too sweaty in the early morning sun that blooms rose pink on the horizon. It gives your hands something to do too, and you fidget with the rim of the plastic lid as you walk. 

When you push the door open, Joel is standing at the counter. He has glasses perched on the end of his nose and is paging through a leather bound appointment book that sits next to an ancient computer that looks as though it hasn’t been switched on in a decade.

Something about the sight makes your shoulders loosen just a bit. You certainly hadn’t expected him to look like that, domestic and relaxed and calm. His pen scratches across the paper, a landline phone slotted against his ear. 

He glances up at you in the still open doorway, surprise pulling over his features for a brief moment before he makes a hasty end to the call. It makes heat crawl up your body, the way his attention latches onto you and sticks. “Hey,” he greets when he sits the phone back into the cradle, sliding the glasses off. “I’ve been wonderin’ when you’d finally come in.” 

There’s something light in the rough, drawling timber of his voice, like he’s trying not to startle you, like he’s inexplicably glad you’re there. 

You stiffen and he chuckles, cold air pulsing around you in the doorway before you finally step fully into the shop and let it swing closed behind you. You remain there, just inside the door, trying not to feel like a fish in a barrel, easily caught, even more easily killed. “Caught me, huh?” You try to keep your voice light, waiting for a striking arrow that would never come.  

“S’alright. Thought maybe you just walked this way a lot but you always stop to look,” he gestures at the front window. “My daughter is the one that’s always changin’ it around.” 

“I appreciate her efforts,” you say, taking a hesitant step forward. “I look forward to seeing the changes. Best part of my week.” 

He nods, looking just a tad embarrassed, and then closes the appointment book, giving you his undivided attention. “Lookin’ to get tattooed?” His eyes trace over your exposed skin, noting the few you already have. 

“Maybe,” you answer, giving a half-shrug that you hope comes across as nonchalant. “I saw on instagram that you’re, uh, taking appointments.”

“That I am,” he answers easily. 

You swallow and glance around the studio. It’s as tiny as it seemed from the outside, but homely and comfortable. The walls are a deep green that remind you of forests you’ve never seen. The walls are covered in photos and art, both created and bought, the styles too different to have been made by the same person. 

When you squint closer, you see that a few of them have tiny plaques beneath them, etched with names and dates. Shelves line the walls filled with knick knacks and children’s drawings in frames, and what appear to be family photos. One shelf is stacked with records and coffee table books, an ancient turntable perched precariously on top. A door is propped open behind the dark wooden counter, through which you can see the actual tattooing space, clean and sterile looking. 

A lone guitar is hung on the wall, and you wonder if he plays. Your imagination conjures up hands that you’ve been studying for weeks softly plucking at the strings, curling around the bridge. 

It’s shameful, the way your body flushes at the thought, the ghost of strummed notes floating in the air around you.  

“Darlin’?” 

Joel’s voice pulls your eyes away from the guitar and back to his face. Embarrassment drops like hot coal into the pit of your belly. You like the shape of that word in his mouth. 

“I just wanted to stop in and see if maybe we’d be a good fit,” you explain hastily, not thinking about the words before they fall like broken promises from your lips. “If you’d be interested in tattooing me.” Before he can open his mouth to respond, you continue, “That wasn’t what I—I don’t mean to take up any of your time. Just if you have a moment. I should have messaged maybe—” 

Joel waves you down and gestures around at the empty space. “No, it’s alright, hardly got anyone comin’ through here. Next appointment ain’t ‘til this afternoon.” He reaches below the counter, callused fingers catching on another notebook which he sets on the counter with care. 

You follow the motion of his hands, your eyes snapping back to his when he continues, “What are you lookin’ to get done?” The knot of anxiety in your chest loosens a little when he seems to take your nerves for concern over the piece you want done. 

Joel’s hands are ones that are familiar to you now after all the times you’d spent looking at the spare pictures of them online. That want, the heat, crawls back up inside your lungs and curls up to stay, making a home among the throbbing tendon and muscle. Though you’d glimpsed him that day on the street, it's a very different experience to stand for an extended period in front of him. His voice paired with the broad set of his shoulders, the cut of his brown eyes focused on you, all adds up to something devastating. 

Another vinegary squirm of nerves in your gut is accompanied by your treacherous heart squeezing tight in your chest, battering something long abused, long closed off. 

“You can show me reference pictures if you’ve got ‘em,” he offers when you don’t respond again, instead just looking at him, his presence calming in a way you can’t really explain. You blink and pull out your phone, approaching the counter slowly. The ice in your half finished coffee rattles as you set it on the counter, away from the appointment book so the condensation won’t accidentally get on it. 

Joel unsettles you, but not in a way that people usually unsettle you. Not in the way your ex-boyfriend had from the very beginning. Instead of feeling the need to flee, you feel the urge to stay. 

You show Joel the inspiration pictures you’ve been collecting the last few weeks, swiping slowly through what you have saved in your camera roll and describing what you imagine as best you can. When you lean closer to show him, the scent of clove and cinnamon and leather washes over you. The smell makes you a little dizzy, runs circles around your head. 

His brow is furrowed, concentration etched into his features. “I’ll need some time to work out some designs for ya.”

“That’s alright,” you nod, watching those rough fingers sketch broad lines in the notebook he’d pulled out. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, don’t know where my manners went. I didn’t get your name,” he says, and glances up at you. “I’m Joel,” he holds out a hand.

Sweetheart. You’ll be hearing the low timber of his voice whispering that and darlin’ in your dreams, you’re sure of it. 

You find yourself smiling, your mouth involuntarily pulling up at the corners. You take his hand without thinking. His hand is warm and firm; his fingers engulf yours.

He hums as he takes his hand back, pencil already between his fingers again, and you’re left feeling chilled, like there’s an empty space in the middle of your hand that needs filled. “Real pretty name y’got.” 

Oh. You like the hum of pleasure in your chest that chases the nerves below your skin. It’s a pleasant kind of warm.

“You can send ‘em on to me on that. . .app,” he grumbles. And you have to laugh. Between the landline phone, the physical calendar book, and that app he sounds just like the kind of cranky that you find endearing. “Uh, just so you know if you get a reply that don’t sound like me, it’s because my daughter runs it for me.” 

“Sarah,” you guess, thinking of the young woman you’d seen cleaning the window. 

“Ellie, actually. She thinks she’s a goddamn comedian.” He rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the affection lodged in his gaze. He gestures at one of the pictures framed on a shelf where two teenage girls are slotted on either side of him. “Got two of ‘em,” he clarifies. “Sarah—she does the window. You saw her that day you passed by, the taller one there in the picture.” 

You tilt your head, Joel’s eyes following the motion. “They help you run this place.” 

“They’re my marketing team,” he grumbles. “Self-appointed, if you couldn’t guess.” 

You find yourself leaning on the counter, watching Joel’s pretty hands sketch absentmindedly. “That actually sounds like fun.” 

“They seem to think so,” he agrees, glancing up at the same time you do. A touch of pink colors the high points of his cheeks. The delicate little shading makes something warm curl into your gut. “Anyway,” he clears his throat. “We don’t get a lot of foot traffic around here, you might have noticed. Ellie’s thinkin’ that account might lure people up from Austin.” 

You nod. “It’s a good idea. People have traveled further for tattoos. And we aren’t too out of the way up here.”

“I take it you live around here,” he glances down again, like he finds looking at you hard. 

“Not far,” you confirm. “That’s how I found you.”

He goes silent for a moment, fingers continuing to twitch around the pencil before he looks back at you. “I’ll, uh, have somethin’ to ya in a couple a’ days. You can let me know if you want any changes and we’ll set a date.” 

You straighten, feeling only slightly dismissed. “Oh, yeah, sure. Thank you.” You start to turn when you remember yourself. That’s not really what you came here for. “Actually, listen, I don’t want to waste your time. You don’t need to start on anything. Not yet. I’m not sure just yet, I just wanted to meet you. I really admire your art.” 

You leave it at that. Pouring out all your other issues would just make you look insane. 

Joel raises a curious brow at you, waiting, a question in his eyes that he doesn’t ask as you take a step back. “Alright,” he agrees. “I won’t start on anythin’ just yet.” 

“Okay,” you back further away, trying desperately not to turn and run, aware you must look odd. “I’ll see you around.” 

“I hope so, honey.” 

Though the tattoo shop is cold, heat that rivals the temperature outside dissolves the bones in your chest from the way his eyes linger on you.

But that want—need—is within reach now, and something tells you that you can trust him. 

At least with this. 

Joel sees you more often after the first day you actually come into the shop. 

Well—

He supposes he sees you about the same amount, but now you actually come inside. You always pause in the doorway for half a second, those watchful doe eyes going wide, like your instincts always kick in a second too late.

But once you make it inside, you talk to him, share snippets of your life as you watch him draw, eyes focused on his hands. 

You breakup the monotony of his days, those times between appointments and the few walk-ins that he does see. 

Sometimes, most times, you bring him coffee from the shop at the end of the road, and he hates that you feel obligated to bring something for him. “For letting me hang around,” you always say. 

Most times he feels like he’s trying not to scare you away, like one wrong move will send you bolting right back out the door. But he comes to rely on your presence, the sunshine earthy smell you bring inside with you, the cautious questions and wide eyes, the way you dart to your feet and disappear the second a sign of work for him appears, even if he wouldn’t mind you waiting, taking up room in the tiny front room. 

Joel has to wonder what happened to you, if anything, or if you’re just a nervous person. Maybe it’s just in your nature to be distrustful. He doesn’t mind you coming in all the time, in fact he likes it, hates the empty spaces you now leave behind. The studio seems impossibly empty and cavernous without you around now, asking about the guitar on the wall, about where he learned to draw, about his girls. 

Still, summer passes by slowly, like a jar of molasses catching sun in a window. He watches you come and go, watches you get to know him through tiny encounters that loosen your shoulders more each time you stop in.

He doesn’t tell you that he spends most evenings working on a design for that tattoo you may or may not get, that he has a dozen different versions of it clogging up his notebook. 

He figures if you don’t end up getting it tattooed then he can just give you some of the sketches to keep. 

Like he’d ever find a damn way to do that without feeling like a fool. 

Toward the end of summer, with heat still burning up all the air in Texas and showing no signs of abating, you push the door open with your chin lifted and a smile on your face. Heat, like the rush of burning air from an oven, whips around you and into the shop. 

He tells himself the heat is why his mouth suddenly feels dry. He tells himself it has nothing to do with how your ass looks in those jeans you always wear or the curve of your hips in the snug fit or the tank top that shows off your shoulders and arms and chest. All topped off with you smiling at him. 

“Hey Joel,” you greet, crossing the studio in a couple strides where you deposit a cup of coffee onto the counter next to his hand. He likes the way you say his name, breathy and quick. “I think I’m ready.”

“Ready?” He questions, bewildered. 

His mind takes a moment to catch up to what you mean. The tattoo. You’re ready to get your tattoo. 

And Joel becomes aware that he is distinctly not ready for that. Because then what excuse will you have to stop by so often? “Right now?” He asks. 

You smile. “Not at this exact moment, obviously,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “Just…generally. Whenever you have time for me. I know you’ll need time to work on a design. I’ll send the inspiration photos to the instagram account so you can look at them again.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, the notebook with your designs tucked under the counter burning a hole in the corner of his vision. “Shouldn’t take too long.” 

Your smile widens. “Thanks. I can’t hang around today.” You wave a hand back in the direction of the front window, “Errands to run. I just wanted to say that I really love the new painting.” 

“The—”

“The new deer. She’s beautiful. More confident than the other ones. I think, or maybe it’s the same. I really like the new one though. You’ve been doing a lot of deer lately.”

He swallows and nods. “Yep.”

Your head tilts to the side before you take a step back, anxiety pulling at your face. “Okay,” you say, your voice noticeably smaller. “Well, I’ll see you around. I’ll message Ellie.” 

Before he can stop you, you’ve bolted out the door. 

He sighs and rolls his shoulders back as he watches you walk down the street in the honeyed sunshine. When you’re finally out of sight, he pulls the sketchpad out and starts on yet another design. 

“Dude, you’ve got it baaaaaad,” Ellie accuses as she sets a platter of fried chicken on the dining room table. “He didn’t even ask for a fucking deposit!” 

“No deposit?” Sarah asks, adding a bowl of salad next to the plate. “That’s just bad business practice, dad.” 

Joel rolls his eyes. “Not everyone takes deposits.” 

The girls glance at each other. “Yeah, but you usually do. You told me not to ask for one!” 

He grumbles under his breath, settling at the table, just glad that his girls were there at all. He’d half expected the standing weekly dinner to fizzle out once he moved out of Austin, but they always made the drive up, or he went down to them each Friday. 

His girls had their own lives, Sarah still in college, Ellie still trying to find her footing as an apprentice at a tattoo studio in the city.

“Did she seem interested?” 

Joel assumes Sarah is asking about the tattoo. 

You seemed exactly as he’d thought. A little nervous and wary, but mostly curious and eager. He’d been blushing like a kid, the warmth you always tugged along with you into the shop no match for the air conditioning. 

“Yeah,” he answers, shrugging. “Ellie’d know more than me—”

“I mean does she seem interested in you?” 

Joel glances sharply up to find both his kids grinning at him. “I’m talkin’ about the damn tattoo,” he says, exhaling sharply through his nose before he reaches for a plate. 

“Well, that’s obvious,” Sarah mutters with a roll of her eyes. 

“Yeah, c’mon, man,” Ellie leans back in her chair. “Isn’t she there, like, every fucking day?” 

Joel frowns at her. “Manners,” he reminds her. 

He gets an eye roll from her too, before she tilts her chair back down onto all four legs. 

“Watch it,” he says, “Your eyes are gonna get stuck like that.” 

“Joel—”

“She’s nervous enough as it is,” he grumbles. “Never met someone s’damn skittish.” 

“What, like a horse?” 

“Like a deer,” he corrects. “She don’t need me makin’ passes at her. I think she’s just now comin’ around to the idea of trustin’ me so don’t say something stupid to her.” He directs the last bit to Ellie. “Clear?” 

She spears a piece of chicken. “Clear,” she grumbles. 

“I think she likes you dad,” Sarah says, primly cutting into the chicken on her own plate. “I don’t think she’d mind it.”

Ellie sends you scans of a couple designs two days after you abruptly tell Joel you’re ready to get tattooed. It’s accompanied by a message that makes something in you squirm in such a pleasant way that you worry there might be wrong with you. 

the old man told me you know i manage the account for him. he’s really excited about this one and can’t wait to tattoo you. he worked on the design for weeks - ellie 

Another message pops up almost immediately after the first. 

don’t tell him i told you that

A warmth that has nothing to do with your open balcony door and the heat pouring into your apartment floods your veins. He’d said he’d need to work something out for you.

The two designs she sends are beautiful, and it's easy to see not only the talent but the time he put into them. Clearly he’d been working on a design since you first talked to him all those weeks ago. 

Your whole body goes awash with heat, warming you pleasantly from the inside out. 

You message her back to figure out the day and time, before flopping your phone face down on the couch, a nervous thrumming centering in your body. It folds your veins up into anxious little knots. The phantom echo of his low, drawling voice reverberates around your brain, the casual little sweethearts and darlin’s he throws your way kicking your heart into overdrive, a skittering pounding knocking against your ribs.

A thrill goes up your spine. At the prospect of a new tattoo, at the thought of spending so much uninterrupted time with Joel, of his hands on you. 

The last thought jolts you a little. 

That that’s something you’re looking forward to. 

You aren’t expecting another message, not after finalizing a date only a few days in the future. But your phone buzzes again, yet another message waiting for you.

just a heads up - joel said you’ll have to sit for two or three sessions. he doesn’t want to wear you out. 

Well, at the very least he was more considerate than the last man to tattoo you. 

A rare rain splashes down the morning of your appointment, driving away the humidity that had curled in the air like a choking wraith the last few days and cooling the temperature down to something mild. It’s the first false start of what will always turn out to be a warm fall. 

You take your time getting ready just to ease your nerves, hydrating and eating a bigger breakfast than you normally do. 

In the afternoon, the walk to the studio is dreary. The street smells like petrichor and summers long gone. The gloom only makes the interior of the shop feel more cozy. 

And more intimate. 

When you push the door open, Joel’s daughter, Ellie, is standing at the counter complaining loudly about how old fashioned Joel is as she slowly pages through the leather bound appointment book that seems to never leave the side of the ancient computer you suspect is rarely, if ever, switched on. She seems to be logging appointments from her phone into the book. 

Her eyes snap to you the moment the door swings shut, then glances at the clock. “Early,” she says. “Joel is still setting up.” 

“That’s okay,” you say, pointedly sitting down on the leather sofa that takes up most of the floor space of the front room. “I can wait.” 

You snap your mouth shut to avoid the waterfall of words that want to cascade from your lips. Nerves tingle under your skin, buzz lowly just beneath the surface. 

Waiting makes you hot, makes heat rise from your skin in painful waves, as your anxiety continues to crest. 

At the counter Ellie snaps the appointment book shut, now grumbling about Joel’s chicken scratch, when you peel off your sweatshirt. “Oh,” she says, surprised. “I didn’t know you had tattoos already.” 

You jump a little, eyes flashing to the woman leaning on the dark wooden counter. Her chin is propped in her hand. You aren’t quite sure what to make of that, that she thought you didn’t have any. 

“Yeah,” you stand and move closer to the counter. Maybe she’s just trying to distract you. “Why is that such a surprise?” You smile and offer her your arm. “I not look like the type?” 

“Joel just said you were nervous,” she says, turning your arm in her hand, inspecting the tattoo on the top of your shoulder, and then the one that wraps around your bicep. “So I figured it was your first.” 

Joel had talked to his daughter about you. 

Maybe he talked to her about all his clients; she did manage the instagram account for the shop after all. 

“I’m always a little uneasy beforehand.” 

Your excuse is weak but Ellie doesn’t call you on it. Her eyes are latched onto the tattoo over your shoulder, the one your ex had done. You know what she’s seeing, how a few of the lines are blown out, how it healed badly. 

She releases your wrist with a nod, her eyes more knowing than you would like. “Scared of the pain?” 

“No,” you shake your head. “It doesn't hurt much, usually. It's relaxing more than anything.” You nod to the tattoo on your shoulder. “But, that one was the last and it did hurt and, uh, it put me off getting more for awhile.” 

She looks it over for a minute, brows furrowing at what you know is shoddy work. Your gaze slides to the tattoo on Ellie’s forearm. “You don’t have to worry about that with the old man,” she informs you and releases your arm, her tone serious. “He might not look it, but he’s got a light touch.” 

Before you can respond, Joel emerges from the back, rubbing his hands together as he glances between the two of you, his eyes wary. “Ellie,” he says, his voice that low gravel. “You stickin’ around, kiddo?” 

“Nope.” She stabs a finger into the top of the appointment book, “Get fucking rid of this.” She grabs her jacket and hops up onto the counter, swinging herself over it, as Joel snaps at her not to. “Too late,” she chirps already out the door. “See you Friday.” 

When you turn back to Joel, those splotches of pink and cresting red are back in his cheeks and neck and you have to wonder if he heard what Ellie had said. “That girl,” he grumbles. “Come on around here, darlin’,” he gestures with a roll of his eyes. “You don’t have to climb over the counter like a wild animal.” 

You round the end of the counter and follow Joel into the back room where he’s already meticulously prepped everything. He sits on a rolling stool and gestures you in front of him. “I take it you already know the drill?” He asks. 

You hum in affirmation and try not to jump when his hand brushes yours. “Easy,” he mumbles, almost to himself. It doesn’t stop a flare of heat from spiking in your blood. “You already decided on your left forearm, right?” 

“Yeah,” you answer, holding your arm out to him.

You wonder what it is about Joel that makes him so magnetic, that makes him feel so safe. His hand, already in a sterile glove, slides around your wrist to hold you steady while he cleans your skin thoroughly. The sharp scent of antiseptic blooms around you, chasing away the clove and leather scent that usually lingers around Joel. “You alright?” He asks, glancing up at you to watch your face. 

“Yep,” you answer tightly. 

“Alright,” he agrees warily, like he doesn’t quite believe you. “I’m gonna haveta shave the area.” 

You nod, you already knew that, and watch him pick up a disposable pink bic razor from the tray to his left. Despite having gone through this whole thing more than a few times before, this feels different, it feels more intimate and reserved. 

He drags the razor over your skin slowly, carefully, then sanitizes your skin again when he’s finished, the cool flush of the moisture against your skin almost shocking. You go back and forth about the placement of the stencil. Your body tenses when you waffle for what feels like too long. You expect him to get frustrated with you but he doesn’t. His voice remains unbothered and patient. 

Maybe your standards are in hell, maybe he’s just being a proper tattoo artist like all the others that had tattooed you before your ex, but it still makes a knot form in the back of your throat.

Eventually Joel presses the stencil into your skin when you give the go ahead. He rubs at it gently, warming your chilled skin, before he peels it away. The warmth of his touch is surprisingly soothing, the loss of it leaving you cold. “If it ain’t right, we can do it again,” he says, jerking his chin at the mirror in the corner, the picture of calm. “Go on and take a look and let me know.”

You both agree the placement looks good, and then comes the moment when you have to climb onto the table and put yourself in his hands. You will have to lie there and let another person touch you, albeit professionally. It doesn’t make it any better, any easier. 

Your skin is so empty, so hungry, and Joel’s attention makes you feel like wax held too close to heat. 

It already feels like too much and he’s barely touched you. 

A cold prickle of fear slides down your spine too, pulling your shoulders in tight. The last time you did this you—

“You comfortable?” Joel is watching you, his eyes shaded and attentive. 

You nod, aware that you are the picture of uncomfortable as Joel changes his gloves. Your hands are in fists, your spine hard and tense. All the air seems to have been sucked out of the room, cold and sterile and icy in your lungs.

“I ain’t touchin’ you until you relax,” he says when he turns back to you, settling next to you on a stool, hand hovering over the tattoo gun on the tray by his elbow. “You don’t gotta—”

“I am relaxed,” you interrupt in a bite, harsher than you mean to. You grit your teeth, your hand only curling into a tighter fist. 

“Sweetheart you’re as taut as a bowstring,” he says gently. “Take a couple breaths.”

You do and your heart rate slows. Now isn’t like then. Now is different. “Good,” he says and the praise slides warm against you. “I’m gonna touch you now.” 

You nod and the buzz of the tattoo gun starts, his free hand curls over your fist, warm and reassuring and so present it makes tears sting at the backs of your eyes. You realize then that Joel has been touching you quite a lot, and that you haven’t exactly minded. 

“Relax, I got you,” he reassures. “You’ll tell me if you need a break,” he says and it’s not a question. 

You nod anyway, not sure which part you’re agreeing with. 

Joel talks while he tattoos you, mainly about his kids, his two daughters who are clearly his entire world, the point that his life hinges on. 

The pride in his voice, the love there, makes you smile. 

Joel is much chattier than usual. 

Normally you talk his ear off while he works as he silently listens and nods along. Joel is the gruff quiet type, not that you much mind. You’d expected to sit in relative silence, to listen to the rain still drumming against the roof and the low hum of the tattoo gun. 

Listening to his voice is a welcome change. You would listen to him read from a dictionary. 

Sarah is from his first marriage, Ellie adopted. Sarah is going to college— “Gonna be a doctor someday,” he says proudly. “For kids. Pediatrician.” Ellie is following in Joel’s footsteps, apprenticing as a tattoo artist. “Hope it's what she wants to do,” he says, equally as proud. “She’s got some art out there on the wall—well, I’ll point it out later, much better than mine—it took me long enough to make this switch.” 

“What did you do before?” You ask as Joel swipes a damp paper towel across your skin. Ellie had been right, he does have a light touch, a gentle touch. 

“Carpenter,” he answers, and you can’t decide if the way he squeezes your wrist is conscious or not. “Long hours, hard work.”

So you’d been right about the look of his hands. Hands that so carefully held yours as his other drew over your skin. “Mm,” you hum distractedly. “What convinced you to take the jump?” 

“My girls convinced me. Gettin’ outta Austin helped. Havin’ the money to finally slow down.” He chuckles to himself. “That’s why the marketin’ is a little ridiculous. Moved all the way out here just to complain about the foot traffic.”  

You find yourself smiling, watching the flex of tendon in his forearms as he works. His mouth is set in a concentrated line, a divot between his brows. “Looks like you’re doing alright.” 

“We manage,” he says with a groan, straightening from his position hunched over your arm. Something in his back creaks and then cracks before he goes back to work. “Although I regret not startin’ a little younger. My brother, Tommy, manages our business now.” 

“Carpentry business?” 

“That’s right,” he hums, leaning in closer to your arm, his breath ghosts over your arm, goosebumps racing across your skin. You swallow and your hand clenches reflexively beneath his. “You doin’ alright?” 

You wonder if he knows his hand is still cupped over yours, if he can feel the racing of your heart beneath his fingers. Maybe he did that with all his clients, just a way to steady himself and you. 

You don’t expect him to be looking at you when you lift your eyes back to his face. 

Heat blooms in your chest, the flutter of wings beating against your ribs. “Mhm,” you give a nervous hum, trying not to show the feathering thoughts that float like down through your mind, swirling and impossible to bat down. 

“Y’have to tell me if you need to take a break.” 

“I don’t,” you say quickly, wondering if you should explain yourself a little, if it would be better or worse for Joel to know exactly how fucking nerotic you are. 

It shouldn’t matter if he thinks you’re crazy or not. 

But it does. 

“Just…I’m not so good with touch,” you admit. “I never have been and my last tattoo was…”

You aren’t sure how to phrase it, so you stop and look at his hands again. His hand swallows yours, barely any of your skin visible beneath his touch. You wait for your skin to prickle, for the urge to rip your hand away to swim up the back of your throat, but it never comes. “I’m fine, really. I’d tell you if I needed to stop.” 

“I know it,” he says, not blinking, watching you carefully. “I’m just checkin’.” He looks back down, adjusting his grip before he continues, his thumb sweeping over your wrist. “Was it the one on your shoulder?” 

“What?” 

“The tattoo that was a bad experience?” 

You suck in a deep breath through your nose and look away from the top of his head, away from the graying brown that makes your belly clench and the butterflies that live permanently in your chest swing back to life.

The breath you pull in does nothing to steady you, instead flooding your senses with the clean woodsy smell of him. It’s dizzying. “That easy to tell?” You sigh. 

“Just a few of the lines are blown out,” he says, not unkindly. “Thought maybe an apprentice did it or somethin’.” Joel’s voice is mild, only lightly prying, an extended hand that you could lie a pearl truth in if you wanted to. 

The nerves subside a little. “Apprentices aren’t usually that bad,” you joke. 

“No,” he agrees. “Ellie’d never get ya like that. Shouldn’t be tattooing on people yet if you’re gettin’ ‘em like that.”

He doesn’t ask what actually happened, but you find yourself answering anyway. You find that his hand still securely over yours acts like an anchor rather than a weight. 

“I had bruises for a couple weeks after,” you admit. “It hurt. He wanted it to hurt. And it healed really badly.”

Joel’s hand pauses, the needle lifting away from your skin, but he doesn’t look up. A long moment passes, and his voice comes out in a forced calm. “Who wanted it to hurt, honey?” 

“My ex,” you say and Joel leans back, dark eyes flashing to yours. “He wasn’t my ex then, obviously. He wanted to tattoo me, but he wanted it to be his name. I wasn’t going to do that. He wanted to compromise for initials but I just…couldn’t. Something about it felt wrong. I let him—” you wave your free hand at your shoulder. “—do that. And…I don’t know what happened,” you say. “I think he wanted to brand me. He wanted to leave a piece of himself on me, whether I wanted it or not.”

Joel doesn’t say anything for a while, just blinks away from you and slowly leans over your arm again to continue working. 

The tattoo your ex did is the only one that ever hurt, but Joel is gentler than you remember. Or, maybe you simply can’t remember the other times as well, pain of the most recent one blotting out the memory. 

“I don’t want you to think about this like that,” Joel says eventually, not looking up. “I don’t.” 

“What do you mean, Joel?” 

His hand stills, his fingers flexing around your wrist, thumb subconsciously sliding against the side of your wrist. “I mean—I’m not puttin’ something of mine on you,” he says. You frown and open your mouth to protest. “I made it for you. This is yours,” he says adamantly.  

You watch him for a long moment, not sure what to say, an emotion you can’t name welling up into the back of your mouth, swollen and trembling. 

“I want you to think about it like that,” he says, looking up at you from beneath his lashes, his mouth a hard line. “I’m not markin’ you, because it's not mine. It’s yours. It’s for you.” 

You just nod, not trusting yourself to speak. 

You avert your eyes, blinking away the water that crests against the edges of your lash line. 

Though you’ve been bothering Joel for the better part of the summer, you don’t really know much about him. Today is the most he’s talked, about himself or otherwise. All you know is that he makes you feel oddly safe, that he has gone out of his way to try to make you feel comfortable. You can hear the words he doesn’t say, the quiet anger that vibrates under the surface of it. What happened to you was wrong, I would not do that to you. 

He wants you to believe he’s gifting you something, and you suppose he is.

You remember Ellie’s message, how she’d said he’d been working on the design for weeks. You think of every moment you spent hanging around his shop for the last few weeks while he worked on a design for you, never saying a word about it, knowing you might decide not to get tattooed. 

“Joel,” you murmur, carefully lying your free hand on his shoulder. Muscle flexes beneath your hand, thick and warm. “I know you wouldn’t do that. And you know I wanted to do this, right?”

Joel’s hand squeezes yours again. “I know it,” he shrugs and leaves it at that. 

Something unspoken passes between you though. He would not do that to you, but you also sense he would never let anyone else hurt you like that again either. 

You watch the feathering of his lashes against his cheeks, the firm set of his mouth, the way he keeps sliding his thumb over your wrist. You study his nose, the line of scar on the bridge, the hard ridge of his brow, the wrinkle that pulls at the skin of his forehead. 

“You don’t have to be mad about it,” you say. “I already have that covered. I think I’ve been angry for a long time.” 

The room is quiet, the sound of rain on the roof having abated in the hours you’d been there. Joel doesn’t say anything for another long moment, the only sound his breathing and yours, the sound of the tattoo gun buzzing its familiar tune. “I could, uh, fix some of it for ya,” he offers, eventually, leaning back to study the progress he’s made on your arm. “The lines where they’re blown out, we could think of somethin’ to blend it into.”

You look away again, not able to answer around the thick knot braided into your chest. You try swallowing around it, trying desperately to think of something to say. His hand is starting to feel a little heavy on yours. The aching clawing that is two steps back begins to threaten you. 

This time, unlike the others, you aren’t quite sure if you want him to stop touching you or for the feeling of his hand to melt into yours, if you’d just rather he became a part of you instead. 

You decide to try to ignore it, to focus on the nice parts of it all — how warm his skin is, the calluses you can feel, the scent of his skin and hair, so close you could press your nose into him if you leaned forward a little. 

“You have really nice hands,” you comment, entranced by the flex of muscle and vein and sinew even through the black nitrile gloves. 

Joel glances up, his face close to yours. You can see the threads of honeyed gold and warm hazel in his eyes, almost sun-spotted “That so?” He asks with a quirk of his brow, fingers tightening over your hand. 

You swallow, glancing away from his eyes to focus on anything else, and give a nervous hum. 

“You still alright?” He asks, his thumb slipping back and forth over the back of your hand. “Still comfortable?” When you just nod, suddenly too anxious and warm to do anything else, he leans back and releases your hand to strip off his gloves. “Let’s take a break.”  

The loss of his touch is—you aren’t sure what it is. 

You just know you hate it, and that has never happened before. 

“I’m alright,” you protest. 

“You’re startin’ to shake, which means you’re goin’ into shock. I’m sure Ellie told you this’d take more than one session,” he says, matter of fact about it. 

“She did,” you breathe. 

He grunts and offers you a hand down from the table. “Let’s get you wrapped up and then I’ll take you to get somethin’ to eat.” 

“Oh,” you say, surprise and that spark of warmth flooding you again. “And you do that for all your clients?” 

“Just the ones I like,” he deadpans, fitting a second skin over your tattoo before giving you the usual spiel about how to care for it once the second skin was removed. You hardly listen, thinking only about how Joel said he likes you. “But I assume you know all a’ that,” he says, twisting your arm. “And ya know where to find me if somethin’ ain’t right.” 

“Mhm,” you hum, trying not to let the disappointment show when he releases you again. “I’m something of an expert with tattoo care, I think.” 

“Three tattoos makes you an expert?” He asks, not looking at you as he meticulously cleans up.  

“Well, three that you can see.” 

He turns, eyes sliding over you. You’re awash in that warm feeling again, the one that is an anchor and not a weight. “You got more than three, honey?” 

You just smile and make a show of looking over the work he’d done on your arm, ignoring his question. 

Joel chuckles, “What else do you have?” 

“If I told you I’d have to kill you.” 

He laughs again and herds you out the back room when he’s finished cleaning up, keys jangling in his fist. “Shouldn’t I pay—”

“Nope. You’ll do that when it’s done. Should just need one more session.” 

“Joel really—” 

But you’re already out on the street, the door firmly closed behind you. You watch him lock up and then gesture you down the street with a jerk of his head. It’s dark outside, the sky still tinged with dark blue on the horizon. The road smells like heat and rain, like damp dust and lightning. 

“You really ain’t gonna tell me what other tattoos you got?” 

“You really ain’t gonna let me pay?” You ask, imitating the gruff cut of his voice. 

He rolls his eyes. “Alright, fine.” He walks away, leading you down the street, light from the streetlamps cartwheeling over his face, throwing his jaw and eyes into sharp relief and then plunging him into shadow. “C’mon now. You need somethin’ in you.” 

You’ve never ventured into the center of town after dark. You’re always at home long before that, curled on your balcony with something to read. 

Cicadas light the air with sound, the crisscross of wired lights spear butter yellow onto the pavement below where a bar is serving drinks and a local food truck still idles. 

Someone has set up a speaker that folks twirl each other around to, old country music, the good kind. Others park themselves on benches, chatting and eating. It’s nice. 

It makes you feel incredibly lonely, reminded of all the gaps in your life, all the places people should be, all the places love and familiarity should be. 

Before you can sink into that mire, Joel’s guiding you into line with a careful hand against your back. 

His palm is broad and warm, heating you from the inside out. It rivals the warmth pulsing around you, the leftover heat of the day leaching into you. 

“What d’ya want?” 

“Shouldn’t I get you something?” You offer. “You worked all day, I just laid there.” 

“I drew a nice picture,” he retorts. “You lost blood. Pick somethin’ sugary.”

“Bossy,” you comment, feeling alight with nerves as his fingers flex against your spine. 

“Mhm, that’s what Sarah and Ellie are always sayin’.” 

You glance at him—at the rough cut of his jaw, the thick tendon in his throat—and swallow, nerves pinching at your belly in a way you haven’t felt in a very long time. You press back, so his hand rests more firmly against your back and hope he doesn’t notice. If he does, he doesn’t say anything, just humors you by tracing his hand up and down your spine. “Maybe they’re onto something then.” 

“Definitely are.” He glances back down at you, “Pick somethin’ yet?” 

You look over the menu as the line inches forward, and pick something to drink. Something sugary, as Joel had demanded. 

But when he orders he makes a show of not letting you pay and ordering something for you to eat too. 

“You should after sittin’ for as long as you did,” he argues when you settle at one of the picnic tables. “You don’t gotta, just thought I’d offer it.” 

You and Joel face each other, one leg on either side of the bench, knees brushing. With each tiny touch, lightning zings up your spine, settles in amongst your bones and blood. You have a feeling you could lie all the bones and blood and viscera of yourself right at Joel’s feet and he wouldn’t so much as flinch. 

“Right,” you say, picking at one of the tacos he’d ordered. “I can see why you have such nice reviews on google if you’re taking your clients out on your dime after tattooing them.” 

“I wouldn’t say you’re that,” he scoffs.  

“Mm,” you nod, not sure exactly what he means by that. “What does that make me then?” 

You glance up at him and Joel just stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “You really not gonna tell me about your other tattoos?” He ignores your question to go back to his own. 

“Nope,” you take a sip of the lemonade you’d ordered. Despite what you said to Joel, you are exhausted, muscles still trembling in little starts, and the sugar does help. “But you can guess.” 

You know he won’t try to guess. He’s too gentlemanly, too mindful of his manners to go around pointing at body parts and guessing if there might be something inked there. 

Joel raises a brow, taking a bite of his own taco. “Are you using my manners against me?” 

You shrug, smiling. “Maybe.” 

“That ain’t playin’ fair,” he accuses, leaning in, the inside of his jean clad thigh brushing against the outside of yours. Your belly clenches, the center of you suddenly aching. 

“Who said anything about fair?” You manage. “Do you have any hidden tattoos?” 

He shakes his head and glances briefly up, like he’s asking for patience from the stars. But he doesn’t answer your question. 

It makes you smile. “Fine, you can keep yours a secret. I won’t pry,” you tease. 

“Mhm,” he grumbles again, ignoring your jibe. “You’re mighty brave tonight.” 

And suddenly your teasing feels dangerous, falls flat against the stone shore of Joel. The air seems to go frosty, a shiver raking down your spine as you shuffle back a little, suddenly aware of how close you are, how very brave you’ve been. You aren’t sure when Joel started to feel familiar to you. 

Since you first met him, you suppose. You’ve carved out a place on that rocky shore whether he wanted you to or not. 

“Sorry,” you say, starting to stand, thinking of how annoying you must have been all evening, all day, every single day you’ve taken up his time. You let him comfort you, plied him with trauma you’ve barely touched yourself, let him buy you something to eat against your better judgment when clearly it’s his manners that made him do so. “Don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ll message Ellie to figure out the second session. Thanks for everything. You didn’t have to—”

“Your hip,” Joel says, curling his hand around your wrist so you can’t move any further away than you already have. You pause, your mind spinning as he clutches you gently. 

His voice is steady, like you’re a spooked animal that might dart away at any moment. 

“What?” 

“I bet you one of your other tattoos is on your hip,” he drawls. 

He squeezes your wrist again, now familiar and comforting. You fight the urge to pull your hand away, and instead let the feeling of his skin sink into yours, no cheap plastic gloves separating you now. You can properly feel the calluses on his fingertips, the catch of them against your skin, the soft center of his palm and the lines carved into his skin. 

“No,” you lower yourself to the bench again, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “None on my hip.” 

“How many other one’s you got?” His hand stays around yours. 

“Two, not including my new one,” you say, laying a hand over the ink, your skin warm under your hand. “That’s my prettiest one, for sure. And it’s not even done.”

Joel ignores your compliment entirely, like he always seems to. His eyes rove over you, trying to guess the places you were inked, trying to picture it you would guess. It makes you squirm, the thought of him trying to imagine your bare skin, all the hidden places you might be tattooed.

He nods, his gaze heavy on you. 

“I’ll just have to keep guessin’ then,” he says, taking a long sip from your cup of lemonade. 

You glance away and bite the inside of your cheek. “You’ll be guessing a long time, I think.” 

“I’ve got time.” He releases your arm when you start to squirm under his attention, chest burning, lungs compressed into too small a space. Your chest doesn’t seem large enough to contain the feelings beating to life in your heart. “So long as you keep comin’ by.” 

A smile pulls at your mouth again, feeling unreasonably charmed. “Okay, fine, I’ll tell you what they are, but not where they are.”

“I ain’t askin’ you to,” he says, even as a smile tugs at the corners of his lips, mustache twitching, like this concession is the only thing he’s ever wanted for. 

“One is a honeybee,” you answer. “The other is antlers.” 

Joel goes still and doesn’t say anything for a moment. “A bee?” He asks, like he’s never heard of the creature before. “And…antlers. Like a deer?”

“Yeah, like a deer. With flowers and vines and moss all tangled around it.”

“Huh.” 

“What? Don’t like deer?” You smile. “Funny isn't it? You’ve been drawing them a lot the past few months.” 

He eyes you and then shakes his head, “Don’t like ‘em? Jesus Christ, no. I think I’m gettin’ to be real partial to deer.” 

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters

[planete777]

UNFORGETTABLE・⁠｡♪ LN4

( lando norris x fem!reader )

IN WHICH. like a moth to a flame, lando gets sucked right into the beckoning curls of smoke, and the glimmering eyes of a girl he doesn't even know.

WARNINGS. 18+, MINORS DNI!, getting high, first time smoking, club scene, oral sex (fem rec.), fingering, slight choking, protected p in v sex, high hotness pt. wtv, not proofread

NOTE. submitted to my impulsive thoughts and wrote abt high!lando.... again, and it's kinda very long. used canva this time for the header so that's why it's uh different (i hate it 💔). man, i'm enjoying this era, i wish for it to never end, but hey ho, read and enjoy my luvs xxx. oh and listen to unforgettable while reading this... or not, it's a free world.

SIDENOTE. my askbox is open! feel free to send in any thoughts, scenarios, requests etc about high!lando 🤍

lando feels like time has stopped, and, quite frankly, his heart along with it. the frantic world around him mutes, and the only thing he hears is his slow, uneven breaths and a violently thrumming pulse that flushes his ears red.

he knows he's drunk a mediated amount tonight, but the way his body feels a pull towards the eyes all the way across the room has him feeling completely out of control. he swears she's glowing around the edges, highlighted by the dancing lights that ricochet off the walls of the club and right onto her, as if the room was her spotlight and the rest of them were just in it for decoration.

she stares back, reds and blues washing over like unholy tidal waves that literally praise her, then she prods her mouth with the spliff in her hand. he watches as her eyes fall shut as seconds pass, breaking the only contact they had, before her lips part, eyes opening once again to immediately fall upon lando and she blows with such controlled seduction that lando believes the smoke hooks a finger at him, coaxing him nearer.

his legs move on their own accord, his heart beats quicker the closer he gets, and then she gets up with a smirk that speaks too much to lando, walking through an open archway. the tension is unfathomable, and lando's palms flood with perspiration as he follows her through a dark corridor. it's entirely stupid, he knows, following a stranger, but if he's being truthful, dying at the hands of a girl who's unbelievingly akin to a siren would be his honour.

they arrive at an empty balcony, littered with a few chairs that are situated haphazardly, and the girl passes them swiftly and goes to lean against the fence.

"what's a pretty boy like you doing looking at a girl like me?" her voice sounds like it's dripping in sin, sickeningly sweet sin, and lando feels his skin burn for it again.

"girl like you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, "what do you mean?"

she's laughing, throwing her head back as her throat releases a sound that triggers heat to his dick, and fuck, he's hot everywhere. his eyes stay fused to her as she takes another drag, blows it high into the sky, and he feels his composure slowly elevate away with it.

she brings her head down, rolling the spliff between her fingers, "you know what i'm talking about. you literally look like you were forced to be here."

"well, i kinda of was," he thinks back to max's adamance, just hours prior, and curses him for being the same person to leave him not long after their arrival, "but trust me, i do go out when i can."

she hums, it's dismissive and ambiguous, so lando can't gage whether she believes him or not, but he doesn't let it fester.

"you always come here?" he asks, slightly curious. it's his first time at this particular club, courtesy max (again) who heard of it from a friend of a friend, and if coming here means meeting the girl every time, he would go with no question.

"haven't been for a while actually. corporate jobs are hell, so i've been, instead, getting high at home. boring as fuck if you ask me."

she takes another drag, and lando stares at it with a newfound desire, swallowing as his mouth waters for it. he's unknowing and delirious as to where it comes from, and the way his veins tickle for it is absolutely gratifying.

the girl notices, chuckling as she signals for him to take it, "wanna hit?"

lando's mind freezes, and he begins to fumble and blush so profusely, it's humiliating.

"i've... never been high before."

her eyebrows shoot upwards but fall back almost immediately, "huh... should've figured."

"why?" lando asks skeptically as she inhales once again, then lets it out, the distinctive burn of weed hitting his nostrils.

she rolls her tongue in her mouth and smiles, "you look at it as if it's too good to have, but wrong to take. gives you away."

lando grins sheepishly, looking down at his feet then up again, "can't blame me. you make it look good."

"you've been missing out," she jesters, pulling down her dress. it draws every curve like it is meant to, reaching the middle of her thigh, and the red continues as lace heels that fascinate lando as to how she even put them on.

"would you like to try it?"

he so wants to say no, weighing the consequences in his mind if he were to be found out, but he doesn't care. not when the girl's lips wrap around with spliff and suck it in as if it's godsent. for once, lando wants to detangle and feel like he's disintegrating within bounds of euphoria.

he looks straight at her and nods, his hands trembling with the anticipated thrill, and she grabs his arm, pulling him back inside. they walk down towards a different corridor, and reach an unlabeled door, which the girl walks right into as if it's habitual.

"wait, you work here?"

she laughs, sitting down on the leather seat as lando joins her. it's a basic room with red walls and black sofas, almost too unsuspecting.

"no, my sister does. this room is always vacant, i never see anyone go in here," she tells him, ending with an edge that leaves lando unwanting to ask anything more.

she reaches into her purse, pulling out a metal tin that she flicks open, revealing a few neatly arranged spliffs. the reality sets in and lando rubs his palms on his jeans nervously.

"put it between your lips," she holds one out for him, and he takes it without question, slotting it into his mouth. the girls tells him to hold still as she brings a lighter to the tip of the spliff and once she moves away, he breathes in too much. the burn at the back of his throat is indescribably invigorating, and he pinches the roll to slide it out, before his mouth weeps smoke and a cough escapes him.

"you're a natural," she says as she hits a drag of her own, mouth curling upwards at the edges.

there's something about what he feels that's vehemently unparalleled. he feels like his brain is sinking into a pillowly goodness of absolutely nothing, and his whole body feels weightless. he goes in for another smoke, mind melting like blow torched ice, and he body completely relaxes into the couch.

"i'm stoned already, what the fuck?" his mouth feels sewn shut and simultaneously stretched apart, and he doesn't even know if he enunciates his words clearly.

"you're new to this, don't worry," she reassures, moving closer to lando. heat radiates off her like she's an incinerator, and every sense is amplified erratically when her hand curls around his nape.

"allow me?"

lando nods, "do whatever."

then her mouth, warm and so soft, cups around his, ejecting hot smoke into it, and, fucking hell, lando feels like he's being inflated with some addictively foreign sensation and his mind shuts down. he stares at her, eyes too heavy to stay fully open, and he wants her so bad, he could beg.

"i wanna kiss you so fucking bad," his voice is hoarse and he sees her something in her eyes gleam.

"do it, then."

there's nothing cautious about it. they've been tiptoeing around the achingly palpable tension for too long, and their lips move hungrily against each other's to satiate the thirst that has heightened vivaciously. lando loses it completely when she sucks on his tongue, like it was second nature for her, and his moans drag out, heavy and deep.

he can't wait any longer, not when his dick hardens in his pants and all he can think of is the girl's essence making him drunk.

he unwillingly breaks the kiss, meeting the sight of her swollen lips and red eyes, "we can carry this on in my hotel room."

then she grins, "thought you'd never say."

they leave the club, high out of their minds and barely able to make it to the exit, but when they do, the chilled air knocks them slightly sober. lando rings an uber, which arrives within 5 minutes, and they stumble into the car, hands teasing and touching with desperate discretion.

lando is so faded out that a drive that's normally 10 minutes lasts for 2, and he's dragged out by the girl who throws her gratitude to the driver. the ride in the elevator entails an aggressive make out, lando's hands squeezing the girl's ass and her arms tight around his neck, rushing out and stumbling through the doors as it dings at the 4th floor. he can't let go of her lips, not when he knows how sweet it is, and he doesn't, until they're through the door and scrambling on the bed, clothes long gone with only their undergarments left.

he kisses down her neck, mumbling compliment after compliment and she sighs, deflating into the bed.

"you're so fucking beautiful, you know that?"

he strokes both hands on her thighs, spreading them open and meeting red panties that are completely soiled through.

"look at you," he kisses her inner thigh like it's sacred, "all wet for a guy you don't know."

she moans, high pitched and airy, grabbing lando's hair and pushing him nearer to her cunt.

"just eat me out, fuck," her back arches and it's a sight that has lando completely acquiescent, ridding her of her panties and lips kissing her cunt. she whimpers, hands grabbing the sheets as his tongue runs through her, before sucking on her clit eagerly.

"oh my fuck— keep going."

she grinds against his face, hands tight within his curls and her legs shake. she tastes unreal, and lando can't get enough, licking rabidly at her cunt.

he's too lost in it all to notice how she tugs one of his arms up from around her thigh, until he feels her hand bring his towards her neck, and then he loses his mind. she's so fucking filthy, and he smiles against her pussy as his ministrations turn more desperate to get her to the edge, squeezing his hand more as her moans increase in pitch and become songs to his ears.

he brings two fingers to her entrance, sliding in with much ease, before wasting no time to curl them. she's squirming, and he's stretching her out, bringing another finger before curling them again. she arches so much, and screams out a loud moan as her eyes roll back.

"oh shit. fuck fuck, i'm cumming!"

he doesn't expect her to let go so soon, and neither does he expect the sudden spray of wetness that gushes out of her cunt. he lapping and licking it all up though, and, over stimulated, the girl pushes his head away. he relents, kissing back up her body before landing on her lips, melting her pants into his mouth.

knees bent, an arm wrapped around his shoulders, the girl breaks the kiss, hand sliding down lando's chest and grabbing his dick, "fuck me."

his mind goes on autopilot as he replaces her hand, pumping his dick and sliding a condom on before sheathing all of him inside her. she's so hot and tight, and he's so thick and long that their moans come out simultaneously, loud and drawled.

lando doesn't waste time to pull back and snap his hips right back in, making her back raise off the bed in a delicious curve.

"fuck, you're so big."

the praise goes right to his head and he starts thrusting in and out like he has gone crazy. her breasts sway by the power of his thrust, and lando takes into his mouth, sucking on it and playing with the other.

he feels spoiled, there's so much of her that he's addicted to in such a short time, and he goes to kiss her again. the headboard of the bed slams against the wall, her nails scratch deep marks into his back, and he's moaning into her mouth as his dick throbs far into her pussy.

her legs are bent near her head now, and his thrusts slide in so deep into her cunt, that he can see a bulge appear in her stomach. he takes one of her hands from the headboard and put it against her belly.

"you feel that?" he says, grunting and thrusting harder.

"oh fuck," she drags out, arching her back even more and squeezing his dick like a vice.

"i'm gonna cum," her voice sounds so fucked out and sated, and lando quickens before his thrusts turn sloppy.

"cum with me," he huffs out. she moans, her eyes roll back, and lando spurtsinto the condom as her feels hers coat his. his thighs are tense and sweaty as he rides out their highs before he lands straight unto her.

"where the hell did you learn how to fuck like that?" she sounds spent, and lando would give too much to hear her like that everyday.

he smiles and winks, "secret."

__

lando wakes up to the sun leaking on his face, a muscles aching. he turns to the spot beside him, but meets an empty bed, cold as if it had been untouched the whole night.

the disappointment is great, and he drags a hand down his face, sighing into the pillow. he doesn't even know her name to even ask about her at the club, and the dejection sits like a lump in his heart.

he turns back to his bedside table, reaching for his phone, but instead, meeting a small, rectangular metal box with a note stuck on it. he rushes to sit up, grinning like a child on christmas day, and as he reads, it grows wider.

'a little present from me. you smoke like the euphoria was made for you - call me xxx-xxxx-xxx'

#‧₊˚✩彡 planete.thinks: high!lando #lando norris #lando norris fic #lando norris x reader #lando norris smut #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula 1 #formula one x reader #formula one x y/n #formula one x you #lando norris x y/n #f1 romance #f1 smut #f1 fanfic

[emjayewrites]

Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton Fanfic)(1/?)

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @queenshikongo3 @cocobutterqwueen @httpsserene @mauvecherie-writes @galatially @pausmoon @a-moment-captured @nikki01234 @yeea-nah @sirlew44 @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @weetjy @lewisroscoelove @hxneyclouds @questionable-behaviour @marzzrambles @lovebittenbyevans @tian-monique @alika-4466 @saintslewis

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist. The headers/dividers are by @inklore

CHAPTER 1: Loose Lips, Sink Ships

Rorie was surrounded by the familiar hustle and bustle of her morning routine. Her 10-month-old son sat contently in his highchair as she carefully prepared his breakfast. The scent of freshly chopped fruit mixed with the soft hum of bubbling porridge on the stove, creating a cozy and comforting atmosphere. She turned off the heat with a smooth flick of her wrist and poured the thick mixture into a small bowl for her baby, gently blowing on it to cool it down.

At the sight of this, her son began to fuss and was on the verge of throwing a tantrum. His whimpers turned into soft cries and from his corner of the room, Roscoe trotted over to investigate the commotion.

"Just a minute, peanut," she cooed while stirring the cooling porridge, but like his father, her son was always impatient. Deciding that the porridge was ready, she spooned some freshly cut fruit into the bowl before sprinkling cinnamon on top and placing it in front of the fussy infant. "You and your Daddy need to work on that," she chuckled, speaking in a low, baby-like voice. "You're just like him, aren't you?"

Rorie's son, with his chubby cheeks and bright brown eyes, looked nearly identical to his father. The resemblance was uncanny, from his curly hair plaited in baby braids to the mischievous glimmer in his eyes when he was up to something. Yet, there was one striking difference that set him apart – his skin color matched Rorie's, which was a deep sable.

She couldn't help but marvel at how the little one inherited both her nurturing determination and Lewis' unwavering impatience. It was as if their contrasting qualities were interwoven seamlessly in their child's very being. She watched as tiny hands reached out for the bowl of porridge, smearing it across his chubby cheeks and button nose. Roscoe edged closer with his wagging short tail, hoping for a taste of the gooey treat.

"Don't even think about it, Roscoe," Rorie warned with a playful scowl. "This is for baby boy only."

Roscoe gave her a sly look, tilting his head to the side as if considering whether or not to listen. But ultimately, he let out a soft whine and plopped down on his haunches.

Glancing up at the television mounted in their cozy kitchen nook, Rorie spotted her husband, Lewis. Her stomach tightened with a familiar mix of excitement and nerves as she watched him being interviewed. With practiced skill, he deflected questions about their personal life and redirected the focus to his upcoming race.

One reporter called out to Lewis, "Can you address the rumors about your family?"

Another chimed in, "You've mentioned having a wife and kids before. Can you tell us more about them?"

Lewis' smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. "My priority right now is winning this race," he stated confidently, his voice cutting through the clamor of voices. "That's all I'm focused on."

As a public figure, Lewis was well aware that every aspect of his life was under intense scrutiny from the media. Despite this, he always held on to the importance of keeping certain aspects private - especially when it came to his family. He had never mentioned them in interviews, until one slip-up after the Miami Grand Prix.

The public was taken aback when they discovered he was married, and even more so when he posted an anniversary message for his wife on Instagram. His media and talent manager, Penni Thow, felt it was necessary to give the public a glimpse into his personal life before things escalated further. Though it went against his principles, the plan proved successful - yet now it seemed like everyone was invested in him and his family, leaving Lewis and Rorie unsure of how to handle it all.

As luck would have it, their home was only a few miles away from Lewis and the drive to the main street where the Monaco Grand Prix took place was less than five minutes. As she gathered their son's belongings for their visit to the paddock, Rorie couldn't shake off a feeling of unease. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy spending time with Lewis, quite the opposite in fact, yet with all the media attention on their family now, she did not enjoy the feeling of being under a microscope.

Rorie finished feeding their son and cleaned up his messy face then she got herself ready before walking to her car. She strapped their son into his car seat and loaded up the stroller and diaper bag before heading out to meet Lewis. As she drove through the winding roads of Monaco, Rorie marveled at how different her life was now compared to just a few short years ago.

Growing up in a small town in Pennsylvania, Rorie never imagined herself marrying an F1 driver and living a jet-setting lifestyle. But after meeting Lewis at a bar in New York City, things changed quickly for her. She had been enjoying a drink after a stressful business meeting when they crossed paths. They hit it off immediately and before long, she found herself whisked away to Monaco where Lewis was based.

As she pulled into the paddock entrance, Rorie tried to push aside her anxiety and focus on enjoying the day with her husband and son. After parking her car, she unloaded everything and headed towards Lewis' team's hospitality area.

His dark hair, styled in his usual signature braids, caught her attention immediately as she scanned the group. His piercings and tattoos were on full display, and he seemed relaxed and confident surrounded by his team, discussing cars and racing strategies. Her smile widened as their eyes met, causing him to pause briefly in conversation with George and Toto. The other two men turned to look at her as well, but Rorie couldn't make out Toto's words from the distance.

With about an hour before the race, she knew Lewis needed a break to calm his nerves. This was nothing new for her; discreetly slipping away, Rorie headed towards Lewis' motorhome. To anyone else, she would have appeared like any other attendee, dressed casually in jeans and a knit bodysuit top. She never wanted to draw attention to herself when attending Lewis' races, but secretly she longed to be front and center in the pit area cheering him on like any other WAG. However, until she felt ready for that kind of exposure, this was how she preferred things.

Lewis respected their decision to keep their son out of the public eye, but when it came to Rorie? He wanted to shout his love for her from the rooftops. Yet he could never be upset with her desire for a quiet life, and he respected her decision. But when the time came and Rorie was ready for more, his fans would be inundated with posts about her day and night - that much was certain.

Minutes after Rorie, Lewis entered the motorhome. "Hey gorgeous," Lewis greeted with a warm smile. "You made it just in time."

Rorie smiled back at her husband, enjoying this brief moment of tranquility before the race began. "Hey yourself," she responded, leaning in for a kiss.

"How was the drive?" Lewis asked as he pulled her into a hug.

"Not too bad," Rorie shrugged as they settled on the couch. "Traffic wasn't too terrible."

"Good," Lewis nodded as Rorie handed him their son, who cooed happily at seeing his father after being away due to his busy racing schedule. "Hey, little man," he cooed at his mini-me. "How's my boy? How're you, Lyric?"

Lyric giggled and reached for Lewis' braided hair, causing both parents to laugh. Lyric Apollo was the apple of his parents' eye and he knew it. Despite their busy lives, they always made time for their son and he was always surrounded by love.

Rorie couldn't help but admire the sight in front of her. Her two boys, both with their matching dimpled smiles and hair, looked content and happy together. It was a scene she never thought she'd have the privilege of witnessing, but here they were.

"Can you believe how big he's getting?" Lewis said proudly as he bounced Lyric on his lap.

Rorie smiled fondly at them. "I know, right? It feels like just yesterday we were bringing him home from the hospital."

Lewis kissed Lyric's forehead before turning to Rorie with a mischievous grin. "Remember how scared we were? We had no idea what we were doing."

Rorie rolled her eyes playfully. "Speak for yourself; I had it all under control."

"Oh really?" Lewis raised an eyebrow in jest.

"Yeah," Rorie replied assuredly. "I mean, I did read every parenting book out there."

Lewis chuckled at her response before leaning in to kiss her cheek. "You're amazing," he whispered. "I wish I could spend more time with you guys, but the race season is just so hectic."

"I know," Rorie replied with a hint of sadness in her voice. She understood that racing was Lewis' passion and career, but she couldn't help feeling a bit lonely when he was away.

Lewis sighed and looked into Rorie's eyes. "Hey, don't worry about it too much," he reassured her. "After this race, we have a few days off before the next one. We can plan something fun for our little family then."

Rorie smiled at his words and leaned in for another kiss.

The sound of an alarm suddenly broke the peaceful moment as Lewis' timer informed him that it was almost time to head out for the grid.

"It happens all the time," he joked, taking out his phone to turn off the annoying shrill. Lewis handed Lyric back to Rorie before getting up from the couch where they had been sitting.

"Good luck out there today," Rorie said with a loving smile as she stood up as well.

"Thanks, babe," Lewis replied. "I'll see you after the race."

"Go kick some ass," Rorie said with a playful smirk.

"I will," he responded confidently. "Oh, Miles is here with Spinz if you want to head up to the paddock club."

"Do you really think I should go, Lewis?" asked a worried Rorie. "You know how chaotic it's been lately."

"There are no reporters up there and you know all the back entrances to be discreet," he reassured her. He took a step closer to her and let out a sigh. "I just want you to have some fun and enjoy yourself for a little while, okay? And Nina is coming, right?"

Nina was their nanny. Rorie nodded. "Yeah, she should be here any minute."

"Great, so just relax, have some drinks, and do whatever you want," he encouraged her. "Let your hair down. You've been taking excellent care of Lyric, Roscoe, and me, but mummy needs some time for herself too."

Rorie smiled at Lewis' words, knowing she needed to take some time for herself and have a little fun. It had been a while since she had the chance to let loose.

He kissed her on the lips before bidding her farewell.

Soon after, Nina arrived and Rorie smiled warmly as she handed over Lyric to her. As the Hamilton family's trusted nanny since Lyric was just a few months old, Nina was an older woman with wiry gray hair neatly tied up in a bun. Her olive skin was flawless and her bright blue eyes exuded warmth and compassion. She spoke with a soothing French accent, her words gentle and affectionate towards Lyric, like a sweet lullaby.

"Has he taken his nap?" asked Nina eagerly.

"No, but I've changed and fed him, so he's definitely tired," Rorie informed her. "I'm heading out now, please call if—"

"We'll manage just fine, Aurora," Nina interrupted.

"Merci." Rorie smiled gratefully at Nina before heading out to the paddock club. As she entered, the noise and energy of the crowd hit her. She felt a little overwhelmed, but also excited to be in this exclusive area where only sponsors and VIP guests were allowed. She made her way upstairs to the terrace, keeping an eye out for Miles and Spinz. It didn't take long for her to spot them at a table near the bar.

"Hey Rorie!" Miles called out as he noticed her approaching.

"Hi guys," Rorie said with a smile as she joined them at the table. "Thanks for inviting me to join y'all."

"You know we always got your back," Spinz said with a grin before taking a sip of his drink.

Rorie thanked him as she took a seat next to Miles. "When did you get here, Miles?"

"I got here yesterday afternoon," Miles answered in his British lilt, his brown eyes sparkling with excitement. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and a tailored pink suit. "I would've swung by, but I figured you guys were sleeping by the time I was free. I had to handle some things before spending some time with Lew."

Rorie shook her head with a chuckle. "Yeah, we were probably in bed by then."

"Right, because taking care of a toddler is so easy," Spinz joked, earning a playful punch from her.

"I'm just glad you guys are here," she said sincerely. "It's nice to have some familiar faces in this sea of strangers."

"We wouldn't miss this for the world," Miles said with a grin. "You know we got to support our bro."

Rorie found herself having a great time with Miles and Spinz. She sipped on a glass of champagne, enjoying the cool breeze and the stunning views of the racetrack below.

"How's our nephew doing?" Miles suddenly asked, breaking the comfortable silence between them. "I saw some pictures of him and I swear to God he looks more and more like Lew every single day. That baby stole his whole face."

Rorie couldn't help but smile at Miles' words. "He's doing great," she said proudly. "Growing so fast, just like you said he would."

"I can't wait to see him again," Spinz chimed in. "Is he going to be 'round later?"

"Yes," Rorie replied, "if he's not asleep by then, of course."

"How is Lew handling being away from him?" Miles asked with concern.

"It's been tough for both of us," Rorie confessed, taking another sip of her drink. "But we make it work with video calls every night before bedtime."

Rorie couldn't help but feel grateful for their friends, who had always been there and supported her and Lewis through thick and thin.

Rorie politely excused herself to take a call from Nina, regarding Lyric. It was nothing serious, just a minor issue that needed immediate attention. Lost in her thoughts, Rorie was unaware of the figure approaching her until a deep, melodious voice broke through her reverie. Startled, she turned to find herself face-to-face with a captivating stranger. He had tall, broad shoulders that spoke of strength and confidence, and his deep brown eyes sparkled like pools of melted chocolate below a mess of messy curls.

The stranger approached Rorie with a charming smile, his voice smooth and polished like silk. "Excuse me, miss," he said, his eyes fixed on her from across the terrace. "I couldn't help but notice you. What's a gorgeous woman like yourself doing all alone?"

Rorie offered him a polite smile, but inside she was already feeling uncomfortable. "Thank you for the compliment, but I'm not available for conversation right now."

Undeterred, the stranger leaned against the railing and continued to gaze at Rorie. "Ah, I see. Well, I must say, I usually don't take 'no' for an answer."

She thought it was weird and creepy for him to say that. Rorie's smile faltered, her façade starting to wear thin as she looked around for someone to save her from this persistent stranger.

Just when she was about to make a quick exit, Miles arrived, bringing a sense of relief with him. Rorie felt a wave of gratitude wash over her as he approached.

"Hey man," Miles greeted the stranger with a friendly tone, but also a hint of suspicion. "Do we know you?"

The stranger straightened up and maintained his confident smile. "I don't believe we've met," he replied smoothly before extending his hand towards Miles. "My name is Alexander."

Miles shook his hand cautiously before turning to Rorie with questioning eyes. She shook her head slightly, indicating that she also did not know this man.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Alexander," Miles said politely. "But as you can see, the lady wants to be left alone."

Alexander's smile faltered at Miles' firm tone, but he quickly recovered. "My apologies," he said smoothly. "I simply couldn't resist."

Rorie rolled her eyes at Alexander's persistence and had no interest in entertaining him any longer.

"Excuse us." She looped her arm with Miles' and he led her away.

Once they were out of earshot, Miles turned to Rorie with a concerned expression. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

Rorie let out a sigh of relief and leaned against the railing next to him. "Yeah, I'm fine," she replied with a small smile. "Thanks for coming when you did."

Miles nodded understandingly and gave her an apologetic look. "Sorry I couldn't get here sooner," he said regretfully.

"No worries," she assured him. "You were here when it mattered most. Besides, I can handle myself. But seriously, who was that guy?"

Miles shook his head. "No clue. Never seen him before. But he gave off a weird vibe, didn't he?"

Rorie nodded, her mind still reeling from the encounter. "Definitely. It's like he appeared out of nowhere and just wouldn't take no for an answer."

Despite his disappointment after losing the race, Lewis was determined to let go of his frustration and attend Justin and Hailey Bieber's yacht afterparty. Rorie sent a text to Nina, asking her to take Lyric home, and joined Lewis at the party. Though he couldn't shake off the thought of finishing in fourth place, Lewis stayed positive when he was with his wife.

The afterparty was in full swing when Rorie and Lewis arrived. The music was blaring and the yacht was packed with people dancing, drinking, and mingling.

She followed Lewis as he made his way through the crowd, greeting familiar faces and introducing his wife to new ones.

They made their way to the bar, where Lewis ordered her a drink while Rorie took in their surroundings. The party was filled with models, actors, and other high-profile individuals. It was clear that Justin and Hailey Bieber's connections ran deep.

She sipped on her martini as she noticed Justin making his way towards them with Hailey by his side. Justin and his wife Hailey, close friends of the couple, greeted Lewis and Rorie with warm embraces. "Hey man, sorry 'bout the race," Justin said sympathetically before turning to Rorie. "Hey Rorie, how's it going?"

Rorie smiled back at him. "I'm doing well, thanks for asking."

"Good to hear," Justin replied eagerly. "We should definitely catch up tonight, it's been too long since we've seen you guys."

Hailey chimed in from beside her husband, her eyes lighting up. "Yes, let's celebrate! How about coming back to our place for an after-after party?"

Rorie glanced at Lewis uncertainly, but he shrugged nonchalantly. "Sounds like a plan," he said with a grin.

"Lyric's with the nanny anyways, so we're good," she added.

Hailey's smile widened at the mention of their son. "I can't believe he's almost one already!"

"Time flies," laughed Rorie. "He's doing great, trying to walk and getting into everything at home."

Both Lewis and Rorie had a good time hanging out with their friends, which was a rarity since becoming parents. Whilst Lewis stayed sober, Rorie had the time of her life and was feeling the effects of consuming too much alcohol. They made their way home at around three in the morning and Lewis slowly lead his beautiful intoxicated wife inside their home.

She managed to not bump into anything until she tripped over her own two feet as she took a step down into the sunken living room, exploding into fits of giggles as she landed onto the rug-covered floor with a thud.

"Fuck, are you okay, love?" Lewis questioned, suppressing his laughs. He instantly made his way to her to help her stand. "C'mon, let's get you some water and into bed."

"Are you trying to seduce me?" chortled Rorie as Lewis walked her into the kitchen. "That's how we became pregnant last time, 'member? You got me drunk one night and then...poof...pregnant."

He settled her at the kitchen nook as he filled a glass with water. Rolling his eyes in mock annoyance, he let out a scoff. "It didn't happen like that, baby."

"Mmmhmm," she added with a small hiccup.

"Come on, come on, let's hydrate you," said Lewis as he held a glass of water to her lips.

Lewis helped Rorie drink the water and then led her into their bedroom. He helped her change into her pajamas and tucked her into bed. She let out a content sigh as she snuggled under the covers.

"You know, I think I might still be a little tipsy," she slurred with a sleepy smile.

"I have no doubt about that," Lewis chuckled as he stripped down to his boxer briefs and slid into bed next to her. "But it's okay, you had a good time tonight."

Rorie snuggled closer to him, feeling warm and happy. "I did. I miss hanging out with our friends like this."

"We'll have to do it more often," promised Lewis, kissing her forehead.

"I love you," murmured Rorie, already starting to drift off to sleep.

"I love you too," whispered Lewis, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer as they both fell asleep.

The next morning, Rorie woke up with a slight headache but overall feeling okay. She smiled as she remembered the fun night they had with their friends. She turned over in bed and was greeted by Lewis' sleeping face.

He looked so peaceful and handsome, even in his sleep. She traced his jawline lightly with her fingers before planting a soft kiss on his lips.

"Mmm, good morning," he mumbled against her lips before opening his eyes.

"Good morning indeed," giggled Rorie.

"How are you feeling?" asked Lewis, sitting up slightly and rubbing his eyes.

"Surprisingly not too bad," replied Rorie. "I guess drinking lots of water last night helped."

"Well, that's good to hear." Lewis leaned in for another kiss before getting out of bed to start the day.

As they went about their morning routine of getting dressed and making breakfast together as a family, they chatted about their plans for the day. Rorie suggested taking their son to the park for some quality family time, and Lewis eagerly agreed.

They sat down at the breakfast table, ready to enjoy a delicious homemade meal of fluffy vegan pancakes, fresh fruit, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Lyric sat in his mother's lap, chewing happily as Rorie fed him.

Just as they were about to dig into their mouthwatering breakfast, a familiar ringtone broke the tranquility of the morning. Penni's name flashed on Lewis' phone screen. With a sigh, he picked up the call and put it on speaker.

"Hey, Penni," Lewis greeted, trying to sound nonchalant. "What's up?"

"Morning, lovebirds," Penni sang. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but a tabloid got hold of a picture from last night at the Bieber yacht party, and they're planning to post it online by early afternoon."

Rorie's fork clattered onto her plate, her eyes widening in surprise. Lewis felt his heart sink.

"Are you fucking serious?" Rorie exclaimed, frustration evident in her voice.

"I wish I was kidding," replied Penni. "But the paparazzi are ruthless, and they're always on the lookout for anything that would make them money."

"The picture showed up on their radar and now they're going to exploit it," added Lewis, feeling a mix of anger and helplessness.

"What are we going to do?" asked Rorie, her mind racing with possible solutions.

"We could try to get ahead of the story and release a picture ourselves," suggested Penni. "But we have to act fast before it goes viral. I hate to ask this again but—"

"Penni, we can't keep playing this tit-for-tat game with them," Lewis argued. "I'm tired of putting my family in this bullshit."

"It's just me, right?" piped Rorie.

"Yes," answered Penni. "We've been scrubbing the Internet and there's no pictures of Lyric. There are actually laws in place that protect his privacy against the media. Unfortunately, it's a different story for adults. I suggest maybe a recent photo and a cute caption."

"Until how long though?" grumbled Lewis. "This is a never-ending situation unless we...goodness I can't believe I'm even thinking of this."

"What's going on, Lewis?" Penni couldn't help but wonder what was happening.

Rorie, on the other hand, immediately understood the situation. She and her husband had always been in sync, and this time was no different. It could be seen as a blessing or a curse, but they had a certain synergy about them.

"You can't keep me hidden forever, honey," she said in a soft voice. "We knew this would happen sooner rather than later. I have to go public now, unfortunately."

After five years of avoiding the limelight and the constant intrusion of paparazzi, Rorie finally had to make her debut into the world of celebrity. Hopefully, everyone would calm down soon, but she couldn't trust the media too much. While she did have an Instagram presence, it was small compared to her husband's and was set to private, but all of that had to change now. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make for her family. Rorie wasn't exactly shy - if anything, she exuded cool confidence - but that didn't mean she enjoyed being in the spotlight. But it was something she had to come to accept.

"Fine," Lewis reluctantly agreed. "Just give us ten minutes, Penni, and we'll post it."

Even though he wanted to show off his beautiful wife all over social media, he didn't want it to happen like this - he wanted Rorie to decide on her own terms without any pressure.

"Are you sure, baby?"

"Yes," Rorie affirmed. "I mean, what else are we going to do?"

TO BE CONTINUED...

#sir lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton x black!reader #sir lewis hamilton x black!reader #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton x black! oc #formula one fanfiction #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #private landing

[infinitystoner]

Underneath the Tree

AO3 | Masterlist

✨part of @sarahscribbles’ Christmas Collection; header by @inklore✨

Summary: You’re expecting to spend the holidays without your other half. So when Loki reappears the night before Christmas, you indulge in a little merriment to make up for lost time.

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Word count: 3.1k

Tags/Content: Holiday Surprises Befitting the God of Mischief, Romantic Reunions, Fluff, Smut (Fingering, Cunnilingus, Anal Sex), Soft Dom! Loki, Established Relationship

Rating: Explicit; 18+

Author’s note: Here be the Yuletide filth! I realize butt stuff isn’t for everyone, but it’s actually really soft and sweet (and not overly explicit). If you like my writing, I hope you give it a chance. xx

The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention as you pad across the kitchen floor, unnerved by the unmistakable feeling of being watched. You abandon your post-bath time snack on the counter, clutching at your bathrobe as trepidation gnaws at the back of your mind.

With the curtains drawn, only the glimmering lights on your Christmas tree illuminate the living room. It’s hard to see anything beyond silhouettes and shadows. A quiet night like this amidst the bustling holiday season is a rare treat, and you should be grateful and relaxed, but you just can’t shake the feeling that you’re not alone. 

You try to ignore the frantic beat of your pulse thundering in your ears as you inch closer to the tree. Did someone break in while you were in the shower? The rational part of your brain knows it’s downright laughable to entertain such a thought. A security breach is practically impossible thanks to Tony’s impenetrable tech. Unless…

“You’re back,” you say cautiously, voice no louder than a whisper. 

A surge of longing permeates your being, doing little to appease the rapid beating of your heart. The familiar shuffle of centuries-old leather catches your attention, all fear melting away as you turn to see a formidable figure emerge from the corner. 

Loki.

“I’m back,” he responds simply. 

He closes in, his gaze never leaving yours, the purposeful sound of his heavy boots on your hardwood floors resonating through the space. Loki’s presence is a solace you can’t quite articulate—but suddenly there’s a warmth filling the cracks that etched across your heart when he left. And there’s a calm wrapping around your solitude like a cozy blanket on the coldest winter night.  

You study the god before you, the Christmas lights casting a soft glow over his figure. His dark curls fall in waves atop his shoulders, regally framing his perfectly sculpted features. His brows slant upward as he drinks in the sight of you, a dimple appearing along his cheek as he returns your smile. When he slides his hands around your waist, your stomach somersaults at his touch.

You take a deep breath and reach up to cup his jaw, savoring the coolness of his smooth skin. Loki leans into your palm, closing his eyes and exhaling a deep sigh. It’s a small gesture, but it speaks volumes. You can’t resist the urge to pull him into a tight embrace, humming as his strong arms wrap around you in response.

He tenderly presses a kiss to your temple, tugging you closer against his muscular chest. The scent of ancient forests, leather, and musk—along with something sweeter you can’t quite place—invades your senses. Finally, he breaks the comfortable silence. 

“Did you miss me?”

Loki searches your eyes, a hint of apprehension marring his beautiful face. He’s only been gone for about six weeks—which is nothing compared to the months you previously spent without him. But how did you ever think you’d be okay spending the holiday without him? 

You glance up at him with feigned exasperation.

“Of course I missed you, you silly, gorgeous man. But did it ever occur to you to knock? Or call ahead? Perhaps send a raven?” 

A devilish smirk adorns lips. “Now where’s the fun in that?” 

“But what if I’d attacked you? I wasn’t expecting you back until after–” 

“Attacked me?” Loki chuckles, sitting on the sofa and pulling you onto his lap. “Now that I’d like to see.” 

“Is that so?” you ask, caressing the gold plating embellishing his chest and trailing your fingertips across the high collar of his leathers, stopping only when you reach the sharp juncture of his jaw. He peers up at you as you straddle his hips, and the glint of mischief in his eyes is exhilarating. 

“Mm, perhaps later, my little vixen.” 

With a flick of his wrist, a fire roars to life in your hearth. Beyond the crackles and pops of the blaze, a familiar Christmas song begins to play and you swear more twinkling lights appear on your tree. You’re not sure if the night can get more perfect than this.

“What is the phrase you mortals are so fond of this time of year? Season’s Greetings?” 

“Something like that.” 

“You know, we host a similar winter festival on Asgard,” he explains as you tuck his hair behind his ear, exposing the column of his neck. “It’s rather extravagant. Hedonistic, some might say.”

“So, you willingly left the decadence of Asgard. To spend Christmas on Earth. With me.” 

“Is that really so inconceivable, my love? I am, to borrow another turn of phrase, quite smitten, I’m afraid.” 

“Just wanted to be sure,” you tease, but a familiar tingling sparks in your core at his admission. Sometimes you can hardly believe this man—this god—fell so hopelessly in love with you. Of course, you have your issues like any other couple. Dating an alien who once tried to take over your planet does not come without consequence. But, oh, the way he’s looking at you now makes it all worth it. 

“And I believe this is a holiday spent in the company of those you care about, is it not?” he continues. “Besides, Mother quickly picked up on the fact I was more distracted than usual and blessed my departure.”  

“Must remember to thank Frigga for this Christmas surprise,” you joke, pretending to jot down a note. 

The curious arch of Loki’s brows soon contorts into an expression of ecstasy as you begin to work your lips along the column of his neck, nipping at his skin.

“Gods,” he quietly says, shifting beneath you and tightening his grip on your waist. His low rumble of pleasure is a sound you can happily lose yourself in. With a final press of your tongue to the erogenous zone below his ear, you lean back, but Loki is quick to capture your lips in a blistering kiss. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close and savoring the taste of him. A trace of mulled wine lingers on his mouth, and you wonder if he left Asgard in the midst of the aforementioned Yuletide celebration. 

“So, are you going to tell me?” you murmur against his lips. “Or am I to believe it was only the thought of startling me in the middle of the night that drew you away from your royal duties?”

“What?” Loki’s brows furrow in sincere confusion, his mouth agape.

“You said you were distracted…”

“Oh, yes. That.” The knowing glance he gives you in response sends a jolt of arousal coursing through your body. He clears his throat, running his hands under the curve of your ass before rolling you over onto your back.

“I was distracted by you,” he says, pulling your robe open. “You infiltrated my every waking thought, you infuriating woman.”

“That’s hardly surprising,” you giggle, biting your bottom lip as he magicks away his armor. His alabaster skin is ethereal under the amber glow of the blazing fire, every dip of his chiseled torso cast in devastating shadows, muscles rippling beneath his taut skin as he leans over you. Your fingertips ghost over the fine smattering of hair below his navel, their sensuous journey interrupted by a band of leather. You whine, tugging at his trousers. 

“Patience, darling,” he snickers, kissing along your collarbone. His tongue flits along the valley of your breasts and a white hot heat coils in your hips. Loki tilts his chin up, darkened eyes piercing your very soul. “I’m not going anywhere.”  

He takes one of your nipples into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth as he moves against your skin. You arch into him with a gasp, fingers digging into the broad expanse of his shoulders, his lithe muscles rippling under your touch.

“And we’ve both been so very patient, haven’t we?”

A wolfish grin creeps across his face as he tenderly pushes your thighs toward your stomach, his hands pushing your knees outward as you offer yourself up to him. You’re completely exposed, but any hint of inhibition dissipates as you note the unadulterated lust in your lover’s eyes.

Loki inhales sharply, greedily consuming what little air is left between you. Within seconds his mouth is warm against your cunt, and a broken moan escapes you. You twist your fingers into his hair as your entire body shudders in response to his enthusiastic movements, your frenzied mind attempting to process the situation. Twenty minutes ago, you were content with the idea of crawling into bed with a tin of shortbread and a good book. And now? Well, if you’re not careful, you’re going to come before things even get started. Loki realizes this and lightly grabs your wrist, removing your hand from his hair and guiding it behind your knee.

“Here,” he says, his hand engulfing yours as he presses it firmly against the back of your trembling thigh. Your pussy clenches at his simple command as you obediently move your legs further apart, contorting your body to his will. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you—all of you—as you settle into the new position, your back relaxing into the softness of the cushions beneath you.

The soles of your feet brace against his clavicles as he dips back between your legs, sucking at the soft flesh along your inner thigh before returning his attention to your core. When his eager tongue glides past your cunt to circle the sensitive area further down, you nearly levitate off the sofa. 

Loki groans as he laps at you, his sinful slurps creating an intoxicating melody in your mind, the Christmas music long forgotten. You choke on air as the calloused pad of his thumb finds your clit, languidly rubbing circles as his tongue continues to explore your hole. The novel sensation is nearly enough to send you over the edge.

Thoughts of experiencing Loki this way had dwelled in the dark recesses of your mind for months now. You’d shamelessly pleaded for it during your last night together all those weeks ago while in the throes of passion. But Loki, with his silver tongue and roguish charm, was infuriatingly persuasive and surprisingly sensible. And so you had agreed to wait.

“Don’t tempt me, little one,” he had coyly responded as he slid the tip of his cock along the curve of your ass, trailing down until he made contact with your cunt. Yet the intensity with which his fingers dug into your hips as you begged for more let you know he wanted it just as much as you did.

“Something to look forward to,” he’d mumbled into your ear as he pressed his firm chest against your back, the sheen of sweat coating your skin intermingling with his as he buried himself inside your cunt for the third time that evening.

Your wait, it seems, is over.

“Norns, you’re divine,” Loki says, lifting his head to peer at you across your heaving torso. He continues rolling his thumb over your clit as he kisses along your stomach, his soft curls falling across your exposed skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Shall I keep going?”

“Yes,” you rasp, doing little to conceal the urgent need in your voice. “But don’t we need the–”

You nod toward the bedroom, alluding to the bottle of lube tucked away in your nightstand. But the words catch in the back of your throat as a cool, lubricated finger nudges where Loki’s mouth had just been. You glance down at the god, furrowing your brow as you observe a flash of seidr ignite the space between you. 

“Well, that’s convenient.”

Loki lets out a breathy laugh as he looks up from his spot between your legs, his eyes dark with desire. His raven hair falls in a curtain around his face as his gaze darts back down to your center. 

“I’m giving you exactly what you asked for.” Loki grins, slowly pressing his middle finger inside you. You nearly sob as your anticipation is engulfed by a rush of euphoria.

“I’m giving you all of me,” he adds, an exhilarating ache rippling through your core as a second finger joins the first.

“Oh my god,” you  cry out as the blend of forbidden and familiar pleasure overwhelms your senses. Loki’s fingers steadily move inside you while he licks a wide stripe through your folds and you toss your head back with a hiss. 

“Relax, love,” he says softly, wrapping a large hand behind your knee and guiding it over his shoulder. As you settle into the new position, Loki’s gifted tongue swirls around your throbbing clit, the skillful drag of it sending adrenaline searing through every nerve ending in your body.

“You’re doing so good,” he continues, his voice ragged and deep as he watches you squirm beneath him.

“S-so good,” you echo, keening at his praise. “Loki—fuck—you feel so good.”

He continues to gently move his fingers inside you, pushing deeper with each pump until you feel his palm flatten against your cunt. You slur his name, winding your fingers into his hair once more in an attempt to ground yourself. It doesn’t work. 

“More. Please,” you beg, the words tumbling from your lips without conscious thought. Loki responds by stilling his motions and removing his fingers from you. You huff, pushing yourself up into a seated position and forcing Loki to shuffle onto his knees to avoid sliding off the edge of the sofa. What the hell? 

“Loki…” you caution, your heart wildly beating in your chest as he tauntingly returns your gaze. He simply laughs, clearly amused by your little display of assertiveness.

“Feisty tonight, aren’t we?” he says, hands trailing up your thighs and around the curve of your ass. You both know you’re at his mercy tonight. “I knew I saw your name on the naughty list.” 

“You’re not playing fair.” 

No, he’s just playing on his own terms. Taunting you like he always does—a cat toying with his mouse. 

“I’m merely trying to determine exactly how much more you can take,” he drawls as he nuzzles his nose along your neck.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you respond coyly, running your fingertips along his leather-clad erection.

You know he can see right through you, can sense the way he’s driving you mad. And before you can give your next bratty retort, Loki tightens his grip on your ass and forcefully pulls you toward him. As your bare chest makes contact with his, a shiver rolls down your spine.

“Oh, I think you do,” he says, reveling in the power he possesses. You moan into his mouth as his hands roam your body with a hunger that leaves you breathless. All that matters is the feel of his tongue against yours, the touch of his cool hands on your heated skin. Your pulse quickens as Loki pulls away to admire you, his eyes glazed over with lust. You need him. All of him. Now.

“And I need to hear you say it.”

“I want this, Loki,” you concede breathlessly. “I want you.”

“Words cannot convey how much I want this—want you—in return, my love.” A reassuring smile spreads across his features as he coaxes you to lie back down. Your heartbeat thrums with excitement as you comply with his request, and as you open your legs for him once more, you feel his eyes burning into your skin like a fiery brand.

“You’re sure?” Loki asks quietly, dropping his mask of dominance a moment as he brushes a finger along your slit, skimming the delicate skin between your ass cheeks with the pad of his thumb. 

“Y-yes,” you whimper as he finally—completely—undresses himself in a wave of gold.

Stunning, you think, taking in the vision of Loki kneeling between your legs. His chest heaves with each shallow breath, his cock resting heavy against his muscular thigh. You let out a small whine when his hand leaves your body, wrapping it around the base of his shaft instead. He tosses his head back, and the small grunt that tumbles from his lips as he begins to stroke himself is positively sinful.

“Say it again. Please,” he chokes out, tugging the foreskin over the glistening, swollen head of his cock.

“I need you, Loki,” you say, shifting against the blankets and cushions.

He’s unwaveringly graceful as he guides your legs around his hips, positioning himself above you as the tip of his cock presses into your tight entrance. The pressure is beyond anything you’ve experienced before, and for a fleeting moment, your eyes widen in trepidation. 

“Breathe, darling one.” 

And so you do. Loki guides your breaths as he steadily stretches you to what you’re certain is your limit. You begin to lose yourself as the heady scent of sex wisps through the room like tendrils of Loki’s seidr, entwining with the heightened groans of carnal bliss. 

“Talk to me. Are you okay?” 

“So full. But… but good,” you manage to say, and it’s the truth. As your body relaxes into his movements, everything becomes more comfortable. Your hands graze down his back until they find the firm swell of his ass, pulling him deeper.

Loki growls out an old Norse curse as he bottoms out—his hip bones flush against the back of your thighs. You’ve never taken this much of him before, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You clench in response. 

“My perfect girl,” he praises. With controlled precision, he starts to rock into you and every throbbing inch of his cock drags against your walls in the most delicious way. Soon, his fingers are circling your swollen clit and the pressure in your hips becomes too much to bear.

“So perfect,” he repeats between grunts, your body writhing as he brings you closer and closer to release. Like a caged bird set free, you soar higher and higher, the world spreading beneath you in all its glory as you ascend toward the stars. With one final thrust, you come undone.

Loki presses his forehead to yours as a strangled whimper rips from his throat, his own orgasm quickly following yours. 

You stay like that for a while, a tangle of limbs and heaving breaths on your sofa. Eventually, everything comes back into focus: the fire, the music, the twinkling tree. 

“That was quite the gift,” you say as Loki settles beside you. 

“Certainly, you don’t think that was your only gift?” He tuts and casts you a rakish wink. “Your next surprise awaits you in the bedroom.” 

You giggle as Loki stands and scoops you into his arms. 

“Honestly. What kind of imbecile gives their love only one orgasm on Christmas Eve?” 

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#loki x reader #loki smut #loki fluff #loki fanfiction #loki #loki x you #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #merry christmas ya filthy animals

[bangaveragewhitewine]

maybe it ain't so bad

Bouncer!Eddie Munson x Bartender!Reader (established relationship) - Part of Happy Hours

Your boyfriend doesn’t like Christmas much. Inside his huge soft heart, he carries the memories of Christmases good and bad. After this year, the first Christmas you will actually get to spend together, he might feel a little warmer towards the Holidays…

Word Count 4.4k

Contents / Warnings | 18+ | Eddie & Reader are in their mid/late twenties | Loss of a parent, mention of child neglect and abuse | No explicit sex, nonetheless this is an 18+ fic - making out on the sofa, brief choking mention, Eddie’s love of hickies, being horny and in love, mentions of sex and post-sex softness, ‘slut’ as a term of endearment | No physical descriptions of reader; the image used in the header is not indicative of Bartender Reader in this series

Note I missed our metalhead bouncer boyfriend. I tried and tried not to make this sad or angsty. A quick moment to say thank you for all the love over the last sixish months while I have been writing and sharing my work. It’s a joy, truly! Have a cosy holiday season, sweet angels!!! ❤️❤️❤️

Christmas, 1992 

Eddie Munson didn’t care for Christmas.

A long time had passed since the last Christmas with his Mom, but each year the scabbed-over wound inside him tore and stung and bled just a little more around the Holidays. 

It might be more accurate to say then that Eddie Munson did not let himself care for Christmas. It hurt him to care about it, to remember the good ones and the bad ones with his mother, so he tried to just not care. 

When he closed his eyes, he could still see the coloured string lights wound around the shitty plastic tree, glinting against baubles that had seen better days. He could feel her hands holding his much smaller ones as they danced together to Christmas records, the way she held him safe and steady to place the star on top of the tree. The shininess of it all had pulled his attention from her pilled and threadbare sweaters and the bruise-like bags beneath her eyes. The festive earworms drowned out her tearful phone calls to her parents for some extra cash to make sure Eddie would have a present from Santa beneath the tree this year, and her promises that her no-good-husband would see a penny of it.

As he watches you hanging shiny-and-new decorations on the branches of the small fir in the corner of your shared living room, humming to music only you could hear, he could not help but think of her. It hurt, but the smile that spread across your face when you caught him watching soothed his soul just a little bit.

“Hi, handsome.” 

Your voice and that cosy greeting, the eye-sparkling smile you wear when he comes home to you, feels like stepping into a warm bath every single time. It’s a hug before you even open your arms to him.

You watch him unwind his scarf and shake out his frosted curls once his jacket has been hung on its peg. His boots are slipped off and left to pick up later. 

“How’d it go?”

Eddie stares at the shiny ornament hanging between your fingers on gold thread, lost somewhere in his head or hypnotised by the way it caught the light until you call his name again. 

“Sorry, yeah. Went good. You’ve been busy…”

While Eddie was teaching his last guitar lesson before the Holidays, you had draped the tree with shiny bright lights and made a start on the baubles, hanging them extra-slowly in the hope that your boyfriend might want to help when he got home. Neither of you had work tonight, scheduled off synchronously as a little reward for working Christmas Eve.

“You wanna help?” you ask, a glimmer of hope in your eyes, even as you readied yourself for rejection.

You knew his feelings about Christmas - not just his capitalist hellscape rant that came out whenever someone asked if he was looking forward to the holidays, but you knew the deep emotional pain he carried as another year passed without her. Every year the taste of her cinnamon-spiced sugar cookies and the scent of her perfume, that special Mom Smell, faded more in his memories.

For the first Christmas you would actually spend together as a couple, you wanted it to be special and cosy. You wanted Eddie to feel comfortable and safe, not like a prisoner bound in tinsel as you forced him to watch Miracle on 34th Street or How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (though he did have a soft spot for the green guy). A lazy few days cocooned in your apartment, a nice no-fuss dinner and quality time together. It helped too that you could pick up the Christmas Eve shift in the bar instead of travelling out of the state to sit at home with your families and miss each other, count the days until you hopped back on the plane to O’Hare, and pray that Eddie would drive safe on the icy roads around Hawkins. 

The decorations had been a compromise; Eddie never usually bothered and you liked to spend at least half a day making your home look like a festive explosion. A deal had been made on a small tree with a few lights.

You looked at that tree now, its small and slightly wonky stature had charmed you. Eddie’s staring at it too and you can see a glimpse of the broken boy Eddie once was; it makes your heart hurt. 

“Is it too much? I can stop…” Your voice is quiet.

Eddie shakes his head and plasters on a smile for you that makes your chest ache, before rounding the sofa on socked feet to press a kiss to your head and squeeze you around the middle.

His nose is cold from being outside. That fresh scent of bright winter air clings to him and slowly melts away inside the warm flat you share. 

“Looks great.” Eddie picks up a random red bauble. “Where does this one go?”

“Wherever you want it to go. Just look for the bare spots.” 

You tamp down any fizzing excitement that he’s taking an interest, then feel guilty that you are thinking of him like he’s a wild animal who is easily spooked. 

Eddie brings you back to reality, just like always.

“You gonna move it later when I’m not looking?” he asks, brows raising beneath his bangs as you loop your ornament on a branch. 

That ‘I know you too well for your cute lies, babe’ look he gave you made your cheeks feel warm. It was close to his ‘you’re pushin’ it and you’re being a brat on purpose’ look. That one was fun.

“Only if it’s too close to another red.”

He had seen you and Michelle in full-festive-flight when you decorated the bar every year; every year he braved the cold of the beer cellar or the back alley to stay well out of your way lest he be roped into a squabble on the placement of some stupid garland. 

Not fully convinced, Eddie zeroes in a bare spot (not too near to another red ball) and slips it over the branch with less practiced precision. It’s perfect.

You lean over to smack a kiss on your boyfriend’s cheek. “You’re a natural, Teddy.” 

His arm slips and winds around your waist, squeezing the squish of your hips before he presses his lips to your head. “Do I get a reward?” 

Eddie’s touch and the low timbre of his voice stoke the cosy glow in your body into something more fiery and exciting. His fingers skate along the waistband of your sweatpants, tracing up beneath your (his) hoodie. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Two can play that game.

“For one little bauble? I’m not that easy, Munson.” 

It pains you to pull yourself away but the warmth and hunger in his gaze feeds your ego and the flame in your gut. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, I need you to show me.” His fingers reach out to grab the empty space between you. 

Your eyes roll as you crouch to pick up two more baubles.

“Gimme a kiss for every decoration I put on then?” Eddie suggested, “I’ll keep tally.”

A slow smile makes its way onto your face and you nod. “That could be arranged. Don’t half-ass it though, they’ll fall off if they’re not on properly.” Your eyes narrow in warning, “I’ll bite you instead of kiss you if you half-ass it.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, honey,” Eddie smirks and takes both baubles from you - one gold, one pink - and hangs them on his fingers, strategically dangling them right over his nipples. He gets the exact reaction he was hoping for - an eye-roll and that smile you do when you try not to laugh at his silliness. That smile that had made him fall for you.

“And you know my motto - full ass or no ass at all. No half-assin’ around here.” 

Before you can make a smart comment about his flat ass, Eddie takes his time to thoughtfully hang the ornaments in two bare spots and surveys his work with a quietly-pleased hum. You could imagine what he was like as a kid, bargaining for an extra cookie once the tree was decorated, or an extra bedtime story. You didn’t hang any more decorations in favour of watching him work for a few moments, the colourful glow of the lights on his pale skin. 

He catches you staring and softens, winks at you as he picks two more baubles up. One for you, one for him. 

After passing the gold string between your fingers, you press a bonus-kiss to Eddie’s lips before finishing off your first tree together. Neither of you acknowledges with words how special it is, but it’s there. You squabble playfully when you get in each other’s way or when Eddie slaps your ass while he’s reaching for the snowman ornament you have had since you were a kid. 

You had accumulated a little collection of retro Christmas decorations in thrift shops over the years - pretty vintage baubles and kitschy ornaments, a few random or weird tchotchkes. A purchase from last year - a glittery skull wearing a Santa hat - earned instant approval from Eddie and pride of place on the tree. That one had caught your eye a few months after you two had started dating.

When the box of ornaments runs out, you take a step back and pull Eddie’s arm to join you. 

“You like it?” Your voice is quiet and careful as your cheek rests against the softness his sweater.

“Pretty,” Eddie says, just as quiet. His arms wind around you and hold you against his chest, starting a slow rock from foot to foot.

“Can I give you something?” you ask, voice muffled against his chest.

Eddie’s brows shoot up, a flirty look in his eyes. “Oh? You can give me whatever you want, babydoll.”

That wolfish grin of his still made you feel tingly all over, even as you rolled your eyes at him.

“It’s for the tree. Cool it, Romeo.” 

You pay this kiss-tax to be freed from the cosiness of his arms and slip into the bedroom for just a second. It is enough time for Eddie to edit a few baubles like it’s second nature to him, swapping out colours that are too close to each other and filling gaps until you arrive with a box. He has forgotten that he used to watch his mother do the same thing while he was content with his oven-warm cookies and cold milk on the couch.

You pass the box to Eddie. “It’s not really a gift. It’s for both of us.”

“Is it lingerie?” His brows raise, hopefully suggestive, as he smooths a finger over the lovingly slapped-on bow. Lingerie has certainly proven itself to be quite the mutual gift over the last year. His mind wanders to that last deep purple set you bought, and he can feel himself starting to drool.

“Eddie, just open it. You’re going to be so disappointed, it’s lame…”

At the talk of lingerie, you are acutely aware that you are currently dressed in sweats and one of his hoodies. In a funny sort of way, you know that the cosy combo does it for Eddie as much as lace and satin. The every-horny-for-your-boyfriend part of your brain considers wrapping yourself up in a big red bow for him. He would like that far too much.

He feigns coolness as he pulls the lid off and you push your unhinged thoughts away.

Inside, wrapped in crinkly red tissue paper, are two things - a matte black bauble with your initials curling together in shiny red calligraphy. Beside it, a small silver frame ornament with a candid snap of Eddie and you from Thanksgiving just passed, the one you spent in Hawkins with Wayne and his girlfriend. You’re perched on his lap, arms looped around his neck, smiling and very clearly obsessed with each other.

“I just thought we could... We could start our own traditions. Little things.” You speak into the quietness of the room as Eddie stares into the box. You murmur to yourself when he doesn’t answer, “You didn’t even want a tree, it’s so stupid.”

“Stop that.” Eddie’s frown is serious. “My girlfriend isn’t stupid. How dare you.” 

“But you don’t even like Christmas… It’s kinda stu-”

“Don’t. It’s fuckin’ thoughtful as fuck.” Eddie smiles softly at the ornaments, a warm feeling spreading in his chest. “You’re too cute, baby.” 

Pressing a smiling kiss to your lips, Eddie could feel himself beginning to soften. Maybe this Christmas thing would not be so bad this year…

Christmas with Wayne was always low-key - some years his Uncle took a shift at the plant and they exchanged thoughtfully practical presents like new guitar strings or picks, a book or an album, novelty mugs and new baseball caps or shirts. 

Wayne was not so fond of Christmas either. It reminded him of his heavy-handed drunk of a father, and the anxiety-inducing unanswered phone calls to his idiot brother’s house after Elizabeth died. It reminded him of finding his nephew alone in a cold house on Christmas Day, without a tree or dinner when Al forgot to come home. The kid didn’t have a single present to open from Santa. 

When Eddie moved to the trailer with him, too wise to the big bad world to be so easily distracted by shiny things, Wayne made sure there was a present for Eddie every single year, a meal and some company - even if the kid didn’t want it, even if Eddie screamed and threw a fit until he sobbed himself silent because he was just a little boy who missed his Mama…

Now, in the cocoon of your home together, Eddie's smile brims with child-like innocence, touched by the weight of wanting to start your own traditions together. You knew you were it for each other, but the little reminder of how much you meant it makes him glow.

He puts the box down and cups your face, pressing kisses everywhere he can reach. “God, I’m so in love with you,” he growls like a happy demon, making you laugh. 

Contently trapped against his body, soft and lean in all the right places, you release the breath you had been holding as Eddie studies the contents of the gift box again. 

“Look at these! I need this picture for my wallet. I need like, six copies,” he murmurs, “Have you ever seen a hotter couple?” Eddie brushes his thumb over the velvety loop of ribbon to hang it on the tree. “We need this for our grandkids, baby.” 

“Laurel took it. I’ll get you another copy.” Your face hurts from smiling as he kisses your cheek again. Wayne’s girlfriend was fond of you both, particularly Eddie.

“And this? Fuckin’ gothic as hell, I love it.” He strokes the intertwined initials before putting the box down to hug you just a shade off too tight. Nuzzling your noses together, he asks, “Where are we going to hang ‘em?”

“Front and centre?” you suggested, shrugging a little. “We could move that one…”

“Creepy Santa?”

“Banish him to the back of the tree. Begone, creep.”

Eddie chokes a laugh and muttered, “I love when you say nerdy shit, baby,” before unwinding his arms from around you to banish Creepy Santa.

“My boyfriend is a huge nerd, I can’t help it,” you tease.

After some careful re-arranging, the two new additions take pride of place on your tree. Eddie’s tongue had stuck out in concentration as he balanced them both so carefully; you wished you had your camera to capture the moment, not that you would ever forget it. 

You are wrapped up in his arms again once you agree on the placement, nose to nose as Eddie tells you how much he loves you again. The little noise he makes when you slip your hands into his back pockets hits low in your gut.

“You saving those kisses you earned or cashing them in, hot stuff?” you ask, tracing his jaw with the tip of your nose.

Eddie’s teeth flash in the low light; the room is shadowy and warm in the glow of string lights and a dim lamp in the corner. 

“Oh, I’m saving them up, princess. Might claim one or two right now, but the rest are staying with me. Got a pocketful of IOUs for kisses.”

You press your face against his shoulder, smiling. “That’s so ominous, Teddy.” 

“Next time you’re mad at me? Kiss token. When you’re too busy with stupid chores to take my human right to be kissed seriously? Pucker the fuck up, pretty girl.” 

You love him all ways, but especially like this; playful and fun, flirting hard with you. Eddie’s using his voice in a way you know comes from years of playing DnD, and a stint in the drama club at school. He’s in-your-face-flirty, never subtle. This is the man who punched someone for you before you were even dating; there’s nothing subtle about Eddie Munson. 

No, there’s absolutely nothing subtle about Eddie as his hips press forward against yours and he directs your mouth to his, cashing in the first of those kisses. He smiles when you chase him for more. You pull him closer, your hands on that flat ass of his, and sigh when his tongue licks across your bottom lip. 

“That’s one,” he whispers. 

He cups your warm cheek, his pinky stroking your pulse point. He can feel your blood pump quicker when his breath breezes over your mouth, like the hard beating of butterfly wings that he feels too. Eddie likes how they have not gone away yet for either of you; over a year together and no sign of migration. He hopes they never leave.

“M’not counting. Just kiss me,” you whisper, a little whiney and needier than you had realised now that you are pressed up against him with nowhere else to be. 

Never one to leave you hanging (unless that was part of the game you were playing), Eddie kisses you like a man starved. He craves that gasping whimper only he can pull from your throat, the flutter of your lashes when your tongues slide together. 

You shiver when his chilly fingers slip up beneath your sweatshirt, palm flat to the small of your back - the part he likes to see arched when he takes you from behind. 

Your lips buzz where they press against Eddie’s; the electricity passing between you makes you glow like Christmas lights. 

Eddie can tell your brain is still working too hard and brings his hand to your throat; not squeezing but his touch just enough to bring you back to him. It makes you keen for him. A reminder of something you both want to try, but not before you work up to it and do a little more research.

“Okay?” he checks, kissing the corner of your mouth. He watches your eyes go dark, swallowed up by your pupils in the dim light. 

“Mhm,” you murmur, tilting your chin just enough to graze your lips against Eddie’s.

He blesses you with an all-too-brief kiss, knowing you need and want more. He backs up a few steps, taking you with him to sit on the couch. Sitting there, thighs spread and waiting, the way he looks up at you makes you clench. You take your place in his lap and spend a moment slowing it all down again, forehead to forehead with Eddie’s hands stroking your hips. 

“I love you,” he whispers, the words tickling your lips. 

“I know. Love you,” you murmur back, pulling back enough to look into his eyes. You thumb the tired crescent beneath it, skating along his smiling cheek. 

When he looks at you, it makes your heart beat double time; it’s not just the lust darkening his eyes, but pure adoration. 

You cross your arms to wriggle out of the hoodie, stripped down to a cotton cami and a bra that had been relegated to comfy-wear-only. Eddie thinks you are a goddess, and he is completely and utterly down-bad for you. The glow of the Christmas tree behind you makes you look like some sort of angel.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs. His hands run up your sides and down again, pulling you in closer onto his lap. You can feel him beneath the layers of sweatpants and denim. 

You lean into him again for another kiss, melting against Eddie’s warm chest when his hands begin to wander. He kisses you, his tongue twisted with yours as he takes his time. There is no rush this evening, no need to get off quick before your shift. 

Without the deadline, you draw it out - kissing slow, hands wandering to squeeze and tease, hips rolling and grinding together hot and hard beneath the layers. You give extra attention to that spot on Eddie’s neck that makes him go cross-eyed, dragging your teeth over the little bruise he can hide beneath his hair (but he won’t because he’s a menace and a bit of a slut). 

You pull off his black sweater - the one that hugs his arms and makes his waist look biteable - and kiss along the neckline of his tank top. Your fingers push at it and his silver chain when they get in the way of another bruise-making kiss that makes Eddie swear under his breath. 

“Baby, fuck.” 

He grunts quietly when you push your hips together again, attempting to relieve some of the building ache between your thighs. 

“Mm, that’s the plan,” you whisper, smiling against his collarbone when he chokes on his own throaty laugh. 

When you look up at him there is a dusty pink flush across his cheeks. You watch his jaw drop just a fraction when your breath casts over the damp kisses you left on his neck. When your thumb catches purposefully on his nipple there’s a quiet ‘fuck’ that tumbles from his tongue. 

As his ability to be patient wanes, Eddie catches your lips again and slowly guides you to lie back against the sofa cushions.

“You drive my crazy,” he whispers, brushing back the hair that had fallen around your face. He kisses you again, a whisper of teeth against your lip before your tongues meet in a filthy kiss.

You make space for him between your legs, lying chest to chest as close as possible without opening up your chest and letting him crawl inside, without physically melting together to become one. You lose yourself in each other, bathed in the warm light of the tree.

“You didn’t do a star. Or an angel, angel. Do you have one?” Eddie’s jeans and belt are undone around his hips as he sits with your feet in his lap, pulled back on to smoke out the window.

“I got distracted before I could put it up.” You wiggle your toes against his thigh, yelping when he runs his fingertips over the sole. You shove it beneath his leg, safe and warm away from his tickling fingers. “I have one. It’s in that bag.” 

Back in your (Eddie’s) hoodie and your underwear, you point him toward the busted-around-the-edges gift bag left forgotten by the stereo. “You wanna put it up?”

Eddie smells warm and smokey when he leans in for a kiss, a tinge of sweat lingering after making love to you. He still has his warm pink-cheeked glow and proudly wears the bruises from your sweet mouth, the red marks left by your fingernails on his back. 

Three pecks later, he stands with a groan more befitting a man of his uncle’s age and picks up the bag. You watch him stare at the contents, an unreadable look on his face as he lifts it out.

Your star is kitschy as hell, gold with little tinsel pom-poms on the pointy edges and definitely older than both of you. It’s not to everyone’s taste, a little tacky perhaps, but that was part of its charm. When it caught your magpie-eye in a junk shop a few weeks ago you couldn’t leave it behind. The had-seen-better-days tree-topper that had cost one whole dollar and seventy-five cents. It had glittered at you from the shelf and whispered ‘take me with you’. 

“If you hate it, we don’t have to put it up. We could put Creepy Santa up there instead,” you mused, “Our creepy angel…” 

“I don’t hate it. It’s so… wrong in the best way.” Eddie turns the star-shape in his hands. It reminds him of the chintzy and bright Christmas trees and flashy lights in Forest Hills. “Where the hell did you even get this thing?” 

“In the little thrift store near the camera shop. The one where you got me those earrings…?” 

“Mm, I know it. Maybe we can un-banish the Creep too. I guess it’s Christmas after all…” he reaches for the previously hidden Santa Claus figure with shifty eyes and rosy cheeks and replaces him near the top of the tree. “Yeesh, you’re a weird little man.” He flicks Santa before lifting the star up. “You wanna do the honours?”

From your cosy place on the couch, still pleasantly jelly-legged and tingly all over, you shake your head. “You do it. I’m comfy.” 

Eddie shrugs and reaches to balance the topper on the highest point of your perfectly wonky little tree, standing back with his hands on his hips before looking to you for approval. 

You give Eddie two thumbs up before opening your arms for him. You barely brace for impact when he pounces on you, head thrown back laughing. “Ed!” You squeak when he presses growling kisses to your neck. 

Resting on your chest, Eddie looks up at you with those shiny baby-cow eyes you adore. He is so soft beneath it all. He makes your heart beat double time. You brush back his hair and kiss his forehead as he gets comfortable. You wrap your legs around him so he cannot go anywhere, even if he wanted to. 

“Can we make this part of our tradition too?” he asks.

“Mm, I like how you think, pretty boy.”

Your fingers comb through his curls as he rests his weight on you. There is nowhere you would rather be.

Eddie cannot keep himself from staring at the tree in the quiet bliss of it all. He soaks it in; the thud of your heart beneath his ear, the way the tree-lights blur his eyes when he stares at them for too long. 

A small slow smile spreads onto his face. He decides then that maybe, just maybe, Christmas might not be so bad this year.

An easter egg for the babes who made it to the end - here's the picture from the header image (I love making photos like this for fics tbh). I like to think this is one of the pictures Eddie's Mom sent to Wayne and he still has it 🥲🥲🥲

Thank you for reading ❤️ reblogs, likes and comments are cherished and adored!

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x f!reader #bouncer eddie munson #bouncer!eddie munson x bartender!reader #happy hours #bangaveragefics

[masonmovnt]

getting your header text from Mason & endless cuddles & specifically him with his longer hair 🥺🥺🥺 could you blurb this if you’re inspired please (if not let’s talk ab cuddly bf tys)

listen here

I’m always down to talk about Mason, so please do me a favour and never hesitate to spam tf out of my ask. I could talk or write about him all day 👀

-

Your eyes glimmering with the reflection of the phone that was in your hands, letting the colour of your irises stand out in the completely dark room.

What could he possibly be texting me about? He’s on the other side of the couch, you thought.

It was one of those nights where you and Mason didn’t know what to do, so you both decided not to stress about thinking of ideas and just stay home. Even though you both loved going different places with eachother, there was just a warm feeling that resonated with you both when you spent quality time at home. Whether you both were cooking dinner together or just lounging around the house, you both loved it because you were just spending alone time with eachother. Something you guys could never get tired of doing.

Tonight Mason and you decided it was long overdue for a movie night, finding it hard to believe that’s it’s been over a month since you two sat down together and endulged in a movie you both had been dying to see. You had your back leaning against the armrest, and your legs sprawled out along the couch, your feet landing on Mason’s lap. He sat normally with his back against the couch, his feet planted on the floor and his hands resting at his lap, on top of your feet. Even being a few feet away from you, Mason still found a way to have his hands attached to your body, one of his favourite things in the world.

You quickly opened up your phone, letting it unlock before opening up your text messages between the two of you.

You gaze up at Mason and clear your throat loud enough for him to hear you over the movie, letting him know you were trying to get his attention. He swiftly moved his head to the side, lifting up the remote in his hand to pause the movie, before glancing back at you.

“What’s up babes?” He stared at you, giving you his full attention.

With the light bouncing off of the television and onto his face, you could see every crevice and outline of his face. The soft brown locks that sit atop of his head are messily framing his face, pointing in every direction. His lips forming into a slight smile, something only you really noticed recently, catching on that everytime he directed his eyes in your direction, he would insanely smile without even knowing he was.

“Really? You’re asking me what’s up?” You smirked at him, shoving your foot into his side slightly, causing him to grab it before you tickled him even more. “You’re the one who texted me to make out like a teenager.”

“Oh yeah,” he paused, a full grin now replacing the slight smile he had just seconds prior. “Took you long enough to see the text. I sent that like 10 minutes into the movie.”

“Yeah yeah,” you said. “You know you could have just asked me to come cuddle against you instead of texting me. You know how bad I am at checking my phone.”

“And if you checked your phone regularly, your body would be on top of mine and we’d be making out,” he huffed. “But of course your not like the rest of us and can actually ignore you phone.”

“So it’s my fault now?”

“Of course it is babes,” he lifted his hand, reaching out for you until he laced his fingers around yours. “Now get your cute ass over here so we can cuddle and make out, and then have to rewatch the entire movie over again because you distracted me.”

You rolled your eyes slightly, a grin forming on your face, “Always blaming me Mase. Always blaming me.”

#mason mount x y/n #mason mount fic #mason mount x reader #mason mount x you #Mason mount #my writing #blurb

[it-happened-one-fic]

Fight Till the Very End - Jade

Author Notes: The header for this fic, which also serves as the inspiration for this is, comes from @thegoldenshi-shi and is a lovely design for Punk Jade (Follow the link to see the full picture!) I listened to Jane Child's "Don't Wanna Fall In Love" while writing this and I honestly had the time of my life. As a fair heads-up this fic contains a bit of a headcannon of mine involving Jade and his punk phase. I highly recommend both the song and the art! As per usual, reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender-Neutral Reader/ Fluff/ Flirtation/ Romance/ feat. punk Jade

Word Count: 1749

It was one of those days at NRC where you really didn’t know what to think. And truthfully, that wasn’t exactly odd when one lived at a magical school with a talking cat monster in a haunted house.

But this instance was unique because it also robbed you of words. So you didn’t say anything at all as you stared at Jade, who smiled at you in return. Far-too-pleased with himself, judging from his expression.

But he probably was pleased with himself. After all, he was the reason for your loss of words and utter surprise.

In your defense, though, it wasn’t everyday that one saw the usually well-pressed, carefully dressed Jade Leech in an outfit that could only be described as very, very punk.

With cornrows long enough to reach past his knees hanging from his now spiked-up hair, a chain connecting his pierced ear to a sparkly new nose ring, black cloth arm cuffs that extend from his wrists up to his biceps so that his shoulders were visible, and a low-cut top that showed a considerable amount of cleavage paired with silver necklaces that only accented his full black ensemble, you could definitely say this was different from Jade’s usual suit and tie.

It wasn’t a bad different, though. In fact, if you were to be honest, he looked really good. Frustratingly so.

Especially since something about Jade’s expression, from his amused smile to the glint in his mismatched eyes, made you feel like this was all part of some elaborate scheme.

You adored all of the Octatrio, but you were also no fool and knew perfectly well that all three of them enjoyed their little plots and games. So this being a part of some new plot was all too possible. 

But at the end of the day, you were never going to learn anything if you just kept staring at Jade. And the longer you stared in stunned and perhaps awed silence, the more amused the young man seemed to grow.

So at last you broke your silence, tilting your head as you continued to scan Jade’s new ensemble, “Well... You certainly are dressed up today. Is there something special going on, or…?”

You trailed off, half-pondering the possibility of some new event that required new clothes and half-hoping that Jade would fill in the rest for you.

And he didn’t disappoint, chuckling softly and shaking his head as he answered, “No, there’s nothing special going on… Rather, Floyd just happened to mention to me that you might wish to see how I dressed back before you arrived at NRC.”

His eyes were all a glimmer as he shifted, almost as if he were posing for you, but there was no way to ever prove it since Jade seemed to be perpetually posed. Another part of his charm, you supposed.

You blinked, refusing to give him what he wanted and instead questioning the obvious: “You had a punk phase?”

If he was disappointed, Jade didn’t show it. Rather, he seemed oddly pleased by your persistence in not reacting to his new look as he nodded, “Yes, I only changed my style of dress a little before you joined us at NRC.”

A part of you wanted to ask why he stopped, wondering if it had something to do with marketing the Mostro Lounge or himself with his infamous butler persona, but another part of you decided against it. 

After all, Jade was hardly one to really let others' impressions of him hold him back. It wasn’t like he hid his love of mushrooms, and he seemed to revel in others' occasionally frightened reactions towards his and his brother's general aura of illegal activities.

And perhaps concerns about someone using his jewelry as a handle to yank him down while he was indulging in said illegal activities had something to do with it. It would be tempting to use that chain against him after all if you were in a fight with Jade, though you honestly didn’t think it would do much good in the long run.

As you thought more about Jade going about his usual activities, a smile crossed your face at the mental image of Jade doing his usual work as part of the waitstaff in such get-up “Does Azul know you're dressed like this?”

The grin that spread across Jade’s face was perfectly evil, “No.”

You nodded, letting out a little “Uh huh,” as you began to circle the young man. Taking a closer look at his entire ensemble.

“How did you get your hair to grow out so fast? Extensions?” You eyed the many, many cornrows that swayed with every motion he made. Half impressed by how tightly they were braided.

“Magic, Dear. Floyd helped.” You almost rolled your eyes at the way his explanation rolled off his tongue. Magic. Of course they could use magic to grow their hair out if they wanted.

You finally made your circuit back around the young man, and Jade’s eyes immediately latched back onto your face. The amusement within their depths was obvious as he continued to gaze at you. Ever patient as the two of you played whatever this game was.

“Why did Floyd think I’d be interested in seeing you all,” You gestured vaguely to Jade as you paused, searching for the right word as you fought to keep the smile off your face, “Dressed up?”

The more you evaded actually giving your thoughts on his attire, the more amused Jade seemed. And both of you knew why.

It was because he looked nice. In fact, he looked practically beyond nice. He looked amazing, rather like a devastatingly attractive bad boy male lead from an 80’s movie whose sole purpose was to sweep some poor, good girl female lead off her feet.

 At least a part of this game was him getting complimented, but you could see that easily becoming a slippery slope that would end with you in the same position as the good girl female lead.

He tilted his head, pretending to ponder your question, before a smile slipped smoothly onto his face. Confident that he would win whatever this was by the end, “He mentioned how much time we’d been spending together and said he thought you might be interested in learning a bit more about us. I must admit that after what he said, I was curious to learn what you might think.”

You nodded because it was true. Jade had been hanging around you more and more lately. 

Initially, you’d wondered if you had something he or Azul wanted, but it had quickly become obvious that wasn’t the case. Instead, it was more like Jade had his own personal stake in spending his time with you. In fact, if you didn’t know any better, you would say that Jade was genuinely trying to charm you.

It was hard to not let your eyes scan over Jade once more. It was odd to see him like this, but it was also interesting. Almost like he was opening up and showing you just a bit more about his person, and judging from his words, that was true. Though you also couldn’t deny that this still seemed like a part of some elaborate plot.

But you weren’t the only one who was staring at him. In fact, it seemed like everyone that walked by was staring at the usually menacing young man. 

Normally people did their best not to look too closely lest they draw his attention, but either the shock of seeing Jade in punk clothes was so great that they didn’t care or they were confident that he was too focused on you to notice their stares. 

And Jade was focused on you as he stepped closer to you, leaning down slightly so that he entered your personal space. You had enough room to retreat if you were uncomfortable, but he was close enough to easily hold your attention solely on him.

“And, what do you think?” His voice had softened, almost as if he were trying to lull you into giving away every secret thought that went through your brain. And maybe he was, but you weren’t about to lose quite so easily. Not when you weren’t sure if you were even ready to face your thoughts and feelings towards him.

But you smiled, used to his many charms by now, before nodding. Not about to lie to the young man even as you refused to surrender, “It looks nice. I bet you were popular back in your old school if you dressed like this back then.”

He grinned, his sharp teeth flashing as, for once, he didn’t even bother to hide them at your words. But he was pleased. Not only had you complimented him, you hadn’t backed down from the subtle challenge.

But you’d already decided that even as Jade slipped continually closer, you weren’t going to just give way. Even as you felt your fondness for him growing, you’d already promised yourself you’d fight till the very end.

In no way were you prepared to fall in love in this world that wasn’t your own. You couldn’t take that on top of everything else. Not when it could so easily hurt, what with your future being so unpredictable.

And it was scary how close Jade pulled you to the brink of falling for him, even despite your defenses. 

At this point, you knew perfectly well that if you did slip too far, it would be him that you would fall for. But you weren’t going to make it easy for him. Not when he made that cutting edge that love held feel something impressively close to good.

So it didn’t matter how charming, easy to get along with, or attractive Jade was, and it didn’t matter how tempting it might sometimes be. You weren’t surrendering. And if Jade’s expression was anything to go by, he liked that.

Despite yourself, you found yourself smiling back at him, not quite able to stop it even as you felt yourself slide a bit closer to where he lingered. Waiting for you to fall.  

But Jade leaned back, murmuring a soft but incredibly pleased, “Thank you,” as he slipped out of your space. Retreating for now, but no doubt already plotting his next attack in his head as he smiled down at you. Perfectly smug as you both prepared for the next round.

And you’d be ready.

#Twisted wonderland x reader #Twisted wonderland #Jade x reader #briarvalleyarchives #Punk Jade #Jade Leech #Twst #Disney TW #Disney twst #gender neutral reader #Jade x you #Jade x y/n #twst x reader #twst x you #twst x y/n #Twisted Wonderland x you #Twisted wonderland x y/n #fluff #flirtation #romance #Does this categorize as brainrot #thegoldenshi-shi #it-happened-one-fic #Punk!Jade #fanfiction #mywritings #disney fanfiction #fanfic #fic #Octavinelle

[hoolay-boobs]

Superior Glimbow Layouts

Icon + Headers pack- Six Matching Glimmer and Bow Icons, and Two Headers

Free to use! Please give credit <3

#I’m proud of these lol #she ra #she ra and the princesses of power #spop #glimbow #glimmer x bow #icons #layout #header #glimbow icons #matching profile pictures #matching pfps #pfps #icon set #mine #my icons #queen glimmer #princess glimmer #glimmer spop #spop glimmer #spop bow #bow spop #bow x glimmer #aesthetic

[espressomads]

SELF CARE ࣪ M.F

PAIRING - madi filipowicz x fem reader

GENRE - it's all fluff :))

SUMMARY - madi invited you over to her house for the first time after she had been busy for a few weeks since of her traveling with her friends (literally the sturniolos) .

EXTRA - the song for this fanfiction is bags by clario ⭒

WARNINGS - kissing, mentions of the movie scream (1996) , madi is the blue text and your the pink text BTWWW, honestly nothing tooo serious or suggestive:)) except for lesbians

”who are you trying to reach?” is what drew barrymore as casey from the movie scream (1996) said, madi filipowicz and her girlfriend planned this sleepover since a few weeks ago or maybe it felt longer to her. madi had been traveling with her friends the sturniolo triplets alot and never had time to hang out with her girlfriend while she did so. you and madi were sitting down on the couch with a spiderman split with hello kitty blanket over the both of you guys, madi kept on playing with your bracelets that you had on while also watching the movie that was on.

both of the girls watched as casey becker yelled out a ”JASON! JASON! JASON!” when ghostface asked her a question about the killer in Friday the 13th, the black haired girl turned her head to the bathroom and she tugged on your shirt which made you mutter a ”hm?” before turning your head.

”i wanna do my skincare real quick, i feel nasty” madi's voice coming out gentler then usual, you chuckled a bit then grabbed her hand and dragged her to your bathroom. madi stopped holding your hand mostly because she wanted to sit on the sink counter but as she did so she grabbed the moisturizer that was set next to her and some other items. the jet black haired girl poured some on her hand, applying it on her face then to your's which made you glance at her with that glimmer in your eyes. you softly gave a kiss to madi's nose ”that's gross.” she responded with her legs swinging back and forth but only carefully to not hit you in the shins. once madi and you patted your faces with a towel she grabbed a face mask, one that's deadpool and the other that's harley quinn. madi put the harley quinn facemask on herself then she put the deadpool on you, ”you're so nice maddawg” which made her roll her eyes with a slight giggle ”oh my god, shut up”

both girls shuffled back to the living room and you sat down with a pillow behind your head and one behind your back. madi took this as a opportunity to sit down on your lap and you wrapped your hands around her waist as you both watched what was the rest of the movie. the jet black haired girl leaned forward where the table was and grabbed a cupcake, taking off the cover of the cupcake and eating it which left some frosting on the corner of her mouth. you looked at her & took your hand wiping the frosting off of the corner of her mouth and tasting it, ”i love strawberry” this made madi's mouth curve into a smile, while she admired you.

the tv was a honest repeat of the scream franchise movies but after a few minutes or maybe even hours madi had caught herself yawning like 5 times in a row. she placed her hand over her mouth as she yawned and she groaned annoyingly ”im tired.” you looked at her and her dark circles under her eyes ”i can tell, baby” madi got up from ur lap and you started to put up the food that was left over, putting it in tiny bowls or putting it in a bag. once you did all of that madi turned off the tv then held your hand as she dragged you to her room, you closed her door before you and madi went into the room. she was already laying down so you wrapped your arms around her waist, putting your head on top of hers muttering a soft ”goodnight, maddawg.”

࣪ ”im going to kill you”

࣪ ”go to sleep”

࣪ ”i hate you”

࣪ ”i love you more”

A/N - credits to the person who made the header!! the ending was kinda rushed im so sorry bare w me 😞😞 also if u make fun of my writing i will send a video of me crying to you. (love u!!!)

#madi filipowicz #madi filipowicz x fem reader #madi filipowicz x reader #sturniolo triplets #im going insane #write more about madi filipowicz please. #maddawg #clairo #cheetahmadi's thoughts #she won't go away #faye webster #ITS YOUUUU #sturnioloblr come to me please #scream 1996 #scream franchise

[fangbangerghoul]

Header originally made by @thatsgoodsquishy0

Hello everyone! I am pleased to share a great event we had in our Comrade Coe's Spouses discord server for Valetine's Day!

This server is full of wonderful creatives who all share one thing in common, our love for Starfield. Okay...maybe two and our love for the bisexual single dad space cowboy! We love to support each other in our creative endeavors and to showcase this this post is going to have all the pieces from our Valetine's Day Art Trade!

Each person who signed up was randomly paired with another. We had a channel to fill out a small form of what they preferred, what they were willing to create, and their do's and don'ts in receiving other creations! We allowed about 8 weeks for people to discuss, plan, and create their own masterpieces!

Our server is always open for incoming members and there are only a few things that you need to know before requesting to join.

You must be over 21

You must love or at least appreciate Starfield

And you are joining for a good time, some creative vibes, and with an open mind!

Just tap or click on the link embedded in the server's name above for more information on how to join!

banner made by @bearlytolerant

Everything you will see below is crafted by a member of our server! There will be links to their Tumblr and ao3 links to check more of their work out!

Please feel free to show their blogs some love and their fics on ao3 as well! You can also check out their other works under the tag The Coemancer Crew. One of the core values of our community is supporting each other's creative pieces and we hope you all would love to participate in doing the same!

@atonalginger's

Anton x Sam Astral Haze

@thatsgoodsquishy0's

From Death; A Life

You almost died. Sam's grateful you're alive.

“Wait until Constellation hears about this,” you say, accompanied by a shaky laugh. “I wonder if they’ll even believe us.” He shakes his head. “They should, they don’t have to. We were there. We survived. You survived. That’s all that matters in my book.” His realism brings your gaze to the table, though a swirl of gratitude rises in the back of your mouth, coming out in a weak smile. This was nice. Peaceful, but not enough. There was still untouched territory to discuss. You lift your head, eyes soft and sincere. Unsure. “I wouldn’t be here without your help, Sam.” A pink flush spreads across his cheeks as he smiles. Averting his gaze, his pupils dart across the wall, and you notice they focus on nothing in particular. He shuts his eyes, and you suspected he was replaying the evening. You cock your head, curious. If you could pry open the contents of Sam Coe’s brain, you would, and you would soak up everything about that man, a fact you hadn’t truly believed until tonight.

@fangbangerghoul's

Crimson Slut

@bearlytolerant's

Paint It Crimson

Delgado is tired of Ghoul not resting so he takes matters into his own hands. His attempt means trying to teach her a new hobby.

She chuckles and he chooses not to engage any longer. He’s been toyed with enough. Even if that’s what they do. Argue and bicker. Pull their claws and bare their fangs until eventually he walks away with enough of his pride beaten down, dragging his ego behind him a little broken and worse for wear. It happens often enough that he can’t say he always comes out the winner. But he is weary of the game today. He wants to be nice. Try to be nice. He is determined to be nice. Another step and he reaches around her head and tugs at the blindfold. The knot unravels. Unfurls. He removes it in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. Then he thumbs her chin, tilting her head up to get a good glimpse of her. He gazes into her citrine eyes. The warm glow from his hanging lamp, hovering over the tall snake tongued leaves of the sansevieria in the corner of the room, reflects off her irises and they glimmer and shine just like a gemstone. Thoughts waxing poetic, he blinks them away before he speaks them aloud. “I wanted to surprise you.” He releases her chin.

@silurisanguine's

So coy

@eridanidreams's

Twisted Towards the Light

Seren and Sam run into a little bit more excitement than they expected when taking down Tawny Adams...

Sam leaned against the wall. "We having fun yet?" He was breathing a little harder than usual; she gave him a quick once-over, but his suit seemed intact. He caught her look and gave her the grin she'd come to love. "I know you like what you see," he purred, "but maybe look a little less like you want to rip my suit right off until we're done? Mercs might get the wrong idea." Seren couldn't help but laugh. "Arse," she growled. "And a fine one," he agreed. "Though yours," he eyed her up and down, "might be even finer. Pity that your suit hides it, or we could do a real close comparison. Hands-on, even." "Focus, Sam," she reminded him, hitting the 'cycle' button. "Bad guys that way." "I am focused," he said, sounding innocent as the day was long. (In the case of this misbegotten little moon, that was only 4.5 UT hours, so… not all that innocent.) "I'm just a busy man. I have to work in all that quality time of thinking about me and you."

#starfield #sam coe #starfield fanfiction #the coemancer crew #valentines day #valentines gifts #valentines art #starfield fanart #starfield oc #coemancer #art trade #delgado #crimson fleet #starfield spoilers #bethesda #space cowboy #space pirate #oc artwork #oc art #artists on tumblr #artwork #illustration #digital painting #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #fanfic #fanfiction #discord server #valentines day art trade #art trade event

[little-diable]

Rain keeps pouring - Carlisle Cullen (smut)

I know that y'all thristy for Daddy C, so here we go. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Ever since meeting her boyfriend's adoptive father, the reader had felt a strange pull in her chest. All it needs for that feeling to swap over is pouring rain and a dark library.

Warnings: 18+, vaginal sex, oral (f), cheating, dom!Carlisle, dubcon

Pairing: Briefly Jasper x fem!reader; Carlisle x fem!reader (2.2k words)

Header by @hidingsikki

Rain was pouring from the sky as if the sky had opened up, not stopping the never ending stream of water those living in Forks were all too used to. Soft music filled her car as she kept driving through the forest, eyes focused on the big mansion ahead of her. 

It wasn’t the first time (y/n) was visiting Jasper, wasn’t the first time she was crossing paths with his family, nevertheless, she couldn’t help but give into her nervousness, unsure what to expect. (Y/n) could still remember the last time she had been at the Cullen’s mansion, how Jasper’s handsome father had intensely studied her, smiling at her with something glimmering in his golden eyes she couldn’t pinpoint. 

Something dark, something thrilling, something that left her heart racing in anticipation.

The car came to a halt next to Jasper’s, allowing her to sort through her thoughts for a moment or two before she opened the door. (Y/n) ran through the rain, making it up the stairs, where Jasper was already waiting for his girlfriend. A silent kiss was shared between the lovers before they stepped inside.

Her clothes were sticking to her skin, soaked by the few seconds of rain she had been forced to endure. Jasper’s cold touch did little to heat up her trembling body, forcing her further away from him as if she was scared his touch would freeze her. 

(Y/n) followed him up the stairs, relishing in the quiet the mansion offered, no other family members were to be found in the open kitchen and living room. Soft words were spoken as Jasper prepared some tea for her, shooting her a warm smile whenever their gazes met, pulled closer in search of one another’s touch.

“How was your day, darlin’?” Jasper murmured the words as he helped her onto the counter, nestling between her thighs. She combed her hands through his golden locks, eyes wandering over his soft features, the cheeks she’d trace in the early morning, the lips she’d kiss at any given chance, the eyes she could drown in. An ethereal beauty one could only imagine in their most vivid dream, nothing the human mind could easily create. 

“It was good, but I missed you.” Their chuckles reverberated through the kitchen, echoing off the heavy walls as if they had spoken a secret all those near would now pick up on. Nosy walls that listened to their every thought, sharing whatever seemed to be interesting enough. 

“How about we watch a movie? I don’t think the rain will stop anytime soon.” Jasper guided her towards the living room, wrapping a blanket around her before they plopped down on the sofa. But before they could decide on a movie, the sound of the door falling open echoed through the house. Alice and Emmett appeared at the top of the stairs, eyes finding Jasper’s curious ones.

“Edward needs our help, we need you, Jas’.” A sigh rumbled through the blonde haired man as he unwillingly rose from his position. He pressed a kiss to (y/n)’s now warm lips and murmured a small ‘I’ll be quick, wait for me’, before he followed his siblings out of the house. 

By now she was all too used to being left behind whenever one of the siblings needed help, not involved in their family’s business. For a moment (y/n) debated moving up to Jasper’s room, but in hopes of being alone in the mansion, she moved towards Carlisle’s office, wanting to take in his impressive book collection once again.

Carefully she moved towards the room, pushing open the heavy door that seperated the man’s study from the other rooms. Darkness engulfed her, not nearly enough light managed to stream through the big windows, dimmed by the gloomy weather and the rain clashing against the glass. (Y/n) stroked her fingers along the books she walked past, reading their titles, pulling one out wherever her attention got caught. 

One book after another was touched, explored by her wandering hands and her gaze. How she longed to read them all, perhaps Carlisle would be generous enough and allow her to take a few home, only to return days later to exchange them with new ones.

“It’s impressive, isn’t it?” Carlisle’s voice rumbled through the room, forcing a small scream out of (y/n), jerking at the unexpected company of the man. Wide eyes met his golden ones, he was leaning against the door, dressed in his usual attire of dark trousers and a light blue shirt, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to,” a chuckle clawed through him, interrupting her in her stammering speech. Carlisle pushed himself off the door, walking towards (y/n), who didn’t dare move. Her eyes followed his every move, full of curiosity and confusion. 

From the first moment she had met Carlisle, she had found an interest in the handsome doctor. And yet she couldn’t help but give into her nervousness whenever he was around, oblivious to her boyfriend’s power. 

“Here, I think you may enjoy this one.” Carlisle pressed his front against her back as he reached for a higher shelf, pulling out a book she hadn’t managed to reach. He kept his body close to hers as he placed the book in her hands, looking over her shoulder as she tried to read the words printed onto the back. 

(Y/n) froze as Carlisle stroked his cold hand along her neck, watching goosebumps rise on her skin. As if she had forgotten how to breathe, (y/n) could only stand still and focus on his unfamiliar touch, not knowing how to react. 

“I always wondered why you’re interested in Jasper, he doesn’t fit.” Carlisle’s murmured words forced a gasp out of her, eyes wide as she turned to look at him. Her first mistake of that very afternoon. The man pushed her against the bookshelf, towering over her like a demon of the night, ready to feast from her soul. 

“What?” The word bled from her lips, almost incoherent, though yet clear enough for Carlisle to pick up on it. With another raspy chuckle rumbling through him, he cupped her warm cheek, thumb running along her lower lip. Her breath hitched in her chest, no longer streaming through her lungs, but caged into the organ like a prisoner held hostage.

“He’s not a man you should waste your time on, too inexperienced, too oblivious for his own good.” Carlisle inched closer with every word he spoke, eyes focused on (y/n)’s lips. “I see the way you look at me, I intrigue you. I feel your gaze searching mine, like you’re desperately hoping for my attention. Well, you got all my attention now.” 

Like a leaf being whirled through the icy wind, (y/n) trembled against his chest. Her eyes met his golden ones one last time before she felt his lips on hers. She wasn’t sure how to react to his touch, but while her mind screamed at her to push him away, her body actively searched his touch. A moan left (y/n), arms finding their way around Carlisle’s neck, giving further into his touch.

Their tongues met as his hand tugged on the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the first fabric of many that found its way to the ground. He didn’t break the kiss once, not as his hands found her back thighs, heaving her off the spot to place her on his office table. For a glimpse of a second (y/n) gave into her mind's command, pushing herself away from the man.

But the moment was broken as her eyes met his, no longer golden though black, as if the night itself was staring into her soul. What was she doing? Cheating on her boyfriend with his adoptive father? Giving into the lust and passion that had poisoned her veins for weeks on end?

“Don’t be scared, we both know you want this.” Only now did she pay attention to his wandering hands, how he undid the button of her jeans, eyes flickering down to the fabric of her panties. Did she really want this? Did she want to cheat on her boyfriend with the man she thinks of when she touches herself?

Carlisle roughly pulled her jeans down her legs, halfheartedly stabilising her frame, keeping her close as he pushed her panties aside, exposing her cunt. The moan that clawed through Carlisle had something so primal to it, leaving her trembling beneath the man that could easily snap her neck, the man that could easily set her ablaze. And she would take it all, following him through the darkness like a woman without a free will.

“You’re soaked, begging for my cock like the desperate little girl you are. Seems like your boyfriend can’t satisfy you, can he?” She didn’t get a chance to reply, Carlisle buried his face in her cunt, lapping at her folds to taste her for the first time. Fuck, both had been wondering about this moment for weeks, trying to imagine one another’s taste, the words they’d moan, the cries clawing through her.

“Oh god, feels so good, I,” her words were cut off by a moan rumbling through her. (Y/n) had to tug on his blonde roots, desperate to hold him close. It was true, Jasper had never managed to make her feel like this, lost, confused, without a path out of the fog of pleasure she was caught in.

Carlisle’s tongue dipped into her tightness as his thumb started circling her clit, teasing her closer to her release. He won’t let her cum just now, won’t allow her to give in, nevertheless, Carlisle enjoyed seeing her like this, helplessly begging for more. Whatever more may be.

“Can’t wait to feel you clenching my cock, I bet you’re so tight.” Carlisle murmured the word against her cunt, dark eyes set on her wide ones. He could tell that she was close, trembling beneath him with her heart racing in her fleshcage. And with one last curl of his fingers, (y/n) carved, calling out his name as she came around his fingers.

He fucked her through her high, studying her every expression, not wanting to miss one change of her lust-drunken features. 

“Look at you, fucked out and still begging for my cock, such a desperate little thing. I want to make you feel good, show you how you should be taken care of.” Carlisle brought his fingers to her lips, watching (y/n) lick them clean, tasting herself. He didn’t waste any time, freed his cock and aligned himself with her heat. Both moaned in unison, having to adjust for a moment or two before they started rocking their bodies together.

(Y/n)’s gaze found the wide window, watching as the rain kept pouring and yet she couldn’t help but feel content, protected even. Carlisle’s lips found hers, sharing a kiss so rough and raw, (y/n) feared she’ll pass out any moment now, a moment he used to add more pressure to his thrusts, burying his cock deeper inside of her without holding back.

She wasn’t used to being fucked like this, Jasper had always been scared of hurting her, not wanting to leave behind marks and bruises, but Carlisle didn’t seem to worry about that, not at all. 

“More, need more, please, don’t stop.” The words flooded from her lips like a waterfall rushing on, not worrying about the consequences of this very moment. Carlisle blindly gave in, he built up his pace, buried himself deep so she could feel him pressing against her stomach. (Y/n) clung to him, having to ground herself before she blindly gave in, not wanting to end this moment just yet.

Cold fingers found her clit, circling the pulsing bundle of nerves, set on making her feel as good as possible. Her moans shamelessly rumbled through her, filling the room like an never ending echo, sounds that only urged Carlisle on to push her further to the edge, for the second time that day.

“Tell me, have you thought of this? Imagined me fucking you?” Carlisle’s voice grew rougher with every word he spoke, dark eyes burning through her body.

“Yes, fuck, so many times.” The answer seemed to please him, putting a smirk on his lips that grew more sinister with every passing thrust. Her walls fluttered around him, she was close, and would only need a few more touches to give in once again. An almost animalistic groan clawed through Carlisle as he felt her give in, cumming around his cock with his name bleeding from her lips.

He followed her down the edge moments later, eyes fluttering close to relish in the moment. Neither Carlisle nor (y/n) spoke another word, clinging to one another till she found her breath again.

And as the rain kept pouring on, the memories of this very afternoon were buried in the deepest and darkest corner of her mind.

Please like and reblog if you’ve enjoyed reading this, come talk to me about my writing, let’s spill some tea or thirst over our favorite people. xxx

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#Carlisle Cullen smut #twilight #Carlisle Cullen imagine

[elbertsbabygirl]

Title: Shadows of the Heart: A Birthday to Remember

William rex x reader

Fandoms: ikemen villians

Note: I hope you enjoyed this reader fanfiction with us celebrating Williams birthday I am sorry if it's not like a professional writer this is just my first writing a fanfiction series but I promise to do better soon when I am used to it ok 🎉 happy birthday our William🎉

Header and spacers :@natimiles

In the dimly lit chambers of the villain's stronghold, the anticipation of William Rex's birthday hangs in the air like a tangible presence. The clock ticks steadily towards midnight, marking the onset of another year for the enigmatic anti-hero.

**William **: "Another year, another chapter in this endless saga. What surprises does fate have in store for me tonight?"

As the clock strikes twelve, a haunting melody resonates through the corridors, drawing William's attention to a figure silhouetted against the moonlit backdrop.

"Happy birthday, William. I come bearing a gift for the one who walks the path between darkness and light."

A flicker of curiosity dances in William's eyes as he regards you, his unexpected visitor, with a mixture of intrigue and bemusement.

**William *: "Ah, my dear robin, fluttering into the shadows once more. What have you brought for this weary soul?"

Your heart swells at the affectionate nickname, a testament to the bond that has formed between you despite the chaos that surrounds you.

"I thought this might offer a glimmer of solace amidst the shadows that cloak your world."

Hand in hand, William leads you to a secluded alcove beneath the star-strewn sky, where the weight of his burdens seems to lift, if only for a fleeting moment.

**William **: "Here, under the watchful gaze of the stars, we can speak freely, unencumbered by the expectations of the world."

As the night unfolds, William's guarded facade begins to crumble, revealing the vulnerability that lies beneath.

**William :**: "My dear robin, you have a way of peeling back the layers of my defenses, revealing truths I've long kept hidden."

In the quiet hours before dawn, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, you find yourself drawn into William's embrace, the barriers between you melting away like frost in the warmth of the morning sun.

"With you, William, I feel as though I've found a home amidst the chaos. You've shown me that even in the darkest of times, there is light to be found."

**William **: "And with you, my dear robin, I've found a sense of purpose I never thought possible. Together, we can face whatever challenges lie ahead."

As the first light of dawn breaks on the horizon, casting a golden hue over the world, William Rex stands before you, his heart laid bare in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

**William *: "On this day, with you by my side, I feel as though I can conquer the world. My dear robin, you've given me a gift beyond measure."

With a tender smile, he reaches for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours in a silent vow of unwavering devotion.

As they stand on the precipice of a new day, William and his beloved robin face the future with courage and determination, knowing that whatever trials may come, they will face them together.

"Happy birthday, William. Here's to many more adventures, and to the love that binds us, stronger than any chains of fate."

**William **: "And to you, my dear robin, my partner in crime and in love. With you by my side, there's nothing we can't overcome."

Hand in hand, they step forward into the dawn, ready to embrace whatever challenges and joys the future may hold, secure in the knowledge that their love will light the way through the darkest of nights.

#cybird ikemen #ikemen villains #ikemen william #happy birthday william

[morrak]

Untitled Wednesday Library Series, Part 136

Gonna keep this one quick — chili and cornbread have me riding low in the water.

Roberto Casati and Achille Varzi's 2006 Insurmountable Simplicities: 39 Philosophical Conundrums, translated by Varzi and published by Columbia University Press.

The How

After several months of (not) making progress through a Geoffrey Bowker ditty I decided to (temporarily? perhaps) give up. This seemed like a somewhat smaller frog. The copy above is a loaner from work, but some of my reading was done on a digital copy.

The Text

This feels neither like a philosophy book nor like mainline philosophical literature, but rather like a stab at the latter by someone who's been trained for the former. Some dialogs; some epistolary jaunts, some; some narrative digressions. These are arranged into roughly thematic chapters which mostly repackage some familiar toy problems — philosophical zombies, universal acids, Monty Hall spinoffs, time travel, etc. — to no obvious end other than letting the authors play around with format and tone.

Varzi's translation reads easily and there are glimmers of previous work in a few places, primarily in a bit discussing the identity of lakes. No curveballs, few frills, and only a couple flourishes. Inoffensive, unassuming; probably quite well suited for younger readers in a way that doesn't seem entirely intentional.

The Object

Inoffensive, unassuming almost entire. The exception is the chapter transitions, which are always given a full recto and work like no others I've ever seen: the postscript of one section leads mid-sentence into the intro to the next with the chapter header sandwiched between the two. I love this choice.

The Why, Though?

I've said before that Casati and Varzi's Holes and Other Superficialities is the closest thing I have to a comfort book, but until recently it was the only thing of theirs I'd ever touched. I neither especially enjoyed nor would especially recommend this one, but I'm grateful for the diversion. The typesetting alone would've made me say so, but the familiar tone doesn't hurt.

#images #untitled wednesday library series