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#shotted down zeppelin
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Shotted Down Zeppelin-Part 1
THIS STORY WILL BE UPLOADED IN ORDER, DIFFERENT FROM HOW I UPLOAD THE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COMIC
-The plot begins, Cuphead, Mugman and Ms Chalice return to Inkwell, mounted on Hilda in her Taurus form flying over the sky-
-Cuphead: Inkwell! finally my dear home! I'm starving.
-Mugman: I think I can make you guys Spaghetti.
-Cuphead: I could do it.
-Mugman: If by "do it" you mean blow up the kitchen with your poisonous experiments; so yes, you can do it.
-Cuphead: I'm not such a bad cook!
Part one of the written Comic now available on Patreon! Unlocked for $8USD!
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macfrog · 1 month
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psyche and cupid | one shot
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happy valentine's, beautiful people. i love you with all of my heart. xx shoutout to @familyvideostevie for putting joel's slutty little thigh holster into my head and, well. yeah. pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader summary: valentine's day with joel doesn't go to plan. warnings: part two never happened!!!!! abby who!!!, established relationship, cursing, half joel pov, unspecified age gap, hints to reader having a sliver of ptsd, jesse is alive and well because he is my prince and i said so, reader has dark pubic hair, masturbation, somnophilia (not discussed in this fic but she is a-ok with it) and therefore dubcon, sprinkle of praise kink, oral (f!receiving), someone comes in his underwear, these two goofballs are big in love word count: 5.5k
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It’s not in his nightstand.
Not hung over the newel post, either.
He said he left it on the kitchen counter yesterday, right after he got home; said he woke up this morning and it was gone. And then he muttered something of an accusation that someone had tidied it away and forgotten where, and that started a whole new argument.
You know what, Joel? You’re following his tall figure as it sways down the hallway, his strides longer and considerably smoother than your flurrying shadow in his wake. Maybe if you weren’t going out today, we wouldn’t be having this problem.
His chin tilts upward, salt and pepper scruff angled to the ceiling with a ha slung from his throat. Yeah, he tosses a glance over his shoulder, we’d just be havin’ it tomorrow, instead.
You scoff in response, stepping where his boots lift off from, following the heavy thud thud thud like a cat at his heels until he’s rounding the corner towards your bedroom.
You pass over the messy trail of your jeans and Joel’s pajama bottoms, your underwear and his leading in a trail to the unmade bed – sheets like a rippled wave painted golden by the dawn.
The two of you split off – Joel lifts the cotton and watches it float back down over the flat of your mattress. Nothing.
You take the closet – the squeal of metal on metal harsh in your sleepy ears as you shove the hanging clothes aside, swiping around at the floor. Also, unsurprisingly, nothing.
Deflated, you straighten, stars peppering your vision and a tatty sleepshirt pinched in your fingers. Led Zeppelin – some band Joel was into before everything went to shit. You’ve listened to him out on the porch before, plucking strings in time with the record wobbling on the turntable inside.
The collar torn, sleeves pecked with holes, print lost to the years and the dryer – but each time you drape it over your shoulders, he smiles and hums some song from a world you’ll never know.
It’s sweet, when you’re in the mood to be wooed.
Which, incidentally, is not right fucking now.
His eyes flit down to the peeling, grayscale image – and that same smile attempts to bloom on his lips. That’s cute, but it ain’t my holster, pretty bird.
His smirk dampens quickly when he looks back up, snuffed by your stony expression.
You whip the tee down to the foot of the bed. You are a piece of fuckin’ work sometimes, do you know that? you growl, storming by him for the en suite.
Joel’s rough hand slips around your wrist, tugging gently but letting you drag him through to the bathroom.
Just go, Joel, you groan, the chill of the room prickling goosebumps on your naked legs. Give  me some peace and quiet. ‘s not like I’m gonna be seein’ much of you today, anyways.
Is that what this is about? His voice echoes in the morning blue, round in your ears as you hang your head over the sink. Pickin’ a fight ‘cause you’re pissed I’m goin’ out?
I didn’t start the fight, you protest. You’re the one who lost his holster.
Didn’t lose it… he mumbles, lips closing around the sentence when he catches your glare in the mirror. He crosses one ankle over the other, toe of his dusty boot on the cracked tile, and sighs. What do you want me to do, baby? I gotta do my job.
On Valentine’s Day? When I worked extra to get it off, and you can’t even get your brother to swap one shift?
Joel’s expression seems to stiffen, tense with a realization that you know, and now he knows, too – he should’ve had days ago. A weighty breath falls from his nostrils, admitting some kind of defeat, and then he’s wandering carefully over to you, two hands curved over your shoulders.
He lowers his forehead onto the nape of your neck, a slow breath which flutters the loose collar of the flannel you’re wearing and sweeps down your spine. I’m sorry, pretty bird. I didn’t know it meant that much to ya.
It doesn’t, you admit, adding, usually. I just thought we could have a day to ourselves, for once.
He’s nodding, sweep of his fringe tickling the slope of your skin. It’d be a lot more romantic than spendin’ it with Jesse, that’s for sure.
Your bodies fall together with a shared laugh, a bright and charming thing in the dull bathroom light. Joel kisses the soft cushion of your shoulder and hooks his chin over, beard grazing your skin.
I’ll be back before you know it. ‘n then we can do whatever the hell you got planned for us, hm?
He’s steady behind you when you lean back, turning to place a damp kiss to the hinge of his jaw. A reply, a plea – a promise.
In the echoing dripdripdrip from the faucet, Joel pulls apart from you, two fingers pinching the hem of your shirt to pull you back into the bedroom.
You wanna walk me to the gate? he asks, pulling the zipper on his jacket.
What about your holster?
He smiles. I’m sure I’ll survive without it. C’mon. Put some pants on.
February is bitter even by Jackson’s standards – a bite of ice in the air which numbs the tip of your nose and stings the helix of your ears. The chill slips a long, sharp finger down the collar of your – Joel’s jacket, and you wrap the baggy canvas tighter around yourself.
Told you to wear som’ thicker. Joel sighs, grip light around the strap of his shotgun. His elbow nudges into yours, a wide arm wraps around your shoulder and draws you flush against his side. Head on back if you’re cold, he says, rubbing until the friction warms your upper arm.
I’m fine, you lie, eyeing the line of horses up ahead. The eager crunch of their hooves in the frozen ground, the pinkish light on their backs from the sky flooded crimson overhead – a warning from the horizon, you think.
It seems to agitate the animals as much as it does you, their heavy heads tossing nervously, ears flicking and inky eyes blinking.
Jesse meets you by the paddock, slipping Joel the reins of his horse with a curt nod, before hoisting himself atop his own.
It bleats from your lips before you can hold it back. Be careful.
Your frozen fingers claw around the zipper of his coat, tugging it upwards until it brushes against his bottom lip. The weather gets bad, you turn back. Okay?
He’s nodding, paying half his attention to your words, the other half to the little crease between your brows. Sure could use my holster against the cold, baby, he mutters, smirk lifting his cheeks and folding similar creases at the corners of his eyes.
Your eyes narrow, palms landing flat against his strong chest. Home soon?
He hums a little laugh, lips ghosting across your temple as he shifts by. Home soon, he mutters, breath steaming against your cold skin, and he leads the mare off towards the gate.
There’s a lot about Joel you admire.
Each part of him like a pebble stolen on a hike; some more jagged, a little more weathered than others, some well-rounded and smooth to the touch. Each one turned and turned and turned between your fingers until you’re fluent in every pore and vein, then dropped into your pocket alongside the others you’ve collected.
Clacking against one another until you arrive home, coat heavier with the happy burden of how much you love him. The same weight you feel behind your ribcage when you think too much about it.
He takes good care of you – has done since you first happened across one another. As if hanging his hunting jacket over your frail body was a wing over your shoulders; as if, from then on, you would never make a single move again without your grizzly bear of a man making it first.
Quiet about it, sure. Subtle. Opens the crook of his elbow for you to hook your wrist around as you wander through town together, and waits until you’re under the cover of nightfall or behind the close of your front door to do much else.
Asks with little more than a fleeting glance if you’re okay; a squeeze of your knee under the table in the dining hall. A conversation shared between closed lips and the meeting of his honey-flecked gaze, and yours. A language which lives and dies with the pair of you.
He’s guarded – and for all that he’s been through, you figure you can allow him that. Allow him his private peace. For all that he says without saying, all he does without making some big song and dance of it – there hasn’t been a second since you arrived here on the back of his horse, that you haven’t known he loves you.
It’s in him like it’s in you. A fever which broke at the first touch of his hand and yours, the first meeting of his warmth and your chill. Two opposites – cooling the painful sear in his heart, warming the barren frost in yours. Something sewn deep into your flesh, carved right through to the hollow of your bones.
And Jesus, if it doesn’t drive you fucking insane.
The front yard needs tidied up after winter, you notice, as you scuff your way up the path towards the porch. Once the last of the snow dries up, you two can get to repairing the damage done by the blizzards and the gales: fitting new shutters, planting new bulbs.
A cycle you’re still getting used to: the upkeep of a place called home. The strange feeling of having someone you call the same thing.
Your extra shifts at the stables and Joel’s long mornings out on the trails mean your home has gone neglected for a few days. Dishes and cutlery left in the sink, a pile of laundry slowly sprouting to new heights like a wild plant each time you cast a wary glance at it.
It’s not like you’ve much else to do, given Joel won’t be home for at least another couple hours. So you shuck off your jeans, letting the tail of his shirt dangle from your behind, and pick your way around each room – wiping counters and dusting corners, humming along to the crooning old records as they spin in the background.
Playing house at the end of the world. Pretending to listen for the tired exhale of a yellow school bus, mimicking the electrified babble of radio presenters between each track.
The bedroom is arguably the worst offender. Bedsheets used a few days too long, clothes strung across the floor – the relics of a late one at the Tipsy Bison. It’s no wonder you’re so fucking tired.
Echoes of stumbling footsteps and hushed, drunken giggles loop your ears, the groaning bedsprings and blunt thud of the headboard. You pluck the underwear and socks one by one, your body wincing around a satisfied ache still lingering, and shuffle over to the laundry hamper, lifting the lid to –
The dopey smile on your lips dissolves instantly. You gotta be fucking…
The buckle glints in the light, silver blinking up at you from its bed of dirty laundry. The tan strap coiled and neatly slung through its fastener; the pouch empty. Awkward and ashamed, lying there in front of you. Apologetic, almost.
Your eyes roll closed; a short, hot breath seeping past your lips. A silent promise embedding beneath your tongue to take him by the sleeve as soon as he crosses the threshold, force him to lift the lid himself. An I told you so already brewing in the pit of your stomach.
The holster’s actually pretty heavy when you lift it up in the light. Leather a little worn, stitching frayed where it should clip around his belt.
It’s the size and width of him: a thick, toned thigh slotted inside the loop of leather, fixed by fingers long void of feeling when he’s been riding to the outpost, chasing infected, plunging his knife deep into their necks.
Patrol was never your thing. Joel took you out just once – but there are cracks in your past which threaten to split you in two, it seems, the longer you spend outside the settlement walls. Phantoms which follow close behind in the form of snapping twigs, of the wind rustling in the trees overhead. Shadows living in your periphery with curled sneers and spits of filth.
You lasted twenty minutes, that first and only day, before Joel had your horses tied together and your body shelled in his own, taking you straight back home.
But the thought of this around his thigh, the thought of him adjusting it to the waistband of his jeans; his hand floating down to settle gently atop it when he’s listening for danger approaching, two fingers slipping into the trigger guard.
It…stirs something.
You pad over to the bathroom, hopping as you step into the strap. He wears it on his right leg, right? You pull it past your ankle, ball of your foot slamming clumsily back down on the tile.
Adjusting it to fit your thigh, you bunch the hem of his shirt in one fist and stare back at your reflection. Her nervous stance, hips swaying left to right as she peruses the figure opposite.
Who is she, this mirage – naked thigh decorated with her man’s leather, fingernails tracing the messy stitching and imagining the weight of his gun, keen in the pouch?
A strange aura of possession about it, like a part of him locked firm around a part of you, from however many miles away. You swear you can feel the ghost of his warmth on the inside of the strap, wrapped around your sensitive skin.
Yeah.
Stirs something, alright.
Joel’s been gone little over an hour. He’s probably at the outpost by now, logging All clear and pretending to let Jesse take the lead. Wide shoulders swaying as he wanders from room to room, a careful scope of the valley from each window, tongue tracing the bottom of his teeth.
Ridges of his knuckles white around the grip of his shotgun, squinting down the barrel. Lines drawn between his brows and at the corners of his eyes like scores on parchment, focus and concentration tight on his face.
You sink back into the cradle of your bed, that divot where his body and yours meet each night. Each part of you intertwining with a part of him: the place where you become one. His smell and your touch, your giggle and his teeth.
A sudden, powerful thing which hammers through your veins and jumps your body for a few seconds – you pull the first orgasm from between your legs within a matter of minutes. The sight of his shirt disturbed over your stomach, the feeling of blood squeezing past taut leather enough to throw you under by itself, never mind the fast snap of your fingers deep inside your body.
Another – slower, lazier, still vibrating from the first – then almost a third, but the crinkle of sheets at your ears, the pillow-soft landscape beneath your heavy body, begins to sweep you off somewhere.
And in as little time as it took to entice you into the water in the first place, you slip beneath the waves.
The house is quiet when he finally makes it home.
Jesus, Joel thinks, what a shift.
Not one infected the entire run, he can’t quite believe – but Jesse caught his palm on some warped sheet of chain link fence, then almost passed out when he looked down and saw the scarlet seeping from his shredded skin.
The pair sat for half an hour, unsheltered in the unforgiving wind, waiting for the kid’s head to stop spinning and the cold to rob the feeling from his hand.
All Joel wanted was to get home to you. You, and your hips swaying as you stand by the stove, and his hands kneading into the velvet plush of your waist, and the smell of burnt sausages and spatter of angry oil from the pan.
He’s so late. He said he’d be as quick as he could, said you’d barely know he was gone, and he’s so fucking late.
But he’s here now, at least.
He’s home.
As he kicks off his boots, snow sprinkling from the soles onto the doormat, he notices the absence of your arms around his waist. The missing weight at the back of him, no ear flat against his spine and hands interlocked above his belt. No relieved, I missed you, no nuzzle of your head under his arm.
The house is still and dim. The turntable spins in the corner, a dead crackle playing nothing for no one. Joel sniffs, eyeing the room and its new, orderly form: the books slotted neatly on their shelves, the rings of coffee wiped clean from the table.
Lifting the needle from the record, Joel calls out, Baby?
Maybe you’re in town somewhere. Maybe you’ve gone to spend the morning with the horses. But then, you would’ve been watching for his arrival. Would’ve skipped out from the stables and swung around his body, a gleeful smile and an outstretched hand. Take me home, cowboy.
And you wouldn’t have left the lights still burning, the player still turning. Your coat is still on its hook, smaller and brighter and where it belongs on the right of Joel’s. The cushions on the couch are fluffed and smooth, perched contentedly in place; the curtains draped in their tie backs.
You’re home. You’ve been home all morning.
So where the fuck are you?
Joel crosses over to the bottom of the stairs, blinking up at the painted cowboys and horses staring down from the landing. Calls your name, a faint singsong as he slowly ascends the stairs. You up there?
Down the wintery dull hallway to the bedroom door, figuring he knows the answer. And he’s right, isn’t he, when he nudges the door open and peers inside, spots the tiny lump of you in your double bed. Sunk deep into the mattress – covers you’d come in here to change, swallowing you whole.
A crooked, exhausted smile pulls across his lips; his thumb hooks around a belt loop, knee cocking.
You’re so…perfect. So heavenly, so still like this – stretched out on your front, breathing in the scent of his pillow and breathing out little puffs of air.
Joel leans over you, a heavy hand pushing into the mattress above your shoulder, and runs a featherlight knuckle over your cheek.
Pretty bird? he whispers, lighter than the long breaths from your sleep-swollen lips.
You don’t stir. No movement, save for the rise and fall of your shoulders wrapped up in his flannel.
Joel feels a pang of guilt, numbed only by the chill still through his body: he woke you this morning, before even the sun had lifted her head. Had you hunting all over the house with him, for some dumb holster that he wound up not even n–
His eyes trail down the shape of your body, draped in the sheets like white marble carved into the round shape of something beautiful, hands following the curve of your thigh. His wrist freezes when it meets the odd bulge of something, an awkward bump beneath the cotton.
He peels the sheet back, lifting it from your shoulders, your waist, your hips – until your angled thigh lies on full display for his feasting eyes.
His fucking holster…wrapped tight around your fucking thigh.
A disbelieving laugh at first – a She told me so, before he notices the indents in your skin, the stretched leather snug around your leg, riding higher than it should at the doing of your slumber.
Christ, baby, he breathes, stare glued to the folds of plaid hooked around the belt loop. Following the tatty hem down past your hip, along the underside of your ass – riding up some, right where your legs part.
And between them, all sheer and thin, twisted around itself and slipping between: your underwear. The threading of pubic hair peeking over the frilled hem of it; the sight filling Joel’s mouth with saliva.
A heavy heat forms in his jeans, an irritable weight which aches when he moves; which hardens when he pictures the image of you in his bed, his shirt, his holster wrapped around your thigh – playing with yourself while he’s been gone.
Fuck. Fuckin’…shit.
He lowers, running lips he knows are freezing cold along the burning surface of your skin, tongue slipping past his teeth to drag a wet trail along your thigh.
Your leg shifts under his touch, the startle of his chilled fingertips behind your knee, nuzzling of his nose where the holster sits smugly on your thigh. Smelling like leather and salt, the sticky sheen of sweat still glowing on your skin.
Joel takes your waist in two hands – he can’t fucking help himself, can he? – and turns you, patiently, watching as you roll onto your back so he can drag you further down the bed. Tongue flicking at the corners of his lips, thirsty for something he only wants you to feed him.
Slow, slowly. Every effort put into not waking you, to keeping you in this peachy haze between asleep and awake; your movements long and staggered, held firm against the mattress by the weight of your doze.
With a sigh, your jaw turns to one side. Joel pulls you in, kneeling at the edge of the bed with your socked feet resting on his shoulders. His shirt gathers around your waist; your hips and the thin twine of your underwear spotlighted by stripes of weakened sunlight spilling in through the blinds.
Oh, pretty bird, he groans, slipping his open palms under your ass, rough and squeezing the pillows of flesh in his hands. This all for me?
A moan wrapped in a hefty breath twists from your lips. Your knees fall limp; legs open almost eagerly, like your body inviting him in. And he accepts, takes it with eyes blown black and hungry lips parted – leans in and nestles his nose against the thrumming heartbeat pounding through your clit.
Such a good girl, he whispers, closing his lips in a kiss over your clothed mound, and your hips jolt.
You’re so fucking warm. So wet; sticky and so ready for him. He kisses your folds, suckling gently and letting his tongue dart along the inseam of your lips in flicking movements – collecting the taste of salt and feeling his cock throb against rough denim.
Off? he asks – you and the room and himself – fingers hooking around the underwear rolled on your hips.
When your back arches, body feeling the loss of his tender kiss, rolling like a wave seeking to crash against the steady rock form of his – he smirks to himself.
Joel nods. Off.
He takes his time peeling them from your body, watching as more and more of his paradise is revealed. The waves of your folds, the sheer glisten of arousal along them; the dark hair peppering either side as damp and slick as the skin beneath it.
Your panties drop from a hooked finger without a sound and he turns back, hovering over your waiting cunt with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Out front, voices call back and forth to one another – some neighborly greeting and affable conversation – but Joel doesn’t hear. Deafened to anything but the sound of your sighs and his own blood hammering through his ears.
It’s a little rushed, a tad rough, the way he presses his lips back to yours. The way his beard grazes against your most sensitive spot, and the gasp he swears he hears lift from your tongue.
But fuck, he’s missed this, the way he always does – without knowing, without actively thinking about it, without knowing it was even at home waiting for him. If his mind weren’t on an entirely different planet right now, he’d curse that goddamn chain link for holding him up, for keeping him away longer than thirty seconds from the sweet little angel resting in his bed, and the sweet little pussy between her legs.
He parts your thighs wider, tongue dipping lower and deeper as he laps at your core, almost fucking panting against it.
You squirm lazily beneath him, shoulders tensing and untensing, a half-limp wrist lifting to pet his hair and an attempt at his name between your lips. Joel, you whimper, thick with sleep and something more dangerous.
I know, baby, he’s telling you, I know, and his tongue slips inside again. His hips grind into the mattress, cock an agonizing stiff against the sturdy edge. He can feel the wet in his boxers, the precome sticking to the inside of the cotton.
Fuck, he wants to be inside you so badly, so desperately.
Another gasp sputters across your lips, cut short in your throat when his teeth bump against your clit.
Too hungry, too brash, he thinks. You’re too soft, too open for him to let it go to waste. Not like this.
He pulls back, a filthy thread of arousal and saliva between his open lips and yours, and places a sodden kiss to the inside of your thigh.
But you whine, you poor little thing – your head twisting to the other side, a second hand now blindly surfing across his shoulder, past the brush of his beard and sifting through his still-chilly hair. The loss of attention to your pussy aching between your legs; your hips lifting weakly to meet the scratch of his chin again.
And that same sound – that same Jo-oel – a sound like song, like saccharine dripping over his shoulders.
So, he lifts a hand – two middle fingers coming together to push open your cunt, instantly sliding in knuckle-deep. Sucked in by the wet mess left behind by his lips, stretching you out with slow, round movements.
You’re slowly stirring, blossoming from your sleep and turning slowly back into this world. The cold edges seeping in, the warm flush of pleasure sharpening at their meeting. He’d do anything, he thinks, to keep you here; keep you teetering on the edge, tangled up between your world and his.
J– oh, fu-uck, you whine, and he can tell you’re still blinkered by sleep. But you grind on him again – a long, languid movement which seems to spatter out at its end when the coarse hair of his beard catches against your clit.
The breath stops in your throat, punching out in a shuddered moan. Joel could come just from the sound of it.
You gonna give me one, baby girl? he pleads, forearms clamping down on the underside of your thighs. Desperate – desperate to feel you, hear you, taste you as you come undone. Just one.
You’re writhing around beneath him, as needy as he is. A winding which matches his, coiling at the bottom of your stomach; a feeling which pulls at the corners of your lips and shocks them into a smutty, half-conscious smile. Your eyes roll back, fluttering open and then snapping shut when the light floods in.
There, you say, clearest so far, movements the strongest he’s felt. Your fingers root in his hair, rough over his scalp. Keep – keep doin’ that.
Joel smiles against your mound; a cocky thing, emboldened by the sound of that little Texan twang, the curl of an accent which doesn’t belong to you. Rather, a result of your years spent with him, watching the way his mouth shapes the words, learning the low swing and swirling melody of his tongue.
As if he’s as alive within you as he is within himself; every little thing Joel knows is him, injected into your bloodstream – his dry wit, his blunt honesty, his thick fingers and his insatiable tongue.
He slips in a third, flicking them perfectly inside of you. Beckoning your release; tongue sitting in wait, a resting point for you to grind your clit against.
And he wants it as much as you do: wants to feel the clamping of your body around him, wants to taste the flood of your orgasm as it shocks through every bone in your body.
Wants to pull three soaked, pruned fingers from your pussy and slip them over your tongue, letting you clasp your fingers around his wrist; watching the half-dozing flutter of your eyelashes as you suckle on them and make those pretty little sounds for him.
Your hand knots tighter in his hair, pelvis circling steady against his suckling lips. He can smell it on you: smell the need seeping from your pores. The sleep spilling from the corners of your mouth, the happy whimpers and quiet cries for more, more, Joel, more.
And – Shit, he breathes against you, feeling a sudden rush of electricity he knows all too well between his hips. Not now, not now not before he’s been inside – Shit, baby, gotta let me go.
You whine in refusal – a petulant sound, all stubborn and greedy. ‘m so close, I –
Pretty bird, he groans, lifting his jaw. He places a messy kiss to the crease between your core and your thigh, wrist stammering with his sudden movements. You gotta – you gotta let go, you’re gonna make me come –
You’re echoing him, mumbling the words gonna, gonna come – fuck, Joel, ‘m gonna –
Shit.
Not – Fuck – not right n– Christ, baby girl, you’re gonna – you’re –
Your walls spasm, clamping and relaxing, squeezing around his huge fingers. But it’s not that – it’s not the gush of warm fluid which seeps from between your legs, coating his knuckles and dripping into his palm.
It’s not the arch of your back, the way your breasts lift to the ceiling and his shirt slips below one nipple. Not the way your head rolls back against the mattress, a broken moan tearing in shards from your throat.
No.
It’s the way your hands leave his hair in an instant, and grip around the leather on your thigh. Skin stretching thin over your knuckles, thumbs between the strap and your sticky skin; hips still riding out your high as you ground yourself, holding onto his holster.
And it makes Joel come. Hard.
Harder than he knew possible, grinding against a mattress and the inside of his fucking jeans.
He falls forward, breathing a guttural moan into the soft swell of your stomach below your navel, fingers hooking into the baggy shirt around your arms.
Shitshitshit, he pants, feeling the warm ejaculate spurt from his cock and all over the inside of his boxers. Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck me.
His hips shudder a few more times, pressing hard into the edge of the mattress before he’s coming down, slowing to a stop – still a leaden weight on your stomach. His cock almost painful, overstimulated and oversensitive.
But then – something gently tittering. A bird singing, cooing above his head. The ground beneath his temple shakes, tremors with laughter. The dust twinkles in the sunlight, now brighter, golden, streaming through the window.
You’re awake.
Joel drags his gaze upwards, bleary and glazed with sex, and catches your eye.
Feel good? you ask, sifting hair away from his damp forehead. When was the last time that happened? Fourteen?
I don’t wanna talk about it, he mumbles into your belly.
Your chest jumps, a laugh which echoes into Joel’s ear. Tastes that good, huh?
It takes a mighty effort for him to push up on his palms, slowly crawling up the length of your body until his elbows plant firm into the mattress either side of your head. He groans as he lowers his lips, parting them to let you slip your tongue inside.
The kiss is slow, tender. Your bodies melding together, teeth clacking and jaws moving in sync. A sharp taste, sweet with a singe of bitterness to it. Perfect, you think, smirking against Joel’s cool lips.
He pulls away, lips tickling the tip of your nose deliberately.
With a giggle, you push on his chest. You should shower. You smell like patrol.
Joel cocks an eyebrow. You comin’ in with me?
Nope. I got even more laundry to do now, old man.
He entertains the quip with a subtle smile, a thing which softens the creases on his face and lights a twinkle in his eyes. Quietly, genuinely, in a way which makes your heart ache a little, he whispers, Sorry I was workin’, pretty bird.
You shrug. ‘s okay. You made up for it. And – I found your holster. You lift your knee, letting the buckle shine in the sunlight.
You did that, Joel agrees, nodding and glancing down at the thing. He hooks a finger around the strap, giving it a little shake. Maybe I oughta lose it more often.
Hm, you shrug, or I can just keep it safe for ya. Looks good, don’t it?
He feigns a disappointed smile, a resigned sigh before he looks back up.
Better ‘n when I wear it, he admits, and his lips crash down to yours again.
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jadeysjasmine · 25 days
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Ghost Of You - Alexia Putellas x Reader
A/N: This is a repost. 666 words.
Tags: Angst
Summary: Based on ghost of you by 5 seconds of summer
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Here I am waking up, Still can't sleep on your side..
It had been three weeks since the worst day of your life, three weeks since alexia ditched you at the alter.
You had woken up exhausted with a pounding headache from crying yourself to sleep, it has almost became a routine.
Sleeping on the left side of the bed, your side, not daring to touch the other side, her side, hoping that this was some sick joke and you wake up wrapped in the arms of the love of your life but of course, you wake up alone.
Her side still smelled like her, like home.
There's your coffee cup, The lipstick stain fades with time..
When you drag yourself out of bed and into the kitchen, there's a mountain of dishes that you have no intention of doing, most of them you don't care about but there's one dish that you haven't even touched.
It was a coffee cup, alexia's cup, you remember it very well, she was due to go dress shopping with her mother and sister but before that she wanted to have breakfast with you.
She had previously gotten ready so her lipstick was smushed on the rim of the cup as you two were chatting away, totally losing track of time alexia was running late so with a kiss, she sat the cup beside the sink, vowing to clean it later.
If I can dream long enough, You'd tell me I'd be just fine..
You found yourself laying awake at night, unable to sleep. All you could do was think about alexia, wondering what when wrong? why did she leave you? was there someone else?
You felt 101 different emotions, ranging from anger to hurt to sadness, your emotions were all over the place.
When you finally got to sleep, she was there in your dreams again but before she could tell you it was all ok, that you two were ok, you woke up and into a reality without her.
So I drown it out like I always do, Dancing through our house with the ghost of you..
To try counter the thoughts you always had background noise, whether that be music or a show.
One thing you and alexia used to do was play your playlist through the speaker and dance with each other in the kitchen.
Sometimes you would put this playlist on, close your eyes and dance like you used to do with her.
This brought you peace and you swore you could even feel her lingering touches.
Cleaning up today, Found that old Zeppelin shirt..
You decided to try get your life in order and that started by cleaning you neglected apartments
When cleaning you noticed, right in the back of the closet an old band tee, you smiled at the memory.
You and alexia had only been dating a few months when she stayed over for the first time, the sleepover was spontaneous so she had no clothes and you had to let her borrow some of yours, you had given her shorts and the tshirt, she took them but questioned the band, your confirmed that you and your dad loved the band and it was something that bonded you growing up so you both spent the night listening to their music.
So I drown it out like I always do, Dancing through our house with the ghost of you.
You found yourself yet again swaying in your kitchen, imagining dancing to this song with ale, her front against your back, her arms around you, lips on your neck and her scent invading your senses.
And I chase it down , With a shot of truth, That my feet don't dance like they did with you..
It was no use though, you still felt cold, still felt empty and you couldn't do this alone but you needed to face reality.
You needed her and she wasn't here.
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i4butcher · 2 months
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Happy Birthday Dean!
Dean Winchester x Reader
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short one-shot for Dean's birthday because i had to do something for him. this was a bit rushed but very sweet. this fic also shows how much of a led zep nerd i am (oops)
Summary: It's your boyfriend's birthday and you wanted to make it special
Warnings: FLUFF, sexy time implied and dean's dirty mind (as always), not proof read, english is not my first language
WC: 2k
enjoy!
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You woke up early that morning and made sure Dean would sleep until late. When you woke up his arms were tight around you, like they always were when you slept, his naked chest glued to your, also, naked back – last night was interesting, to say the least. His warm breath in the back of your neck and his gentle snoring almost lulling you back to sleep but today was a special day, it was Dean’s birthday and you wanted to do something special.
You knew that celebrating his birthday wasn’t common, always too much on his mind and too little people that cared. But you did and you made a promise to yourself to make his birthday be the best one he ever had. 
With that said, you reluctantly got out of his grip, making Dean groan in his sleep, knowing even unconsciously the emptiness in his arms. You smiled to yourself at that and admired Dean’s sleeping state for a while longer. He always looked so peaceful – even if he had a weapon under his pillow. He could rest. He had admitted to you once that you were one of the main reasons for that. Knowing you were safe in his arms made him feel safe and it was a mutual feeling. Oh you loved him so much.
You got up, turning away from your boyfriend and putting some clothes on. The ones you were wearing last night scattered all around, the memories making your face heat up. When you left the bedroom, you gave Dean one last look, his strong chest going up and down with deep breaths and one of his feet peeking out from under the cover. You smiled and closed the door behind you.
You spotted Sam in the kitchen before going out and told him your plans for the day.
“Please, if he wakes up, tell him I went out to buy…tampons or just say I’m going to help Charlie with some things she asked for and I’ll be back later” You told him and Sam guaranteed you that Dean would not know about your surprise. You gave Sam a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek as a thank you and bolted to the garage.
You haven’t used your own car in a while so it was weird stepping into the driver’s seat of a car different from the Impala. On your way to the nearest grocery store you made some calls. Charlie and Cas were coming later for the little party and they seemed more than excited to get the invite from you on the phone.
You bought all the flavors of pie you found there. Apple, cherry, pecan, you name it and some other salty snacks. In a liquor store nearby you got beers and whiskey. But there was one thing you were very much looking forward to.
Well, a while ago you had made some calls, some contacts here and there who were also fond of classic rock hooked you up with a guy who was selling a limited edition Led Zeppelin vinyl. A version of Led Zeppelin IV. What can you say, you were kind of also into them, it was one of the reasons you and Dean bonded so quickly in the first place.
You had to drive for two hours (totalizing four to go there and come back) to get the vinyl but it was worth it. You had told Sam about this and he made a face, asking you how you found the money for this but you refused to tell him and just laughed. Once you got the vinyl you would come back as quickly as you could so that Dean wouldn’t suspect it.
Two hours after you left Dean woke up, noticing the other side of the bed empty. He frowned and threw the covers off his body to get up and put clothes on, then leave the bedroom. When he got into the main room in the bunker Sam was sitting at the table, books and a cup of coffee in front of him and he looked up, a wide smile opening up in his face.
Sam stood up and Dean smiled back, opening his arms for a hug.
“Good morning and Happy Birthday” Sam said, his hand patting Dean harshly on the back, earning a laugh from the oldest.
“Thanks Sammy, where’s Y/N?” Dean asked after they pulled away from each other, looking around as if you would pop out from behind the shelves.
“She went to help Charlie with some stuff, she’ll be back soon” He answered and Dean nodded, still a little bitter for you not being with him in bed and giving him a birthday morning sex as a present. Well, maybe there would be a birthday night sex. He smirked at the thought and went to the kitchen to get some coffee.
You were almost back at the bunker, the vinyl secured inside your bag wrapped in cheap colorful paper that you got at the convenience store. Charlie had texted you she was almost there and Cas said he was arriving soon.
You texted Sam saying that you were due back in 20 minutes since you were a few miles away and that he could distract Dean for a while so that you could make little decorations for the birthday party. Sam agreed and told you he would try and keep Dean away from the house for an hour or so. Perfect.
Once you arrived you got right to work, blowing balloons, getting the pies and the chips ready and hiding your present in a bedroom that used to be yours before you started sleeping with Dean. Charlie arrived with Cas and had helped you put everything up, talking to you about how nice it was of you to do this and that she would kill to have a girlfriend like you. You laughed at the comment and jokingly said that Dean had, in fact, killed for you – even if it wasn’t totally a joke.
Sam had texted you again. Back in 10. Perfect timing Moose. Everything was done by the time you received the message and you decided to hide behind the furniture so that it would purposefully make Dean confused since he definitely would see your car parked in the garage.
“Y/N, sweetheart, you here?” You heard the door opening and the unmistakable voice of your boyfriend and his brother filled your ears. The talking stopped, Dean probably noticing the weird silence in the place and you knew he was probably reaching for his gun about this moment, his steps becoming lighter on the stairs. You held back a chuckle.
Once he came down the last step you jumped from behind the table, Charlie and Castiel along with you. He indeed had his gun out, Sam almost red from holding back his laughter behind him.
“Happy Birthday Dean!” You four screamed, startling the man. But, once the shock was gone he broke out into a huge smile and you ran into his arms, wrapping your hands around his neck as he twirled you around, a fit of giggles coming out of you as he laughed. He put you down and gave you a firm peck on the lips.
“So this is what you were actually doing, I thought you had abandoned me this morning” He said and you playfully rolled your eyes at his drama. He pulled away from you and walked towards the table. “Baby this is amazing, you’re amazing”
He hugged Charlie and Cas, thanking both of them too for the surprise. He rubbed both his hands together, just like how a Disney villain would, and smiled widely.
“All right, let’s get this party started shall we?” He said and you all laughed at his childness, already reaching for a slice of pie and a beer bottle.
Everything was perfect, you had never seen Dean this happy – except when you guys kissed for the first time and he looked like he had won the lottery. He was laughing, having fun and talking about everything and you noticed how this little party meant more to him than you imagined.
By the end, Charlie, Sam and Cas had given him their presents. Each had some importance to Dean in a different way but yours was left for later, you wanted to be alone with him when he received it. 
It was late when the party ended, everyone was a bit drunk and full of food. You told Charlie and Cas they could stay the night and they thanked you for it, each going to clean up and go to bed. You stayed behind to clean the mess.
While you were cleaning some plates in the kitchen you felt a big pair of hands wrap around your waist and kisses being left over your shoulders. You hummed and leaned back on Dean's chest, one of his hands wandering lower.
“Hm, and what is your present to me, huh sweetheart?” He said. Before he could lower his hand even more you grabbed his wrist gently. You could practically hear his pout and you turned around on his hold, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“I have one,” You smiled. “Well, more than one” You completed with a suggestive grin and Dean smirked down at you, smashing his lips on yours in a mindblowing kiss, his tongue dancing beautifully against yours as his hands gripped your hips. You reluctantly pulled away by pressing a hand to his chest and he groaned in disapproval. You chuckled. “I’m serious, I have something for you”
You grabbed his hand and led him to your shared room, telling him to wait there as you grabbed the wrapped vinyl in your previous bedroom. When you came back your hands were holding the album teasingly behind your back, a giddy smile on your face.
You extended your hands in front of you, the wrapped gift gripped by your fingers and Dean smiled at you.
“Happy Birthday handsome” You said and he grabbed the gift, studying the wrapping as he undid the knot tying it closed. You bit your lip, analyzing his face as he slowly discarded the wrapper and looked at the album in his hands.
Dean’s eyes widened and his mouth opened in a perfect ‘O’. He looked between you and the classic rock vinyl and placed your gift delicately over the bed before wrapping his arms around you and smashing his lips to yours. You yelped when he picked you up, making you wrap your legs around his waist.
“I love you so much, thank you” He said after he pulled away. “How did you even find this?”
“I have my sources” You said with a grin and kissed him again. He put you down and went to grab the vinyl again, taking the disc out of the cover. He had a vinyl player in his room and he put it there to play, the sound of “Black Dog” filling the small room.
He turned back to you and slowly walked your way, playfully dancing to the tune, shaking his shoulders making you chuckle. He grabbed your waist and pulled you into him, giving you a passionate, deep, loving kiss and you melted. Your hand went to the back of his neck to tug at the strands making him groan.
He pushed back you until your knees hit the bed, making you fall into the mattress. He lowered his lips to your neck leaving hickeys and bites along the flesh making you let out low moans and groans.
He held himself up by his elbows, his face close to yours.
“What’s my other present?” He whispered against your lips and you grinned wickedly, one of your hands rubbing at his chest.
“Why don’t you find out for yourself, hm?” You whisper back seductively and he kisses you again, his hands traveling under your shirt and rubbing at your flesh.
Dean never really liked birthdays but today, for him, was the best day ever because as long as he got to spend it with you, nothing could make it bad.
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A/N: Likes and reblogs encourage me to keep writing. Feedback makes those writing better. Thank you for reading, XoXo
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k-slla · 4 months
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New Traditions
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A/n: There is no plot, just reader having some special birthday party with the Winchester boys
Warnings: 18+ ONLY, oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (you know to be smarter than them, right?), strip poker (I just had to include the gif above🤤), alcohol consumption, language
Pairing: Dean x Fem!Reader x Sam (NO WINCHEST)
Word count: ~1.8k
My Masterlist
All mistakes are mine! Hope you'll enjoy!
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You opened your bedroom door and were faced with bright light coming in from the hallway. Your room was dark and since bunker had no windows, you had no idea for how long were you out from the werewolf hunt.
You put on a large sweater, that once belonged to Dean. Something sweet smelling pulled you towards the kitchen. Dean got no sleep again, you thought, when you heard Led Zeppelin blaring in there. You entered the kitchen and was stunned by the view. Dean, in his gray Henley and jeans, which was a sight for sore eyes already, was rocking a black apron with some floury handprints on it. "So, what you're baking, babe?" You spoke up, when you realized he hadn't seen you enter. It might have been your imagination but you could swear you saw the big bad hunter flinch.
"Hey, look who's up!" He swiped his hands clean into his apron and came to give you a hug. "Happy birthday, sweetie!" You got bit confused. There was no way in hell you slept almost two days straight. "What time is it? How long was I out for? My birthday was still two days away, when we got back." You let go of him and another thought crossed your mind. "And how did you know when my birthday is? I haven't told you that!" He just shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, of course I know when's your birthday. Come on."
He took off the apron and literally dragged you out of the kitchen into the library, where Sam had put up some colorful banners. "Oh my god, you dorks. You didn't have to do that." You laughed. "Happy birthday, Y/N!" Sam came over to give you hug. "Thank you, Sammy!" You looked at the table and saw three shot glasses, bottle of whiskey and a deck of cards. Boys have something planned for the night and you suspected that Dean was behind this. You looked at him expectantly. "Dean, what is this?"
They looked at each other and Sam started talking, carefully choosing his words. "Oh, uhm, Dean kind of talked to me. About what you've been trying together and I- well, if you're okay with that of course- I'm, how to say, -intrigued." He smiled at you mischievously. Oh, you did not expect that. You and Dean have been having occasionally someone join in your bedroom but you didn't think he'd be interested to do this with his own brother. Well, they'd not be doing it together together, Dean definitely didn't swing that way, but still it surprised you. But you can't deny, you have been wondering about how the other Winchester would be in bed. Once you drunkenly mentioned it to Dean and you see now that he hadn't forgotten that. "Well, that's why the bottle is here you know. I kind of figured we'd all need some liquid courage. And cards for strip poker. But, Y/N, you know that whatever you say, goes. No questions asked." Dean guaranteed your say-so. "Let me just say that this wouldn't be the first time for us to share." He added sheepishly. Your eyes went wide."What? You haven't told me that." Sam stepped in. "It was years ago. It doesn't matter."
Your shaking hands moved to the bottle to pour yourself a shot of whiskey. "I- Are you-uhm .." You started rambling and downed the shot. You couldn't believe you were actually considering it.
"Can I just say, you two are not quiet when you fuck, you know? Of course I've been thinking of you, Y/N. Wanting to hear you scream my name." Sam said tantalizingly. You looked at Dean again, wide-eyed. "I told you that you can't keep quiet." He smiled. "Well, Sammy, if you're wondering right now, what she's thinking about, then I can assure you, she's interested."
"Thanks, Dean!" You elbowed him into the ribs. "What? You told me that yourself!" He defended himself. "Yeah! In confidence!" You huffed out.
Looking between the boys, something suddenly shifted between you three. With some newfound courage, you sat down and poured another shot, now for all three of you. "Both of you are into it?" You eyed them seductively, motioning them to sit down at the other side of the table in front of you. They nodded in sync. You couldn't even believe yourself. "Alright, then. Let's play some poker. Winner of the round chooses loser's piece of clothing to remove."
Four rounds in, all of you had lost your shirts and you also your pants. Boys definitely had an advantage. You had seen them both shirtless before, so you felt a little shy first time in front of Sam only in your underwear to be honest.
"Shots!" Both called out at the same time and bursted out laughing. You did two shots in a row. These last two definitely had more effect on you. "Hey, guys! Guys!" You called over their drunk bantering. Dean stopped shuffling the cards. "I think we can all tell who lost already, am I right?" You stood up, with a slight wobble in your legs you didn't know if it was from the alcohol or from the anticipation of what was coming next.
You walked over to their side. Both turned around in their chairs, looking up at you. "Dean, baby, do you maybe want to show your brother what he's joining into?" In one swift move, he was up from the chair, lifting you up to the table. You locked your legs around his hips, pulling him closer to your heat. He crashed his lips onto yours and his fingers slipped into your underwear, massaging your clit painfully slow. You could taste the whiskey on his lips and it was totally intoxicating you. You knew your first orgasm would arrive quickly. "You have no idea how fucking gorgeous you are. No idea." He panted between kisses. "Sammy, tell her. Isn't she beautiful?" He pushed two fingers into your waiting pussy and your mouth opened in silent scream when he started to move them, thumb still rubbing your clit. "Oh, she's definitely gorgeous." Sam said next to you, hand caressing your calf. You felt like you couldn't hold back any longer. "Fuck, Dean!" You squealed out as you were getting higher and higher. Suddenly he pulled his hand out of your panties and you felt empty. "No, no, no, no, no." He said laughing and pulled your hair to turn you more towards to Sam. "Tonight you won't get off this easily. I want you to show Sammy how perfect little slut you really are and go suck him off." He whispered into your ear and you felt you pussy clench at his words. "Yes, sir."
You jumped off the table and kneeled in front of Sam. "Didn't I tell you she's a good little slut for me, huh?" He got down next to you and his hand returned between your legs. Your trembling fingers tried to open Sam's belt. He wanted to help you but Dean interrupted. "No, Sam, she's a big girl, she can do it herself. Or if she can't, she knows the consequences." He pinched your clit and you yelped. His moves quickened and you had to shut your eyes. You finally managed to get Sam's pants opened and pulled down his boxers. His cock jumped free like from a cage. He was glorious. He had a bit longer, leaner dick than Dean. You hoped for sure that at the end of the he'd be pounding balls deep into you. For now you wanted to get him aquainted with your mouth. You slowly licked him from the base up to the tip, where a bead of precum caught your lips and you moaned at the salty taste, lowering yourself down on him completely. You looked up at Sam to see his eyes closing. His lean fingers instinctively snaked into your hair to move your head in his rhythm. Dean stood up to admire you from the side. "Oh, baby, you are really hungry for some Winchester's cock, arent you?" When you didn't first answer him, his hand came down to you ass with a moderate slap.
"Answer me, Y/N. Do you need some more cock in you?" He slowly started to pull down your panties. You tried your best to answer, but almost choking on his brother's dick really made it hard. You mumbled and tried to nod your head. He came behind you and removed your underwear completely, freeing your tits from the bra too. You could feel your slick almost dripping down your legs. "Fuck, you really are ready for me." He said quietly as he rubbed his cock between your folds before pushing it completely in. He filled you up completely, perfectly. He started to thrust hard and deep into you so your eyes rolled back and you couldn't hold back moans, which only made Sam pull your hair tighter. This feeling of pleasure, that now totally overcame you, wasn't comparable with the other times you had two cocks filling you up. This felt special. You didn't want to lose this. You started to suck Sam's cock harder to get him over the edge. Which came quite quickly after that. His cum spurted onto your tongue and his grip in your hair got loose again. You swallowed it all and were now panting hard, when Dean roughly pounded into you. One of his hands took it's place in your hair and he pulled you up, back against his chest while the other snaked around your hips to your clit again. "Oh, sweetie, I don't think I can hold on longer. You want to cum together with me, all over my cock while I fill you up? Hmm?" He asked, out of breath. No complete words escaped you but you tried to mumble in agreement. "Dean, please, uh, fuck..." you couldn't finish your sentence as his fingers started to rub you faster. You felt yourself becoming undone in front of him. With few last fast pumps he sank deep into, filling you up, as you incoherently screamed whatever you could think of in that moment. He held you still close when you calmed down.
When he let you go, you slowly slid down onto the floor like a puddle. "Give her a minute and she'll be ready for round two. You'll see, Sammy. She's insatiable." You heard Dean laughing. You slowly got up from the floor. "Guys, this is like the best birthday gift ever! This should become our birthday tradition, so all of us would have something to wait for." Sam and Dean looked at each other, grinning ear to ear in silent agreement. "Alright, I need food, before I could continue." You said determinedly, walking towards the kitchen, not bothering covering yourself up.
Tags💕 : @jackles010378 @cevansbaby-dove @deanwinchestersgirl87 @alternativeprincess94
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chromations · 29 days
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The one story that scares me the most away from substance use is Jimmy Page. It's not an easy topic to go by, yet I'm still hesitant to post this.
Finding out the pure severity of Jimmy's health between '75-'83, mainly talking about 1977. This whole topic makes me so sad, but I always keep looking.
More under cut, it's a long post unpacking that year. Feel free to add.
We all know he did heroin, starting in 1975, and that he's always been skinny and underweight. But it started amping up in '76, taking more with a noticeable weight loss.
That man was practically on the brink of death from 1977. Between constant shows, rarely eating save for a liquid diet, rarely sleeping, and his addictions... it's scary. He had a weight goal that'd been just about reached: between 125-130 Ibs at 5'11½". (And while an inaccurate measurement of health for those heavier, this falls into 17 on the BMI chart: severely underweight) He dropped a few waist sizes (men's 29 in '75, down to men's 26) and had refused to talk to Peter Clifton after he'd included wide shots of Jimmy in TSRTS and a single roll of his stomach, as it made his ass "too wide." The black dragon pants didn't fit anymore, and fell off during a show. You can see him in the black dragon suit plus a belt during the Oakland photos. Note that these pants had completely fit him without need of a belt two years prior. He ended up at around a men's 26 waist. He'd stopped eating completely for a few days in a row during some tours.
Safe to say, Jimmy was extremely weight conscious. I think he met the criteria for an eating disorder diagnosis, as well.
There's accounts of him having stage fright and anxiety. He'd show up to '77 tour shows completely exhausted, nodding off constantly. Peter Grant had ended up slapping him awake and giving him coke just so he wouldn't pass out.
Then, there's the Chicago '77 show. Jimmy, sick on stage. His eyes are bloodshot, he's had nothing but orange juice in the past 60 hours, along with no sleep in that time frame. Sick from smack and coke, along with all of the previous factors of being an anxious wreck. It's a wonder he got through the first 7 songs before having to sit down during Ten Years Gone, calling for a 5 minute break, and then canceling the show. He couldn't go on that night, just nearly crumpling to sit. This is the story that scared me the most.
Linked below, the show is recorded up until Robert announces the show is canceled.
https://youtu.be/YVCiBd1oodU?feature=shared
I remember reading this account from Dave Northover (Jones' personal assistant):
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This is what shattered my heart, initially reading it. How harshly drugs shattered Jimmy's brain, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. There's also a quote from Jimmy in an interview from the year: "I'm not into solid foods very much. I can't remember when I last had a steak. A few tours ago. It's just that you don't want too much in your stomach when you're playing. And there are some places you can't eat after you come back from the gig." He then notes that the banana daiquiris that he'd been consuming all the time are the answer to any problems, "having that every day and nothing to eat at all."
Additionally, In that interview, Jimmy says that earlier on in Zeppelin, Jimmy "had really been eating" and that he'd tried on the clothes from when he was in school, only for it to be very loose. It worries me more to remember that Jimmy stopped school at the age of 16 and had always been underweight. High metabolism, illness prone, and bouts of glandular fever during his time with The Crusaders (still was a teenager), not improved one bit by his undereating.
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It's hurtful to hear how, more often than not, the media will praise a celebrity for their skinny figure, even if they're extremely unhealthy with it. Jimmy Page is no exception, as people praised him for his figure during his age.
Heroin is no joke, and I wouldn't wish the addiction it so easily presents to anyone. Withdrawals and smack sickness is scary to even witness, completely altering the person it grips. People often note how jimmy was an asshole, especially in the late 70s, but when dealing with a heroin addiction, with what is basically an eating disorder, high anxiety, with the goal of living your music, the goal of pleasing the crowd, getting the job done, and most of all, surviving, the way you act isn't at the front of your mind. I'm sure Page was aware he was an asshole, but with what he was dealing with, it's not important. Instant gratification, reward, matters more. Not dying matters more. Getting the next hit matters more. His image mattered more.
No matter how much of an asshole he was, and some of the reprehensible things he'd committed earlier on, I wouldn't wish this upon anyone. You see the light leave his eyes as the years went on, you know that while he recovered, those were the darkest years of his life that we know, and there's a reason he'd rarely talk about it: Who would want to?
I've heard multiple people say that if we hadn't lost Bonham in '80, then within those few years, we would've lost Page. It's a wonder he was able to still go on in the early 80s.
Even comparing photos of him in 73, 75, and 77, you go from a "safer" underweight, to his ribs completely visible.
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I'm glad we still have him around. This whole topic is not easy to go by, and while most anti drug campaigns don't sway me much, it's the slow / fast decent into all of this that gives me such a strong reaction.
I don't appreciate seeing the way it's so casually joked about amongst the online zeppelin areas. People do take it seriously, but there's always the insensitive ones.
(Adding on, since I accidentally posted this as a draft)
Many people blame page for the effects of his addiction: Sloppy guitar playing, distancing from the rest of the band, assholery behavior.
You can't fault an addict for falling addicted. You can fault them for starting it, maybe, and you can criticize them for all you want. Still, a heroin addiction isn't just as cigarettes. It's the easiest to fall addicted to, and one of the hardest to quit, especially when a physical dependency is grown. Withdrawal symptoms could start early, and extreme too. Most heroin addicts trying to quit will relapse within the first day or two, it's not easy as that.
Considering how unhelpful the help was at the time, quitting cold turkey at these points would probably worsen his condition for a while, considering how rail thin Jimmy had been. The people around him grew worried, grew mad, and I find myself wondering how he could still pick up the guitar and rail out the LA Forum 1977 show, producing banger shows through 77, yet the shoddiest shows as well.
There could be little done about treatment of eating disorders as well, due to medical knowledge and stigma around it. I'll sympathize with this part, having the experience of one: ED recovery on your own is rough. I don't know how jimmy got out of heroin and an ED, and I don't think the process of that should become business unless necessary.
If you find yourself falling into these vices, seek help. Nothing about this is normal: not the lifestyle, nor the pressures.
Jimmy's case will always haunt me. I'd wish this upon no one.
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thefreakandthehair · 1 year
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"You can trust us to stick with you through thick and thin — to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours — closer than you keep it yourself." Eddie quotes at Steve, poking him in the chest. Steve watches as Eddie sways, just a tiny bit but it betrays the facade of sobriety he'd been trying to hold.
Eddie’d once had a better tolerance but he couldn’t drink throughout his recovery and everyone was finding that Eddie is a tactile, Lord of the Rings-quoting type of drunk as a result.
They’re alone in the corner of Steve’s living room, their arms wrapped one another, and it mustn’t be shocking because no one is looking their way. Only their closest friends are present and they’re left with plenty of room to touch without strange looks.
"But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo." Eddie finishes and flashes a warm smile at Steve and sure, Steve is a little less than sober himself but it’s the same smile Eddie’s been tossing him for fucking months and Steve is just tipsy enough to catch it.
“You tryin' to tell me something, Munson?” Steve asks, reaching one arm out to steady his friend. Yeah, sure, just a friend, his mind teases.
It’s been a solid six or so months since they’d been victorious against Vecna and shut down the Upside Down for good. And okay, he and Eddie have shared a bed more nights than they haven’t since then and it’s perhaps been a lot more than just friendly to Steve, but he’s learned not to make assumptions.
People don’t always feel about him the way he feels about them, and he can handle that. He can. At least, he can until Eddie starts drunkenly quoting the Lord of the Rings at him after a few shots at his New Years Eve party leading into ‘87. He’s got one hand wrapped around the back of neck, absently tugging on the hair at the nape, and Steve is trying to sober up enough so he doesn’t kiss his friend and read this all wrong.
“You were Frodo, Steve. And I was Sam. And I love you.” Eddie says, giggly but genuinely with both his hands digging into Steve’s waist now. The grin is real— it touches his glossy eyes and spreads across his face easily.
And I love you bounces around like a rogue ping pong ball in Steve’s chest. Steve sees that Eddie’s drunk— he can tell from the giggle, the tight grip on his skin, the glossy eyes. And Steve is heartbroken. He’s been head over heels for the man in front of him for at least the three months, consciously at least, and here he is, reminding Steve of everything he can’t have.
“Man, don’t say shit like that if you don’t mean it, alright?” Steve tries to make it joking, tries to laugh and smile in the way he thinks he should because Eddie's drunk but shit, if he hasn't daydreamed about Eddie saying those words to him. 
Eddie though? Well, Eddie might be drunk but goddamn it he knows Steve. And he means it. He loves Steve so much, it feels like it's trying to claw its way out of his body. He's just tipsy enough to finally tell him.
“Stevie, I do mean it. I mean okay—”  Eddie readjusts his Zeppelin shirt beneath his leather jacket and stands taller, fingers threading their way through Steve’s belt loops. “I may not be completely sober but I’m like, completely fuckin' in love with you? How dumb is that?” He laughs and ducks his head against Steve’s chest, wrapping his arms around back Steve's waist where this all began.
“Not dumb at all, Ed. Not dumb at all. Ball’s gonna drop soon, wanna watch it?” Steve feels Eddie's laugh against his chest where he holds Eddie tighter, suddenly afraid of beginning a new year. Eddie clings to him and Steve's brain begins a hysterical loop of questions like What if Eddie suddenly doesn't want to be this close when it's not 1986? When it's not the same year that we'd met and fought demons together? What if this fades, like everything else has?
"I dunno, do you love me? Be a hell of a way to ring in a new year, gettin' kissed by the one and only Steve Harrington!" Eddie's question throws a stick into the wheel of his looping brain, screeching it to a halt.
Steve knows this isn't the time and he knows Eddie probably won't even remember this in the morning but he does it anyways. He pulls back, takes a look around the room where all of their friends are cheering and counting down.
Robin had started the countdown at 60 seconds, just a touch too early, and they're only at 47 when Steve runs both of his shaking hands up and down the length of Eddie's arms. The last time they approach Eddie's shoulders, he keeps them there and inches closer, searching Eddie's wide, beguiled eyes for hesitation and finds none. Just finds what he always does: warmth, joy, comfort.
"39!"
"38!"
"37!"
"Ed, stop me if I've got it wrong."
"36!"
"35!"
"Definitely not wrong, Steve."
"33!"
"32!"
It's still 1986 when Steve Harrington finally kisses Eddie Munson. It's soft, gentle, close-lipped and tender without pushing for more. Eddie's fingers go numb and his toes curl in his boots, and Steve sees colors in a new way when they pull away and open their eyes.
"I do love you, Eddie." Steve says, breathless and happy in a way he hasn't been in years. He's still afraid, but even if he only gets this one moment, he's going all in for it. "So fucking much."
One palm comes up to rest on Steve's cheek, warm metal against his skin in the way of Eddie's rings. "It's not even the new year yet." He says with a laugh and a smile with his bottom lip between his teeth.
"19!"
"18!"
"Couldn't wait. I'll do it again in 1987, if you'll let me?"
"Any year, any dimension, Steve."
The countdown is getting closer and Dick Clark is yelling on the television when Steve grabs Eddie's hand and pulls him to join their friends, one arm slung over his shoulders and Eddie's around his waist. Steve gets a beaming smile and cocked eyebrow from Robin and his nod is all she needs.
"7!"
"6!"
"5!"
People start pairing off, and Steve's sober enough to realize that none of this would have made sense to him just a few months prior. Robin pulls Nancy closer with the hand not holding an obnoxiously loud noisemaker, Argyle smiles meaningfully at Jonathan, and Steve finds himself being spun back to face Eddie.
"Ready?"
"3!"
"2!"
"1!"
It's 1987 when Eddie Munson finally kisses Steve Harrington. They don't join the chorus of Happy New Year's! around them because it's Eddie's turn to kiss Steve, and he fucking does. A little harder, a little more tongue, a bite or two when Steve returns the same eagerness and impatience. It's Eddie who breaks the kiss, lips shiny and swollen.
"Gotta good feeling about '87, Stevie. Got a really good feeling."
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Note
Hi! I absolutely love your fics and since AiB S2 had just ended, I was hoping you would take a Chishiya fic request. I'm a sucker for the enemies to lovers trope and was thinking it could be incorporated in the Jack of Hearts game (basically reader and Chishiya have no choice but to trust each other despite their differences). Amidst their tension, since they need to trust each other, both Chishiya and reader get to understand the other over time. Maybe a bit of angsty fluff?
Merry Christmas (if you celebrate) and Happy Holidays! I hope you get to enjoy this season of festivities!
hi! merry (belated) christmas and happy new year! i hope you got to enjoy the holidays too! here's your request! ❤️ feedback is always welcome and encouraged! i didn't do a explicit lovers situation, i left it open (bc lowkey im thinking of a pt 2) but i hope you can enjoy it nonetheless!
First, you were transported to that godforsaken world.
Then, you were made to play to get days to live.
And after that, you landed on a game of hearts where a rat tried to sell you out to save himself.
And a few days later, a bunch of zeppelins with face cards started to fly around and to avoid being shot until you turned to puree, you had to go on a game inside a prison complex to participate in yet another hearts game with the same rat that tried to use you to survive.
Just great.
You thought you'd just avoid him at first. He must be so used to fucking people over he doesn't even remember me, it's what you thought at first, but then his eyes met yours and they shone with amusement. He remembered you and didn't even look remotely embarrassed or guilty, in fact, he looked quite smug. It made your blood boil.
You decided to make your way over after you saw Chishiya leaning to murmur something in another player's ear. After sizing the boy in the overalls that looked absolutely terrified, you came to the conclusion that there was no better way to end Chishiya than to prevent him to be able to manipulate people.
You placed yourself on the other side of the boy, leaning on the wall opposite to Chishiya. "Hey", you spoke lowly. "Don't listen to him. He lies", you said. Chishiya raised his eyebrows, surprised. You remembered him after all.
"Huh?", the boy looked frantically back and forth as you and Chishiya as you stared each other down. You, boiling in fury and him smug as always.
"Ah, don't be too quick to take her word for it. It's your word against mine, after all. The game barely even started and here you are, already trying to get ahead. By what we know, you may be the Jack after all", he said, and the boy took an wobbly step to stand next to him.
"As if I'm the Jack. For all purposes, it could be you too. Aren't you used to leading people astray to their deaths?", you said, and Chishiya's face fell a bit, making you feel triumphant. He tried to sold you and accused you of being the Jack? The audacity.
He was about to open his mouth when another thing caught both of yours attention. A girl, dressed cutely, seemingly collecting players.
She came to your direction, standing in front of the three of you. "Do you want to play with us?", she said. Her fake smile grinded your gears even more, but you did your best to reciprocate. "But of course!"
"I'll play with you too", said Chishiya.
"Can't get rid of you, can I?", you grit out as you followed the group downstairs.
"We shall see", he said in a flat tone.
-
The game was nearing the end.
Your only ally, a woman in a red cardigan was led astray by the girl with the fake smile and cutesy dress, that in turn was betrayed by her own group. And now the group was getting smaller and smaller. There was Banda and a skittish boy with a fringe, and a couple. And you and Chishiya.
You eyed them all suspiciously. The game wasn't over, which meant the Jack was still among you. While you were looking around, trying to pretend you weren't straining your ears to listen to their conversation, Chishiya approached you.
"Do you know what they were doing before the game started?", he said, amused. You shook your head, not wanting to give him the time of day, but still listening with attention.
"Having sex. Inside one of the cells. He has full control over her", he said nonchalantly. "They'll do anything for each other. And the one right there, Banda. A serial killer, I saw on the news. Must've been a relief for him, being sent here...", he talked to you like someone talked about the weather, like you weren't in a death trap of a game.
"What do you want? For me to believe you? As if that's possible", you stood up, talking to him as quietly as possible. After all, it was best if the others thought you had an ally still. Even though you'd rather eat glass than to trust him with your life. "What? Want me to be like her?", you subtly nodded in the direction of the woman, that was absolutely entranced and attentive to everything the man was saying as if it was gospel. But it was probably a bunch of bullshit. "To follow you around until I'm useful to be bait?", earlier you were fuming but now you were just tired. Tired of dealing with all of this, and tired of seeing his face. Before, you wanted to beat him to a pulp for doing what he did. Now, you just wanted a peaceful and hidden place with food and maybe some rain for you to shower with.
"You're still mad at me for that?", he said. The game consisted of basically convincing people not to kill you. Since it was your first game and you got there desperate, and Chishiya was the first person you saw, you had delayed to him your entire story. That you worked with children, that you loved what you did. That you couldn't wait to see them again. And then he took it and used it as his own. If it was only between the two of you, you'd have died that day.
"Of course I am! I could've died", you said.
"And on any other game after that. It's not even about me anymore, is it?", he said as you stormed off to get water.
-
"It's not even about me anymore, is it?"
The fact was that no, it wasn't. He played by the rules, and did what he was supposed to do at a hearts game. And if what he was supposed to do was be a huge traitor, well, that's on the game masters' account as well.
You were there grabbing a bottle of water behind one of the shelves when Chishiya tried to approach the woman. She, of course, bewitched by her affair, didn't even respond. Chishiya was good at seeming calm, but you could see that if he was outwardly asking for help then he sure was desperate.
He was right. It wasn't about him at all.
You had to kill people too. Had to trick people too. And for what? You had no one but your students. Would you be able to look them in the eye knowing you killed innocent people to get back? Chishiya tricked the person you were before you got into the games. You for sure weren't that person anymore.
You made your way around the shelf to approach him, him turning around with a smile on his lips but you could see that his friendly facade faltered when he looked at you. He didn't expect anything from you and that strangely hurt. For a moment, as you and Chishiya contemplated each other, it was like looking at a mirror. Alone, untrustworthy. You took a deep breath.
"You were right, Chishiya", his eyebrows rose yet again. You remembered his name. "It wasn't about you", you slowly approached him.
"Turn around", you said, softly. For the first time since you were a desperate mess in a hearts game, you weren't glaring daggers at him. You seemed tired, and oddly at peace. He appreciated the change.
"Thinking about lying to me?", he said, feigning amusement.
"Thought", you corrected him. "But not anymore. Turn", you said again and he eyed you for a second before turning around in his heels. He could feel you stare at him, and he jumped slightly when he felt your fingers on the back of his neck, brushing his hair aside to look at his symbol.
"Diamonds", you breathed and he turned around.
You sat down on the table directly next to you, drinking your water.
"What, you don't want me to do it to you?", he said, plopping himself next to you.
"Are you thinking about lying to me?", you gave him a weak chuckle and he reciprocated with a small smile of his own.
"Thought. But not anymore. Turn", he said, the smile still there. You turned your torso away from him and he leaned over to look at it. You could feel his breathing on your neck and it gave you goosebumps.
"Hearts", he said. You laughed.
"I can't believe it", you said, looking at him. "Ironic, huh?", you raised your eyebrow. You felt contempt but that underlying bitterness showed through. Not at Chishiya anymore but at all of this, at yourself and he could definitely notice this shift.
"I work with children. I love what I do", he said after a beat of silence. You looked at him, perplexed. He really did all of this to toy with you? That's what you get for trying to help.
"You're an asshole", you say through clenched teeth, going to stand up when you felt his hand around your wrist. He wasn't squeezing you, you could shake him off by any means. But the overwhelming warmth of his palms and his gaze where all consuming, keeping you where you stood. He stood up, once again in front of you. "I'm not a teacher", he said.
You scoffed. "Of course you're not-", you started but he cut you off once more.
"I'm a pediatric heart surgeon. I was in the middle of my residency when I got here", he said. "What I said... Wasn't necessarily true. I don't love those kids like they're my own, because they're not. And I can wait to see them again. In fact, when I tell one to go home I hope I don't ever see them again. I hate dealing with people and the never ending questions and the sobbing parents. But it wasn't a lie either", he said.
"I... I didn't know...", you felt your face grow hot. He was a surgeon for kids. You never once wondered what he did before all this, but you assumed it was something shameful, since he decided to basically copy and paste your life story. You never once stopped to consider that maybe he did just have a similar life to you, after all. You felt sick all of a sudden.
"Don't apologize, there was no way of you knowing", he said. "I did what I did because you had something I didn't. You... Had that fire, that... Love. You wanted to see them again so bad. I didn't have that. I had to pretend", he said. He seemed... soft. Genuine. Your heart ached.
"I don't have that anymore", you said softly, avoiding his gaze. Chishiya felt needle pricks all over his body.
"I think you do", you looked up. "You wouldn't have come so far to give up", he said.
"I...", he started, but looked up at the sound of your voice.
"You...", you both talked at the same time. But that would have to wait because soon enough it was time to go inside the cells once more.
-
The game was over. While two of the remaining four tried to extract information from the Jack, you grabbed as much as you could carry and was making your way to the exit.
"What now?", you heard behind you.
"I don't know, Chishiya. What now?", you said.
"I'm looking for... my friends", you were surprised. He always struck you as a loner type. You did get him all wrong. "You could come. We can help each other leave this place", he said. "You're smart enough. A good player".
"Are you saying we're friends?", you asked, one eyebrow raised. Chishiya froze. He didn't think it'd escalate this quickly. Friends? You were similar. But he looked at you in a different way than he did other people. As his eyes darted around, you made your way towards him. "Something different?", you whispered like you were telling him a secret. You didn't want to say "more". Not yet, at least.
"Different, yes", he said, extremely relieved at your choice of words.
"One condition", you said and he nodded.
"You tell me about you. About your job. I'd love to visit when this all ends", he gave you a wobbly relieved smile.
"And you too. Tell me about your students", he said, walking alongside you as you exited the prison complex.
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liveinalovelyway · 1 month
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Hello! :)
I thought it might be fun to start a little music blog since I am so so so passionate about my favorite songs artists. so very. Listening to new music and making all kinds of different playlists have been big hobbies of mine for a while now and I’m hoping this will be a nice little hangout spot where I can talk about my favorite things <3
Some of my very favorite artists!
Guns N’ Roses, Pink Floyd, Jeff Buckley, David Gilmour, Iron Maiden, Aerosmith, Metallica, Led Zeppelin, Misfits, The Smashing Pumpkins, Ghost, Mac DeMarco, Fleet Foxes and Frank Sinatra to name just a few :D
+ my Spotify <3 (descriptions of all of my playlists under the cut!)
find beauty in ordinary things - my very favorite songs at the moment yaya
through hardships to the stars - pretty songs <3
you’re gonna make it if you try - soft rock / progressive rock / psychedelic rock type songs
take your time, don’t live too fast - classic rock songs
rhythm of space, expansion of soul - songs that make me feel pretty cool sometimes
know it’s for the better - heavy ballads and things of the sort
be patient with your life - pretty chill songs
put your mind at ease - super chill songs
we’re a long way from the past - very pretty old timey songs
things are subject to change - cool old timey songs
near to the sun in the day - mornin’ songs
near to the moon at night - nighttime songs
to live in fear is to not live at all - happy songs :)
like the mountains in springtime - upbeat and invigorating mountain songs / walkin’ songs
love is stronger than hate - nice and comfy songs
slow down, you’re doing fine - calm, comfy and quiet songs
hold on to the dream - super sleepy songs to go to sleep to zzz
all things must pass - songs that i think sound very eighties
sketch the trees and the daffodils - spring songs
flaming flowers that brightly blaze - summer songs
swirling clouds in violet haze - autumn songs
catch the breeze and the winter chills - winter songs
you’ve gotta make it your own way - every Guns N’ Roses song (except one that.. that yeah..) in order of my favorites :) “don’t cry” i cried. he crew. we crode.
you are young and life is long - every Pink Floyd song (except the instrumental and/or wacky ones) in order of my favorites :)
it takes strength to be gentle and kind - every Jeff Buckley song in order of my favorites :) YEOUCH
take one day at a time - every David Gilmour song in order of my favorites :)
we are here to revel forevermore - every Ghost song (except Ashes because it scares me) in order of my favorites :)
sunlight over me no matter what i do - every Fleet Foxes song in order of my favorites :)
lord have mercy - the guns n roses “trilogy” / shot through the heart knees buckling turning into a pulp my gut is wretched gnawing at the bars of my cell sliding down the wall weeping on my hands and knees punching the ground writhing in my straight jacket this time i’m really gonna do it. in a good way <333
(apolocheese for that one, I think its funny..)
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chouxsardine · 18 days
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Amabo Te---Jake Kiszka x reader
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Summary: When jealousy and insecurity get the best of you, when he wants to teach you a lesson. Will you give him a chance?
Pairing: Jake Kiszka x reader
Word Count: 5002
Warnings: 18+! Minors DNI, established BDSM relationship, dom!jake/sub!reader, brat! reader, the infamous Jake snap, caning, alcohol, language, jealousy, insecurity, self-esteem issue, self-deprecation, unprotected p in v sex, crying, a mix of soft and mean Jake (?), nerdy Latin sh*t,
Genre: angst, hurt/comfort (with fluffy ending?)
Author's note: Sorry for the wait! inspired by this idea from @hearts-hunger. I've been wanting to write about this since the first day I've seen it, so I kind of took the idea and run with it. It turns out a lot softer than I expected (oops). A new attempt for me to toy around with power dynamics. Every single one of you is deserving of love. I love you a lot. Enjoy!
🎧: How Many More Times by Led Zeppelin; Sorceress by Jess Williamson; When Anger Turns to Honey by Chelsea Wolfe; Hey Now (When I Give You All My Lovin')" by Romare
You know damn well what you’re doing. The thumping of the drum aligns with your heartbeat, melting into your veins along with the few martinis that you’ve downed consecutively. The air is a mix of ostentatious colognes, sweat, and smoke that wafts off dancing and heaving bodies. The floors feel sticky under your feet, and the label of the dress you are wearing has irritated you all night. You can feel it digging into your sides, the two almost invisible row of plastic nubs cutting into your skin with each exhale and rubbing against it with every movement. Isn’t it amazing that such a trivial and hidden matters can make such a fuss? You know damn well what you’re going to do—bratting to get Jake’s attention—but you don’t know why you’re doing it. At this point, the anxiety and the alcohol in your system have managed to form itself into a vicious ouroboros, and you can’t tell which one is the cause.
Have you and Jake been spending less time together recently because he was busy? Yes. Have you been honest when Jake asked if you want to go to this party with him? No. You have also had a rough week, and you just want to cuddle with him on the sofa, watching some silly rom com while languidly poking at a bowl of Mac and cheese with generous amount ketchup squirted on top. However, you are afraid to say no because you don’t want him to think that you are a spoiled and needy brat. Welp, you guess this is where lying about your feelings leads to: uncomfortably standing in a night club, being a brat in another way. In the back of your mind, you know that if you’d only be honest and tell the truth, Jake will get you out of here in a heartbeat with no judgement. But the alcohol is messing with you, and it doesn’t help that a girl has been hitting on Jake this whole time.
She was also wearing a tight minidress—a searing red one with spaghetti strap, hugging her body in all the right places while also showing it off just enough skin to leave space for imagination—one that makes the one on your body eclipse. She puts her elbows on the bar counter while leaning purposefully so that all it takes is one careless movement while reaching for one’s drink to touch her breasts. Jake wasn’t paying attention to her, or at least not now, not yet. You feel jealousy shoot up your veins. Having left Jake’s side when he met an old acquittance and their conversation was getting too long , then being blocked by the crowd rushing into the dance floor when you plan to stride back, you are now standing on the other side of the room, anxiously tapping your feet, waiting for the hideous song to end.
You take another sip of your drink, and as you raised your eyelids, you saw the girl getting off the bar stool. She should’ve known better than standing up holding a full shot glass in her hands or perhaps she shouldn’t have done that silly little hop trying to impress. Of course, her heels got hung on the footrest a second too long, and she fell forward, throwing herself on Jake. He caught her, his hand on her shoulder to restore her balance. His action was neat and brief, his complexion barely changes. It is clear as day a spontaneous and innocent response, but for you, that’s the last straw.
You didn’t even care continue watching for their further exchange—or whether there was one. You down your drink and slam the empty glass on the counter a bit too harsh before stepping onto the dance floor. You make eye contact with the nearest guy. “Would you like to dance?” The music is loud and it is dark. You lean in closer and ask again when he doesn’t hear you.
Now you are sure that Jake has seen it. When he catches your eyes, a pang of guilt and shame zips through you, you feel like a child being caught red-handedly cheating on a test. You know what you are doing is wrong and petty, you are doing it to get his attention. But in the heat of the moment, with your emotions tangled up, jealousy gets the best of you. You try to look away, and that’s when you see the snap.
It is something that he has conditioned into you. Whenever you’re acting up in public, Jake’s snap is his warning to you. And when it’s quiet around, it’s a gentle but firm squeeze a little above your knee under the table. You got three strikes, but you usually get back in hand just with his warning glance or him simply raising his hands a little.
Jake was leaning back against the bar, his elbow resting on the counter. It is a quick snap between his fingers with a flick of his wrist. There was no way that you would hear it above the music, but in your brain, it rolls loud like thunder.
Out of the reflexive response, your body acts before your mind catches up. You freeze for a second, and you feel a phantom touch like a subtle current rolling over the area above your knee. You try your best to feign your indifference, peeling your glance away. He started it, you lie to yourself.
As the song comes to an end, the guy you were dancing with asks to buy you a drink. You accept and follow him to the bar. Before you even sot down, you feel Jake coming over and standing behind you. His hand is on your waist. A gentle squeeze. Subtle but possessive.
“Hey, what—” The poor guy is confused.
“Would you please excuse us?” Jake’s voice is calm and smooth. You don’t have to turn back to know that he is smiling politely. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
The man cocks his eyebrows. You don’t dare to read his expression. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” Before he can respond, you turn on your heels and let Jake lead you out of the bar. Jake isn’t even gripping hard on you, but by now, every nerve in your body has learned to be attentive and obedient to his touch. It is only when the cold air outside hits you that you try to break away from him.
You knew you have gone to the point of no return. You have achieved nothing with your childish act, and to continue a tantrum is your only way to save face.
“Let—”
“Shut it,” Jake cuts you off, rage boiling behind those two words.
“I’ve got three strikes! That was only one!” You retort.
Jake narrows his eyes. “Then consider this your strike two.”
“Fuck you!” You blurt out, instantly regretting as the words left you lips. You see a moment of confusion and incredulous flash through Jake’s eyes before anger takes over. He lets out a dry laugh. You shiver.
“That’s it.” Jake releases your hand, taking off his jacket, flings it over your shoulder with a push at the small of your back. He walks the two of you to where the car was parked. He still opens the door for you and puts his hand up to protect you from hitting your head before circling to his side.
In the few seconds of silence between your side of the car door closing and his side of the car door opening, you sag like a bounce house with a puncture, all the furiousness has left your body, replaced by the bone-deep regret and exhaustion. You want to go back to a few hours ago, where you would say, “I don’t feel like going out tonight. Can we stay in and watch a movie?”, where you would say, “I don’t want to be here anymore. Can we go home?”, where you would straight up look into his eyes and tell him, “I miss you so much, I just want to spend time with you, alone.”
The broody silence stretches through the whole way home. You almost hop he would just leave you in the car. You feel ashamed when he yanks your side of the door open with his hand up on the frame.
Once you are in the house, Jake walks directly to the liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and pouring himself a glass. He stands in front of the French window, his thumb hooked in his belt, the left side of his jacket riding up.
There is no sign of the rage you expected. You are still wearing his jacket, your fingers curled up in the leather. The shame that was burning inside you clashes with the icy feeling down your spine.
You expect him to push you against the wall, or spit out “strip”, or at least a “go upstairs”. You know that you will drop down on your knees the second the first syllable of any those words parts his lips. Or something through his eyes, a silent scowl, a stern look. Even when Jake is silent, his eyes always convey something—-or at least you can always read something from them.
But he is not even looking at you now.
Please don’t ignore me.
“The silent treatment now, really?” It can’t be any clearer that you are fighting a lost battle. Your voice bounces off the silence and stabs you like a boomerang.
Jake finally turns around. He lowers his head and smirks. The next words he says make you icy cold. It’s like you are standing on a frozen lake and have misjudged the thickness of the ice beneath you feet; with a misstep, it cracks, and you fall into the piercing cold water.
“Do you think you deserve ‘treatment’,” he accentuates the word, “of any kind, my dear?”
The nickname is stripped off all its concomitant affection, only adding to the insult with biting irony. You’d rather he didn’t use it at all. The tears threaten to spill. You clench your fist.
“That’s your way of talking, huh?” Jake paces towards you, each step slow and steady like a confident predator cornering his prey, “some yaps and some whines, but my little brat just loves running her mouth.”
Brat. That word punches you like a left hook. A brat. That’s exactly what you have been tonight.
You know for sure you are finally going to submit, and once you reached that stage, it’s going to be pure bliss; it will be the closest you’ll ever felt to him. And that’s all you want, to be close to him. Sure, a beeline from point A to point B is straight and clear, but where’s the fun in that? Being a brat feels like an elongated foreplay. Just as you are ashamed of the amount of swearwords and moans you let out when being edged, you can’t deny that you love it. Love it so much that you are doing it to yourself. You wanted it so much, but you refuse to accept it without some struggle. You feel unworthy when things land on your lap easily. The emotions you will experience after winning the lottery probably would be fear and suspicion, as you contemplate “now that I’m hit on the head with pennies from heaven, what will I lose in exchange? You are plagued by the fairy tale in which the king is ravished with joy when he finds a precious jewel but then proceeds to lose his beloved once as the backfire. After all, life never gives anything for nothing, a price is always exacted for what fate bestows.* You believe the same goes for love. Jake came into your life so suddenly, sweeping in like a whirlwind, with such velocity and intensity that you are afraid one day he will exit like one, leaving your heart in the ruins. You have to earn his love, you will be his good girl.
“Have I been ignoring my princess? Attention, is that what you want? Jealousy, is that what got into you tonight, um?” His finger grips your chin.
You both love and detest how Jake has always been able to strip you bare with such ease, your body and your desire. To see through the “yes” behind the “no” when your pride and stubbornness get the best of you, and the “no” behind the “yes” when you overexert yourself and try to please while ignoring your limits. It does takes quite some effort to reach this almost telepathic stage, a bumpy trail full of frustration and trial and errors, but it’s worth the effort. When the voice inside your head gets loud and your body is aching with unsoothable desire, the wrong punishment will immediately send you crying in a non sexy way.
You have no choice but to look into his eyes. One simple stare from him dissects your thought like a scalpel. With one clean, cold cut, he slices you open. Exposed, vulnerable.
You are already playing a dangerous game, walking the tight rope, teetering on the edge. Now, you are pulled off balance by his eyes drilling into you, demanding complete honesty and obedience.
“Please.” You mumble, lowering your eyes.
“Please, what?” He tilts your chin right up.
Your voice is meek, barely audible, but legible enough for Jake. “Please punish me, Sir.”
He lets go of you. Immediately you miss his touch.
“Upstairs. You know what to do.”
You are on autopilot as you remove your clothing, leaving them in a pile on the floor and nudging them into the closet with your feet. Out of sight. The sequins on your dress shine like a flamboyant humiliation.
It can’t be more than five minutes until Jake comes into the room, but every single second feels like purgatory to you. You let out a long sigh of relief as you heard his footsteps. You hear him shuffle behind you, and then the sound of him rummaging through the drawer, collecting the things he needs. Finally, you see his feet in your lowered sight as he steps in front of you. You keep your head down, knowing better than looking up to see what he has in his hands. But you can’t escape the shadow that was projected onto the floor. Something long and thin.
“Please don’t tie me up.” You blurt out before immediately biting down on your lip.
“I’m afraid you’re not in the position to bargain, dear, ” He’s right. “This is a punishment; it’s not supposed to be what you want. You take. Is that understood?” His voice looms over your bare skin, giving you goosebumps.
“Yes, Sir.”
Then something hard touches your thigh. You look down and see the end of a cane. The cane. A blessing and a curse. It isn’t very often that Jake uses a cane on you. To you, it hurts more than a paddle but turns you on more as well. The cane draws a wiggly line down your legs, stopping at that area above your knee with three taps. Your kneeling frame perches up in response, your body instantly connecting the touch with Jake’s warning squeeze.
Then, a clear and crisp snap break through the quiet room. Your head shots up spontaneously and you crash into Jake’s eyes. His dominance is dialed up to the fullest from this angle. His long eyelashes cast shadows under the eyes, deepening his brown pupils. His lips are lightly parted, his eyebrows relaxed. He looks appreciative, like admiring an art piece of his own creation.
“Ah, so you do remember.” He makes a statement, but it sounds like a reprimand in your ears.
“I…”
“You will have plenty of chance to speak tonight, but not now.” Honestly, you are secretly glad that he stops you because you don’t trust your voice not to break. The apology lodges and throbs in your throat.
“We put a lot of time and effort into our warnings. It doesn’t come easy, I think you know that,” Jake continues, “you chose, deliberately, to ignore and violate them tonight. So I’m sure you have good reasons to do so.”
The cane nudges the inner side of your thigh, signalling you to stand up. And then a goad with the tip on the back of your sacrum, making you topple forward, with your hands gripping on the end of the mattress.
The whoosh sound of the cane as it comes down startles you even more than the stinging, closely followed by Jake’s gruff demand: “Enlighten me. Why?”
The delayed pain is now blooming over your skin. Why? All the previous shame resurfaces, forcing you to recall every detail. You drag your teeth over your bottom lip.
The next hit comes down harder, moving up slightly from where the last one lands.
Still silence. You close your eyes tightly, tears burning behind your eyelids. You want nothing more than being honest with Jake, but somehow you just can’t squeeze the words out of you. Thinking back now, it is so not worthy to act up something so trivial. Everything would have been fine if you just be honest right from the start, if you communicate your feelings directly. But why can’t you?
Whack.
The next one hits an inch to the left. The cane is worse because it gathers the sensations. If the paddle feels like putting your hands into a basin of hot water, the cane feels like splashes of hot oil. Obviously, you are still an independent grown-up with full control of your body autonomy, but at the moment, you so desperately need to transfer that control. Even if it’s temporary, so that your brain would stop lying to you. And Jake is demanding exactly that.
Why? Why can’t you be honest with him? Time has proved that this man has been nothing but respectful, understanding, and non-judgemental. What are you afraid of? What more can you ask for?
Whack.
“What’s your color?”
“G..green, Sir.”
You press your lips together hard. An involuntary tear escaping from the corner of your eyes. Your brain is determined to play a tug of war with the help of your stubbornness, but your body revolts. The pain is numbing your volition.
Whack.
Now that you’ve known each strike is calculated. Jake never hits the same place. They are always placed from each other with some space so that the pain spreads and connects like drops of paint on paper, spreading into a watercolour in different shades of pink. Your muscle contract. You are absurdly wet; it feels almost purely physiological, even though you know the agony is only a calling. Deep down there’s the yearning— craving to be touched, to be soothed and caressed. But are you worth it?
Whack.
“I am an ungrateful, attention-seeking brat.” You cry, your forehead dropping down on your laced fingers.
Jake is grateful that you can’t see his expression. And maybe that’s a good thing for you too. Because if you see the heartache in his eyes, your pretense of strength will fall apart in an instant. It rips his heart to hear you degrading yourself. It tortures him when you can’t see how worthy, beautiful, and precious you are the way he does. It hurts him to know that he fails to earn your trust, to earn your complete honesty. He knows your body; he has learned your threshold of pain and pleasure, and has the skill of a pharmacist when it comes to mixing the two to give you euphoria. However, he is an unarmed man facing the voices inside your head, he is clueless standing in front of the thorny-hedged gate of your heart. And it confounds him too when sometimes hurting you is the only way he can show you love. If you would only let me, princess, if you would only let me love you.
This time, there is only a gentle tap on the fleshiest part of your butt.
“Nice try. That’s not the answer I asked for.” It takes everything in Jake to maintain his domineering facade. Bullshit. You’re a loving, gentle, poetic, sensible soul that just happens to be too good at feeding yourself deprecative lies.
By now, all the fight left in you is a poorly-crafted sandcastle swilled over and over by waves of pain. The good pain. Cathartic. Liberating. Hypnotizing, almost. They converge into the mysterious song of the siren, whispering in your ear: “Stop fighting. Give it up to me.”
The voice sounds warm, assuring, familiar: “Let me in.”
That busts you right open.
“I know there was nothing, I only did it to get your attention.” Once the hardest part was out, you find yourself unable to stop. The box-ed up feelings cascade out of you. “I..I don’t want to be there! I d-didn’t tell you because…I don’t want to look n-needy. You’re too good for me. You’re one of countless good things that have happened to me, w-what if you leave?”
Ugly sobs ripple through your body. Your legs threatening to give out as you shake your head in guilt. Tears burn you blotched skin and gone cold way too quickly, leaving damp trails on your cheek.
“I’m so sorry, Jake. I’m sorry.”
Between your whimper, you hear another swoosh of the cane coming down. You tense up subconsciously. There is the sound of the cane hitting flesh, but the anticipated pain never came. Before you could think further, your were pulled up and sat in Jake’s lap. His woodsy musk envelops you as he tucks your head under his chin. Pangs of guilt shoot through your body, hurting way worse than your behind. Slowly but surely, Jake’s warm and strong hands find the nape of your neck, pulling you towards his chest where you bury your face, your shoulder shudders, and you cry. Jake's heart contracts painfully along with each of your sob. He closes his eyes tightly.
“You silly, silly little fool.” He sighs, rocking you back and forth, “it would be so much easier if you just say so from the start. But my little kitten just won’t go down without a fight, will she?” His finger combs through your sweaty strands.
“Is that how you love, little flame?” Jake murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple, “always so fierce, so effusive, like a supernova?”
You keen on that word. You think you’ve never loved a a nickname more. Jake’s steady heartbeat against your chest grounds you and slowly restores all your senses like books being put back onto the shelf after being swept down to the floor in a storm. Slot by slot, mise en place.
Feeling that you’ve calmed down, Jake takes your face in his hands. “Let me show you.” He leaves kisses all over your face, pausing between each one to speak.
“This. Is. How. I. Love.”
He touches his forehead to yours. It is impossible to look away, impossible to feel anything else other than him.
“Allow me to love you.”
The sentence is like a curse, one that undid some wicked spell, one that wilts all the thorns on your heart, one that undid you completely.
Your eyes flutter shut as you feel the butterfly in your stomach. You know it was triggered by the long-caged bird in your heart flexing its wings. Soar. Soar head-on into love. Take the fearless flight and never regret thy fall.
The slightly weird sensation on the left side of your face makes something click in your brain. You hurriedly pull Jake’s hand down and see a swollen mark welt across his left palm.*
That’s where the last hit lands. He takes it for you.
“See? equal.” He holds up his palm.
“Jake…” Your lips quiver. You hold his hand in yours, desperately kissing it. Jake hardly seem to mind at all, using his other hand to wipe away your tears. His eyes infinitely gentle.
“Do not feel guilty, that’s not my point. I am sorry for not letting you trust me enough. I love you, it is my fault to not make it known to you it all the while.* We’re even now, clean slate. Only trust from now on, okay?”
Nothing reassures you more than a clean slate; that means you are not completely fucked up, that means you still have the opportunity to redeem yourself, to do better, and this time you know that you have a better chance because you are not doing it alone, you have Jake by your side, and he has managed to make you believe that he will always be by your side.
You press your lips against his. His tongue dips into your mouth. You roll your hips on his thighs. The need rekindles inside you.
“Tell me what you want, princess. Anything for you.”
“I want you. Jake. Please make love to me.”
With that, he lifts you up and flips you over. You land on the bed, letting out a chuckle as you watch him get rid of his shirt and pants. Your limbs go warm when his body covers yours. The pendant of his necklace drags down your sternum and dipping into your navel as his kisses your breasts. His mouth finds your nipple, his tongue circling around your areola, feeling it grow harder and perk up even more. You let out a squeal, arching your back, your clit meeting his pelvis for a futile relief. You feel him, hard and determined, flush against your entrance. Your muscles tense up, clenching around the emptiness. The silky desire flows down through your veins, gathering downward.
You lie open like a book, allowing his velvet tongue to explore every letter and punctuation. You are completely at his disposal. Jake’s movements are slow and skilled, tentalizing and hypnotic
“Please.”
“Please, what?” He repeats the question with a cheeky grin.
“Please, fuck me already.” The verb sounds so vulgar, yet you’ve never said it with so much love and tenderness. Fuck. You love the plosive in the end. Explosive, fervent, triumphant.
“Please,” Jake mused. His hand snakes between your bodies, his finger plunging into your wetness.
“Do you know,” his fingers curls and scraps, collecting your slickness and stroking them up and down your labia, “how do they say ‘please’ in classical Latin?”
“Poetic nerd.” You quipped, followed by a vindictive press of his finger against your tissue that makes you mewl.
“Amabo te.” He whispers as he holds his cock in his hand, his tip tapping on your entrance along with each syllable, each of them dripping onto your skin like honey. Knock, knock.
“Amabo te.” You mindlessly repeat after him. The sound is magical and mesmerizing, rumbling off your tongue with such gracefulness.
“And it just happens to also literally mean,” he pushes his hip forward, making every inch pronounced. The double suspense makes your breath hitch.
“I will love you.”
He bottoms out in one long, silky thrust. Every sensory system in your body fires up. Air is whipped out of your lungs and restored by his kiss. Your hands map his back, hugging him tighter, nailing him into you even deeper. Jake only pulls back slightly before pumping right back, cherishing the silky heat of yours as if there’s no tomorrow. His sharp pants fall all over your neck and your collarbone. The pleasure is building up at a scary pace.
Jake’s face is so close to yours, you see yourself in his eyes, fused with nothing but bliss and desire that danced through his blown-out pupils. At this moment, you are love. The realization sends a tremor through you. For the first time tonight, your body and brain and in sync. No more fighting.
“Can feel you, love,” Jake grunts, the vein visible on his sweat-coated forehead. You buck up your hips, spurring him on.
“Take me with you.”
For a few heartbeats, the world went silent. Never has an orgasm felt so good. Zings of fire sparkles and spreads. Your mouth hangs open; the pleasure robbed your voice, pinning you down as a time stamp. You are preserved in the moment like a butterfly specimen. It makes you want to exist like that forever.
Your leg jerks, urging him to stay as he rolls off you. In your peripheral vision, you saw you were still holding hands, his fingers laced and lodged with yours like a promise.
Jake’s lips graze your ears, a strand of his curls falls across your lips. His voice is raspy and low, with an easily detected tenderness. “Did I do it? Will you let me love you?”
You know it takes a lot of energy out of him as well. And now, a faint trance of postpositive guilt and the languid afterglow mixed with the subspace are catching up with you. Every inch of you is uncurled and loosened, but in the back of your mind still remains some sanity the size of a laundry basket where you have a heart to be strong, be strong for him; he takes such good care of you. You pull Jake’s welted palm against your bare chest, close to your heart. You squeeze his hand, followed with three gentle pats on its back. Just like the way he tells you that you are safe and he’s not leaving when you are blindfolded and tied up.
You know you will talk more about it in the morning over plates of French toast or blueberry pancakes, but for now, everything is good…..and that conversation doesn’t sound scary to you at all. You know that the man lying next to you will dote on you with nothing but pure love and acceptance. And that doesn’t sound half bad at all.
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*1: adapted from Stefan Zweig, Marie Antoinette: The Portrait of an Average Woman
*2: inspired by Three-Line Whip: A First Time Maledom BDSM Novella by James Hardcourt
*3: adapted from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
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Yay! you made it! Thank you SO MUCH for reading :))
any comments and feedbacks are greatly welcomed and deeply appreciated.
my other works: Permission to Fall || Mariner's Complex || Ticked (all my boxes) || Love is a four-legged word || The Lucky Ones || Coming back to me || Warm Honey || He Would || Hold Me (1) (2) || blurb: Chin Tattoo, Ribbon Bow 🎀, post-show
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bronzeagepizzeria · 5 months
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okay things we know about the second special:
-we haven't seen any footage of it in the trailers
-it's called wild BLUE yonder
-letterboxd listed david tennant as '14' in special 1, ncuti as '15'. they then listed david as '10' in special 2, and ncuti as '14' in special 3
-this listing has since been taken down
-the director of the second special, tom kingsley, said he's most looking forward to "the bit with the hands"
-there's a shot of ncuti in tenteen's clothings, which rtd has confirmed has a cgi'd background (zeppelins, perhaps?)
-the toymaker has the ability to 'shape dimensions'
conclusion: BODY FUCKIN SWAP
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hells-plaid-angel · 2 years
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In theory, if Cas ever did realise he was in love with Dean pre-deal with The Empty and actually decided to shoot his shot, I’d imagine a string of hilarity and miscommunication would ensue. There’s no way Cas would try to flirt with Dean if he thought it’d be received badly, but every now and again, Dean gives him just enough hope he thinks maybe it’s possible Dean likes him back. 
Say Cas shows up unexpectedly and Dean’s doing their movie night alone since Cas was away,  on some plot-relevant side quest. Cas arrives back unannounced because it’s movie night and what he’s doing can wait a day. Dean’s too thick to realise Cas has come back for him, and royally puts his foot in his mouth by asking why Cas is there, making the angel feel like he shouldn’t be because the course of true love never did run smoothly and when given the opportunity Dean will screw himself over when it comes to affection. 
Cas isn’t sure where they stand and wonders if he should stay and watch the film or leave. After awkwardly standing beside Dean’s armchair, watching the screen for longer than what would be deemed socially acceptable, Dean lets out a huff and says, ‘Just sit down,’ meaning, of course, for Cas to sit beside him in what Dean’s deemed ‘Cas armchair’. Cas takes Dean’s words literally and plonks down on the arm of Dean’s chair, smacking their shoulders together and settling in. 
The thing is, Dean lets him. He might grumble, but he doesn’t get Cas to move. He’s had a long night, having also returned from a hunt hours before and he’s beat. Before Cas knows it, Dean’s face is smooshed up against his shoulder and he’s open-mouthed snoring. Cas still thinks he’s the most beautiful human he’s ever seen and is in awe because Dean’s being vulnerable with him. He knows the man has trouble sleeping, plagued by dreams of Hell and hunts. Cas knows Dean doesn’t sleep with just anyone, even when he has casual sex, he rarely stays long after the act, so Cas looks down at the sleeping man and for the first time he thinks, ‘maybe’. Maybe Dean likes him back. He has no idea what to do with that possibility. He sits there quietly for the rest of the night because Dean’s an angry sleeper (like a bear) and Cas isn’t going to wake him up. 
He decides to tread lightly and toy with the idea of trying to flirt with Dean, without overtly flirting with Dean. He has no idea how to do this. After all his years on earth, there are still a lot of things that confuse him. While he and Dean are on a hunt sometime later, they pull over to a gas station. When Dean’s paying Cas mindlessly flips through the magazine stumbling on some shitty Cosmopolitan article about romance and flirting. They mention one way to show you are interested in someone is by showing curiosity in their likes and dislikes. 
So for the rest of the journey, Cas becomes almost insufferable with questions. He knows Dean’s top 13 favourite Led Zeppelin songs, but is Led Zeppelin Dean’s favourite band? What are Dean’s top 13 favourite bands? What is Dean’s favourite number? Does he have a favourite colour? Why is that his favourite colour? He rattles off questions for the entirety of their 14-hour trip cross country and Dean is confused as hell but decides to humour Cas because he does love talking about bands and movies, plus it’s not like anyone’s ever taken so much of an interest in him. 
Sometime towards the end of the trip, Dean realises he has no clue what Cas’ favourite anything is- do angels even have favourites? Wasn’t that meant to be the whole thing  about angels? All men are created equal and all that. Still, Dean asks. For the most part, Cas doesn’t have answers. He’s not sure who his favourite band is, though he can hesitantly say a few songs he likes better than others. It’s like they discover his favourite things together, unearthing them. Cas says with conviction his favourite colour is green and when Dean asks why he simply says, ‘Because it reminds me of you,’ and moves on. Dean goes silent for a long time after that but Cas is still left thinking that maybe Dean could love him. After all, he showed interest in Cas’ likes and dislikes as the magazine suggested. 
Something Cas learned from Dean’s movies was that humans showed affection through nicknames, strange terms of endearment that reminded them of sugary foods or woodland animals. Dean reminded Cas of neither, so he was unsure what kind of word to use to show his affection. Dean shortened his name. Perhaps this was his way of using a term of endearment, maybe Cas had missed some sign and should have given Dean a nickname of his own.  In the end, he settles for something in his mother tongue, because he’s better at expressing himself in Enochian. 
He uses a word for Dean which is both very intense and oddly specific, something that translates roughly to ‘Evergreen lover, formed of star ash’. Like a golden retriever, after having the stilted cacophony of consonants and vowels thrown in his direction for long enough Dean simply shrugs his shoulders and answers to the name. I’m talking a name that trembles like a sub-bass and causes stray dogs to howl and Dean just looks up of a morning from his bowl of Fruit Loops and goes, ‘oh yeah that’s me. Mornin’ Sunshine’. Bonus points if others around him know exactly what the name means, other angels, demons, maybe even Sam when he gets curious and looks through the bunker’s archives for an Enochian Dictionary. 
After all this, Cas is no closer to working out if Dean harbours affection towards him or not. So after some exasperated brainstorming, Cas decides to meet Dean where he’s at and attempts to express affection the way he knows Dean does. He cooks Dean’s breakfast and makes his coffee every morning because Dean expresses his love through security, caring for others and he especially loves food. It should be noted the bacon is burnt, the egg is raw and the coffee tastes like dishwater, but each morning Dean gives Cas a goofy, lopsided grin and thanks him. He’s grateful, Cas realises but he still has no idea if Dean’s in love with him. 
With his one last-ditch effort, Cas decides to try physical touch. Dean’s a tactile creature. He loves touch. So Cas tries to give it to him. He rests his hand on his shoulder or his side as he walks past Dean. If they are parting ways Cas pulls Dean into a hug. He’s stunned at first, but he lets it happen and even gets used to it after a while, so Cas gets more brazen. He wraps his foot around Dean’s ankle when they sit together at the map table. He pushes his palm into Dean’s when they’re sitting alone in their armchairs for movie night and that’s what finally pushes Dean over the edge. 
“Look man, I know you’re not human and you don’t get how stuff works but you can’t do junk like that. It’ll give people the wrong idea,” Dean would warn because his self-loathing, self-deprecating, still very closeted self would never in a million years dare to let himself think Cas knows what he’s doing.
“And what is the wrong idea?” Cas would ask. 
“You know, dude. That you like me. More than a friend like me,” Dean would explain and Cas would give him the most world-wearied, withering look and  sigh, “That is very much the idea I’ve been trying to get across,” He’d explain. 
And Dean would need about an hour for his brain to stop short-circuiting, long enough for him to reply, 
“Oh.” 
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kappa and reader while on their roadtrip decide to go out on a cutsie date they end up in some bar there’s live music great atmosphere they get p drunk & things escalate as they get back to their van 🤭…
Someone send help, I want him so bad 😩😩
Fairy Lights
Summary: Just a silly, little drabble about van life with Kappa 😌🌻
Pairing: Kappa x fem!Reader
Word Count: ~1k
Content Warnings: Soft Horny Hippie Smut 18+!, Unprotected P In V, Oral (F Receiving), Fingering, Cum Eating, Mentions About Alcohol And Being Drunk, Kappa's Dirty Talk, Breeding, Possible Impreg
A/N: We are gradually working towards Dad!Kappa and I see absolutely nothing wrong with that 🥴
Tagging the horny horde:
@crypticsewerslut @quicksilversg1rl @cc-luvr @icarus-star @milaeth @roryculkinsgf @spookyorchid @arch1viste @whoareyoi @angelsanarchy @blueberrypancakesworld @rocketqueen-world @r0ttenmess @doddernix @svgarcaine
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Let me take you to the movies
Can I take you to the show?
Let me be yours ever truly
Can I make your garden grow?
- Houses Of The Holy By Led Zeppelin
"Fuck!", You sighed while hastily wiggling your ass out of your lacey slip, "The guitarist did a damn good job, no?"
"Maybe, but I don't give a wet fart about that right now!" Kappa huffed as he shimmied himself out of his pants equally clumsy, his already rock-hard, eager cock thudding against his lower abdomen.
With a wide grin playing around his lips, he looked at you, his pupils blown wide in desire and adoration as he propped your thighs on his shoulders before thrusting himself into you as far as he possibly could.
"Good lord, Kappa!", You exhaled sharply, your head lolling back deep into a tie-dye patterned pillow, "You fuck like a madman when your drunk!"
"All I hear is you saying that I don't fuck you just right when I'm sober, honey." Kappa quipped right back, the palms of his hands snaking themselves around your thighs to pull you impossibly close to him.
"That's not..ugh, fuck.." You heard your trembling voice flailing as he started rolling his hips against your lap, rendering your mind blank with each jut.
"That's not what?" He teased with a mischievous grin spreading all over his face whilst the tip of his nose lovingly caressed yours.
You smelled the alcohol in his breath, the countless cheap beers and whisky shots both of you had oh so eagerly chugged down at the bar. In a feverish shot of sudden worry, you gasped at your man.
"Shit, fuck…what if anybody sees us?" Your brain abruptly recalled the fact that the two of you were fucking in a goddamn parking lot.
"We're in the van, sugar.", Kappa cooed into your ear from above, "The car might be shakin' a lil' but that's all, don't worry."
He pressed a sloppy kiss to your temple while thrusting into you, his girth stretching you out just the way you liked it.
"You sure?" You couldn't quite let it go just now.
"Just shut up and let me make you feel good, been thinking about that all night long.", He groaned against the shell of your ear, effectively sending a wave of goosebumps down your back, "Nothing on my mind but you since you started dancing, practically eye-fucking me while twirling that dress of yours."
" 'N I thought we were having a cute date night out, babe.", You giggled out of breath, turning your head to catch his mouth, teasingly biting down on his bottom lip, "All while you were just thinking 'bout filling me up, huh?"
"Uh-Huh.." It rolled over his tongue in a low moan, his face following the gentle tug of your teeth as your shaking fingers wrapped around his forearms, holding on to him, "Been thinking about knocking you up lately. How'd 'u like that, hm?"
Just the mere thought of it had your throbbing cunt clenching down around his cock, pulling him deeper into you.
"Oh, okay…", Kappa huffed in surprise, picking up his pace and practically ramming himself into you without holding back, "Getting you all worked up, no? Wanna be a momma so bad?"
"A little mini-us… a ranch, big garden and all, maybe?" You rambled out in between raggedy breaths, feeling your body buzzing with the mixture of intoxication and an oncoming orgasm.
"Shit, fuck…that sound so good, babe.", His hips progressively faltered in their rhythm, "Gon' fill you all up, sugar."
It took but a few more thrusts, his balls slapping against your ass, before he spearheaded deep into you for one last time, his cock pulsing and pumping out hot ribbons of his seed.
"Hmhmm…don't stop, please, boutta cum, too!" You whined as you felt him stopping, moans and filthy curses cascading out of his mouth as his climax washed through him.
"Fuck, sorry, lemme fix that, sunshine." Kappa groaned, reluctantly pulling out of you but leaving your twitching legs right on top of his shoulders as his head wandered down amidst your quivering thighs.
He wasted absolutely no second thought about parting your cum and slick soaked folds with his tongue, directly aiming for your needy clit while his release trickled out of you.
"Taste so good.." He hummed into your cunt, sending a tide of pleasure through your body, your nerves starting to tingle and buzz again.
"Have ta make sure all that stays nice 'n put…" Kappas low tone vibrated through you as two of his fingers pushed into you, gently fucking his cum back into you.
Just that sent you right over the edge, your walls clenching and pulling all around his fingers as you involuntarily wiggled your ass over the mattress in orgasmic convulsions, practically riding your climax out on his tongue that was flat against your throbbing clit.
"There you go, sugar." You heard his shit-eating grin before you even saw it as he slipped your legs from his shoulder, his face rising back up to yours again.
With a content humm, Kappa let himself slump down next to you, cradling your form in his arms while reaching out to the side to fish for a halfway full cup of tea from way earlier in the day.
"Drink up, love, don't wanna deal with a hangover later, no?" He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his sweaty skin glowing in a post-orgasmic shine and the soft hue of the tiny fairy lights stuck to the ceiling of the van.
"Even if…'m just gonna pout at you until you fuck the hangover out of me, hm?"
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soaringeag1e · 5 months
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Escape {69}
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Detective!Dean x Victim!Reader
Warnings: Language, Fluff, Secrets
Words: 1,945
Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Patreon
9 Months Later
A couple of quiet knocks gets Dean to look up from the picture frame in his hand and he smiles at the man in the doorway. Feeling even more at home with the familiar face.
“You settling in, okay?” Dean slowly begins to nod as he looks around the room. “Feel like you never left?” It’s then that Dean’s eyes look through the window to Bobby’s right, his smile fading a little.
“Kind of.”
“Yeah.” The elder breathes before taking a few more steps into the office.
“I’m surprised you never gave my office up.” he admits, setting the picture he was holding down on his desk.
“Well,” Bobby shrugs. “There was a part of me that knew you would be back.”
“What about the part that didn't know?” His father figure remains silent for a moment, seeming to think about the answer though Dean is sure he knows exactly what he was feeling.
“I thought that maybe you needed the out and that you might go and find something else that made you happy.” Hearing that warms Dean’s heart.
“What if I did?” he asks, just curious on what would happen if the last option actually happened. 
“Well, then I would give your office up. Eventually.” They both share a light laugh. “That or turn it into a storage room.” Dean grins at his boss before setting another picture on his desk and then reaching back into the box to grab the next frame that needed a home in his office. "Well, you know where to find me if you need something." Bobby informs him as he slowly backs out of the room. "And uh…" he pauses, getting Dean to look at him. "Let's try not to get shot on our first day back, huh?" Despite the darkness of the past year, Dean’s able to chuckle at the joke. Grateful, Bobby grins and then leaves Dean to finish getting settled. 
His smile grows a bit as he looks down at the picture in his hand, his thumb gently brushing over the woman in the white dress as he lets that good memory play in his head. Not long after, he sets the frame down, right where he knows he'll always be able to see it.
Continuing to empty his box, he gets everything set up the way he likes and then he takes a seat in his chair, the familiar comfort almost feeling new for how long he's been gone. As he looks across the office and his eyes land on his former partner's desk on the other side of the glass, Dean has to take a minute. He knew coming back wouldn't be easy but he also knew that Eddie wouldn't want him to give up his career because of what happened. Dean was good at what he did and he knew this is where he belonged despite losing an amazing partner and friend.
Deans eyes gently close and he inhales deeply through his nose. His attempt to push away his emotions isn't the greatest but it's enough for him to carry on with his day.
As his computer wakes up after its long slumber, Dean's surprised to see that everything was the same as he left it. Files were sitting in the same spot on his desktop, his background picture was still that of a Zeppelin concert he attended years before he got his badge. Bobby really left his space untouched. 
Clicking on a few links, Dean waits patiently while some documents get uploaded on his computer. It's then that he catches his phone lighting up out of the corner of his eye, the notification getting him to grab the device and investigate more.
Movement was detected at his front door, the new doorbell camera working to its full potential. Though, after finding out that Cassidy tampered with the previous camera, it isn't that it didn't work, it's just that he had skills that Dean never knew about. It turned out that the day you had heard someone knocking on the door was in fact Cassidy testing out his plan and clearly it worked way too well.
As the little camera shows his front porch, Dean grins. His brother Sam stood there in a loose shirt and his infamous jogging pants. A few seconds later you had come into view wearing your jogging pants and a hot pink workout top, locking the door before looking into the camera and blowing a kiss.
"Love you." 
His smile growing, Dean lightly presses the speaker button on his phone. "Love you too." You smile brightly knowing he has an eye on you and then the two of you turn to step off the porch. Sam takes a second to look into the camera himself, waving to his brother before he takes off jogging to catch up with you.
Knowing that you're safe with Sam, Dean is able to relax a bit more before he dives into his first day back at work.
-
The two of you would usually spend an average of thirty minutes on your morning jogs. It didn't happen everyday considering the fact that Sam had to work most mornings, but when you both had some free time, it was definitely on the to do list. Another must have was a pit stop on the way back home. A nice little coffee shop run by a sweet older couple that have lived in town since they were kids. You and Sam felt like family going in there every time you were able to go out and you loved it.
“Oh! And can you make that decaf, please?” Sam looks at you a little confused, though you don’t notice as you’re paying for the two drinks. But as the barista nods and then steps away to start your drinks, Sam clears his throat, watching you put your card away.
“Decaf?” As if you didn’t hear him, you then pulled your phone out checking to see if you’ve heard from Dean at all, but everything seemed quiet. “When do you get decaf?” After slipping your phone into the pocket on the side of your pants, you look up at your friend, shrugging softly.
“Since I don’t need the extra kick.” your smile widens a bit before you step around him, waiting at the far counter for your order to be done. But Sam? He’s stuck in his spot for a few more beats, his mind fast tracking through his years of knowing you before he spins on his heel and moves to the end of the counter with you.
“Hold on,” Placing his palm on the counter, he looks at you with doubt in his eyes. “I’ve seen you wired off your ass before and you’d still take some extra shots over decaf.” A soft sigh falls from your lips and you look away, watching the barista make your drink. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Sam.” You say with an annoyance already in your tone.
“Y/N…”
“Shit, Sam, I’m fine!” The little outburst has him pull back a bit, looking at you with concern and slight disbelief and that clearly deflates you. “I’m sorry. I’m just…I’m a little tired and I think when I get back home I’m going to take a nap, so I just don’t want any caffeine right now. It’s not a big deal.” It’s then that Sam’s drink is set up on the counter and he reaches for it, but none of that takes away the concern he has.
“You feeling alright though?”
“Yeah.” you answer in a whisper before reaching for your drink and thanking the team behind the counter.
“Hey,” Lightly grabbing your elbow, Sam’s face is soft, his expression even softer, almost heartbreakingly so. “You can tell me anything. You remember that, right?”
“Of course I do.” your voice is as gentle as his touch. Despite that response and the fact that you leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, something didn’t feel quite right. But he didn’t want to push you anymore than he already did.  “Is it okay if we start heading back?”
“Sure.” Though still concerned, Sam nods and gives you a soft smile. One that disappears as you start to head for the door.
-
Unfortunately for you it wasn’t only Sam that could see something was going on with you. Over the next few days Dean had picked up on the slight differences in your behaviors as well. You expressed to him and Sam both that you were just tired. Maybe you were coming down with something or maybe you had some kind of bug that just knocked the energy out of you. Either way, Dean took care of you as such. He tried to let you rest as much as possible, even brought you food in bed to keep you from exerting yourself too much. He begged you to go see a doctor multiple times and it wasn’t until just the night before last that you had told him that you in fact went to see someone. The only thing he didn’t know now was the fact that you knew what was wrong with you. You just weren’t sure how to tell him.
So as the sun slowly rose, the bright orange beams coming through the blinds in the bedroom, Dean's fingers worked the buttons on his dress shirt. His eyes kept lifting to the mirror, catching sight of you sleeping peacefully under the covers behind him. He used to close the bathroom door while he got ready for work in the morning, but you usually couldn’t be disturbed, and if you were, he loved the sight of your sleepy self sitting up and smiling at him from the bed. Though that was always dangerous in itself because he would just want to call in on those days and climb back in bed with you.
Once his buttons were done and he fixed his collar, he doused himself with a little cologne and then turned to leave the room. Slipping his dress jacket off the hanger, he slowly makes his way towards the bed, smiling softly as your face comes into view.
“I love your cologne.” your voice barely makes it out of the blankets, but it’s enough for him to hear.
“I didn’t think I put that much on.” A low moan escapes as you stretch under the covers. “Is it too much?” You disagree with a light shake of your head and a low grumble.
“It’s perfect.” you smile up at him as he sits at the edge of the bed and leans over you. A deep gravelly hum rolls up his chest just as his lips meet yours.
“How are you feeling?” he asks in between kisses and you answer in the same way.
“A little better.” 
“Yeah?” Kissing you once more, this one lasts a little longer before he pulls away and just looks into your eyes. “Have you heard back from the doctor yet?”
“Not yet.” you lie as best you can, feeling guilty for not telling him the truth, but you aren’t ready to tell him. You can see how much it’s bothering him, especially after that last answer. He’s clearly concerned and of course looks worried which makes you feel worse.
“Maybe you should call them? Check in with ‘em.”
“I can try.” you lie again, hoping it’ll make him feel a little better. You can tell he’s pleased with your answer but that fear won't go away until you tell him what’s going on. The unknown is always a scary place, but sometimes the known can be just as scary.
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shysneeze · 1 year
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there's a girl out there with love in her eyes | robin buckley x artist!reader
summary: robin gathers the courage to talk to her crush and ends up your muse
warnings: i am not an artist so excuse artsy errors, kissing, tooth rotting fluff, reader is slightly self critical, take a shot every time i mention the low autumn sun
notes: title from going to california by led zeppelin
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Robin has become well acquainted with the art corridor, the walls lined with paintings and drawings, the splatters of paint on the floor and the earthy smell of clay. It’s not exactly a short cut to the bandroom, in fact it’s more of a detour that she’s become far too accustomed to taking. 
She’s mumbling beneath her breath, practising what it is she intends to say when she finally arrives at the senior art studio, where you will undoubtedly be working away, listening to a new tape and glowing in the low autumn sun. 
As she approaches, it’s to the soft staticky sound of The Cure playing, echoing in the empty hallways. She slows to a stop, breath shaking nervously from her lungs. It’s silly, to get so nervous just to talk to you, but suddenly her fingers feel tingly with anxiety, and she shakes them out with a gulp. 
You’re sitting with your back to her, humming along to the song and adorning a half painted canvas with stokes of red. You're wrapped up in it all, the peace of it, Robin imagines. It’s part of what has her so enamoured really, what has her taking the detour every time, for a glimpse of you in your element. 
Robin hesitates now that she’s arrived, hand frozen in midair before she can knock on the doorframe. She tries again to recall the plan, one discussed endlessly with Steve during work, the one that had her best friend just about pulling his hair out in exasperation because ‘for god’s sake, Robin, just talk to her!’. 
Gulping, she rattles her knuckles lightly against the hollow wooden door frame, grimacing a little at the way your shoulders shoot up, tensing in surprise as you turn to face her. Her cheeks feel suddenly red, and the plan falls completely apart, crumbling before her eyes. 
Her lips hang slack as you blink at her from across the room, head tilted curiously at her lanky frame in the doorway. You have paint smudged across your cheek and specks of red and orange drying in your furrowed brows. 
Robin thinks it’s adorable. 
“Can I help you?” 
“H-Hi,” She exhales, pulling herself briefly together, “I didn’t mean to startle you… I’m sorry.”
You’re blinking at her silence, waiting for more, and watching as her cheeks get redder and redder. A smile quirks at the corner of your lips as you lower your paint brush onto the palette to your left. 
“You okay, Robin?” 
Robin’s face twitches a little with surprise, pulling the politest of giggles from your lips. 
“We’re in the same english class,” You explain, “You sit behind me.” 
Robin is well aware of this, instead stunned by the fact that you’ve noticed her. Briefly, the thought warms her chest before simmering into a nervousness in the pit of her stomach. 
“Yeah, of course,” She nods quickly, “You’re always doodling in the margins of your paper- which everyone does but your doodles are always… beautiful. I guess that makes sense though given you’re an artist-“ 
A laugh interrupts her, cut short by your hand over your smiling lips. The heat rises to her ears with embarrassment, and she opens her mouth to apologise for rambling when you lift your hand to wave apologetically. 
“Sorry, just… artist isn’t the right word.” You admit, “I’m still in highschool, I’m not an artist yet.” 
Robin’s brows twitch slightly into a frown, and she takes a few steps forward, peering down over your shoulder at your painting, causing a self-consciousness to unfurl in your stomach. 
“You don’t think this is art?” 
You blink up at her, breath catching. Her eyes are round with awe, eyeing the painting with the sort of wonder every artist dreams of producing. The sun floods her face with a warm orange light, and her freckles blur pleasantly beneath it, little specks of autumn. 
“This is just… it’s not finished yet.”.
Suddenly recalling her plan, Robin straightens a little, stretching beyond the orange blanket of light and finally allowing you the chance to breathe again. 
“Well, I’m sure your finished stuff is just as beautiful.” She says, confidence almost betrayed by the nervous quiver in her voice, “Can I see it sometime?” 
The way she chews on her cheek nervously whilst awaiting your response is oddly endearing, and it has you nodding almost too quickly, too eagerly. Wiping your slightly clammy hands across the paint streaked jeans, you stand.
“I have my folio with me,” You confess, walking across the room to your abandoned belongings. “If you want to see it now.” 
“Yeah?” 
“If you’ve got the time…” 
“Steve is working so he can’t pick me up for a while,” She assures, bouncing slightly on her heels with excitement, “So I’m totally free.” 
You try not to let your face sour at the mention of Steve Harrington. Your body loosens with disappointment suddenly, at the reminder of the well justified rumours of Robin and Steve’s unexpected relationship.
“Great,” You manage a smile, “Here,” 
She comes towards you, watching you pull various paintings and sketches from your project case. She can see the anxious tremor to your fingers as they push the pieces carefully across the table, and the honour at getting to see them fill hers to the brim with warmth. 
“This is a lot.” Robin exhales after a moment, “Wow…”
“I’m here a lot,” You shrug.
“I know.” Robin blurts, before panicking at the implications of it, “I mean, I’ve seen you a lot after school when I’m on my way to band practice… I've been hoping to see your work for a while now.” 
“Well, you’re always welcome.” 
She meets your eyes for a moment in surprise, before turning back to your art. That wonder is back, and as she bends for a closer look, that orange light engulfs her again, tying knots in your stomach. 
She’s so pretty, all warm light and perfect freckles, it almost hurts. 
“Wow…” She exhales again in a whisper, “These are amazing.” 
“Thanks,” You mumble with an embarrassed grimace. “It’s just some ideas for college applications so it’s not much but-”
“No, these are amazing,” She repeats, almost sternly, “What do you mean you’re not an artist? What would you call this?” 
“Paintings,” You exhale, “Drawings, and sketches, but that doesn’t make it art.”  
Robin smirks a little, shaking her head as she draws her finger gently across a portrait, feeling each brush stroke tenderly.
“You’re one of those tortured artists, huh?” 
Surprise slackens your lips, and she twists to grin at you, eyes crinkling in the corners.
“I’m joking,” She assures, “But I think these are beautiful, and that you’re an artist.” 
“Thanks, Robin,” You exhale, “That’s sweet of you.” 
She spends another few minutes admiring each piece, and you watch her eyes find each pencil line and each colour. You watch her take in each one, how her long fingers trace the shapes across the paper, so gently they barely touch it. 
It’s so nerve wracking, so intimate in a way nothing could possibly have prepared you for, and when she finally straightens, her cheeks are rosy, smiling to herself as if she’s simply the luckiest girl in the world. 
“Thanks,” 
“Huh?” You ask, blinking slowly back to reality as her ocean blue eyes meet your own, “For… For what?” 
“Letting me see your art- or your paintings, drawings and sketches,” She teases with a mischievous glint in her eyes, “Especially when I just showed up out of nowhere… you’re really talented.” 
“T-thanks.” 
“I should go,” She admits, “Steve will be heading this way so…” 
“Right,” You say, ignoring the disappointment that flares to life in your chest. “Of course.” 
Robin nods with that awkward charm, making her way towards the door. You watch her retreating figure, eyes caught by the red streaks in her hair, and an overwhelming need to see her again takes you both by surprise when her name blurts from your lips. 
“Can I paint you?” 
It’s not what you intended to ask, not even a conscious thought you knew existed in your head, and when Robin turns back to you, its with parted lips and furrowed brows. Your stomach lurches nervously, but there’s no going back. 
“Just, if you’re free,” You continue, “I’m sure you’ve got work so it’s okay if you can’t, but I’d really like to paint you.” 
“Me?” 
“Y-yeah,” You admit, “You’re… really pretty, you know.” 
Robin’s freckles disappear beneath a crimson blush, neck stretching with a nervous gulp. Mortified, you turn back to your paintings, busying your hands with returning your work to the project case. 
“As I said, you’re probably busy so-” 
“I’m not.” 
Your shoulders ease slightly, and you bravely turn back towards her, though she’s avoiding your eyes, one hand lifted to scratch awkwardly behind her neck. 
“I’m not working next week,” She assures, “So I can come after band practice, if that suits.” 
“T-that’s perfect,” You confirm, “Are you sure?” 
“Yeah,” She nods, smiling anxiously, “What’s the worse that can happen?” 
-.-.-
Robin has learned that you paint with a specific look of concentration. It greets her each time you tilt your head past the easel to take her in again, lip pulled between your teeth in a way that makes her feel entirely too warm, too nervous. 
She’s spent a week here, balanced awkwardly on a stool in front of you, listening to whatever tape you produce from your bag that day, and rambling in desperate attempts to avoid the heat in her chest each time you meet her eyes around the canvas.
And you’re more than happy to listen, filing each new fact away in your head; her favourite books, her least favourite subjects and the songs she hums along to as you paint. Today, she’s talking about work, hands moving animatedly as she talks about a regular, and you’ve long past given up on trying to keep her still. 
“I mean, the same documentary every week.” She repeats, “How many times can you watch a plane documentary? It’s like aviation 101 every time he walks in- Steve is probably kicking himself for covering my shifts this week because he really doesn’t have the patience for Plane Guy.” 
“Wait, what?” 
“Sorry, am I talking too quickly?” 
“No, it’s just… he’s covering your shifts?” You ask, peering around the easel with a  frown. “You said you weren’t working.” 
Robin’s eyes widen a little at being caught in such a silly lie. Tearing her eyes from your own, she twists to hide her embarrassment, though you can see the red climbing her neck.  
“Um, yeah,” She admits, “I did say that…” 
“You’re ditching work for this?” You ask, somehow mortified, “You didn’t need to do that, Robin.” 
“Yeah but you seemed so excited and I wanted to!” She argues, rubbing at her neck awkwardly, “and Steve owes me for all the shifts I’ve taken whilst he’s been on dates, so really, dealing with the plane enthusiast is the least he can do.” 
You sit back a little, hiding yourself behind the painting, eyes rounding with hopeful surprise. Gulping, you do your best to ignore the butterflies swelling in your chest, the excitement bubbling up inside you. 
“Oh.” You attempt casually, lifting a shaky hand to the canvas again. “So you aren’t… He’s not your boyfriend?” 
“Oh, god no,” Robin’s face twists beyond your line of sight, “I’ve seen that boy flirt and I have no idea how he’s getting dates at all really. So, no. We’re friends- best friends.” 
“Right,” You nod, gulping, “Sorry.” 
“No, it’s fine,” She assures, still red-cheeked, “I get it a lot… but we’re not together. He’s really not my type.” 
“No?” 
She can hear it in the lift of your voice, the question of what her type really is. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Steve is telling her to be bold: girls, artists, you… but all she can do is clear her throat, humming in confirmation. 
Beyond the soft static of the tape playing in the background, silence falls upon you both, and the odd new tension in the room. That late evening sun washes Robin in orange again, and with each peer around the canvas, your stomach tightens. 
You move onto painting her freckles, struggling for a moment with the colour, breathing out a frustrated sigh as nothing seems to mix quite right on the palette. Robin’s head tilts curiously at the sound.
“You okay back there?” 
“Fine,” You mumble, “Just… your freckles.” 
Robin’s brows twitch slightly in offence.
“Sorry, I guess?” 
“No, they’re perfect and pretty, but they’re all different shades of orange,” You explain, standing with a sigh and stepping around the painting towards her. “Need a closer look.” 
You take a step between her knees and Robin’s eyes widen in surprise, body swaying backwards at your sudden proximity. That paint smell finds her nostrils, mixed with the subtle scent of your perfume, and as she looks up at you, her lips fall apart. 
Behind you, Led Zeppelin bristles to life from the cassette player again, the first strings of Going to California stretching outwards to every corner of the room. You’re squinting down at Robin, lifting your few paint-free fingers to tilt her chin from the sun briefly, biting your lip with that concentration Robin has become so infatuated with. 
“So many freckles,” You exhale, “You’re so pretty, Robin.” 
It’s not consciously that the words leave you, and Robin is almost certain you’ve hardly noticed yourself saying them, but her ears warm at the sound of them, and beneath your touch, she’s positively melting. 
It draws a small whimper from the back of her throat, exhaled shakily into the sunlight washed room, joining the soft guitar strings and your just slightly uneven breaths. You pause a little, realising your current position, her knees bracing your legs, her face against your fingers. 
You whisper an apology, but don’t dare step back, not with her ocean eyes staring at you with that awe, that wonder, that love… you can do nothing but blink down at her, take it all in. Then, her breath catching, she lets out a whisper of her own.
“I really want to kiss you.” 
And who would you be to deny her such a simple desire? 
You don’t waste a second, taking her chin and pulling her towards your lips, and she pushes upwards to meet them with a gentle sort of eagerness that tugs at your heartstrings. When you pull back, it's to her rosy cheeks and perfect freckles.
“Like that?” 
Robin can only nod before pulling you in for another kiss, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you against her chest. There’s no rush though, not as your paint-streaked fingers clasp her cheek or comb through her hair, not as her tongue slides across your concentration-chewed  lip and presses into your mouth. 
Her hands on your waist push up slightly to graze the skin beneath your sweater, as gentle as the shapes traced across your painting, her warm fingers leaving featherlight touches over the skin above your waist band.
“Robin..,” You mumble above her lips, “You really like me?” 
“God, (y/n),” She exhales between warm kisses, “Do you know how far this place is from the bandroom?” 
You grin as you find her lips again, arching into her as her fingers run up your back. You leave paint on her cheek, then her neck as your fingers trail down towards her shoulders, balancing yourself as the kiss deepens dizzyingly. 
It’s with a sharp, frustrated sound that Robin pulls away, only in response to the shrill sound of car horn being pressed outside. You turn with her to the window, frowning with your arms still balanced on each of her shoulders. 
“Steve,” She grumbles, “Terrible timing.” 
You blink down at her, resisting the overwhelming urge to kiss her blush-blurred freckles one by one. You pull from her touch, skin cooling rapidly without it, and her brows drop disappointedly, hands dropping to her side.
“Go tell him I’m driving you home,” You instruct, “Tell him it’s your lips, they’re impossible to get right… I really need to study them.” 
Robin clambers far too quickly from the stool, and with a delighted laugh you catch her before she can fall completely. She straightens with a lopsided grin, stealing another kiss before dashing towards the door. 
You pace giddily back to your painting, suddenly in disbelief at your luck, but what’s an artist without a muse, you suppose. 
bonus: 
Steve knows Robin is trying to explain something, something about not needing a ride home, though he can’t quite concentrate on anything but the paint streaks on her cheeks and the obscene red of her ears. 
“You are covered in paint.” 
“Huh?” 
Steve chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. 
“Nothing, Rob.” He assures, “Go back and make out with your artist, I’ll see you later.” 
Robin can’t hide her excitement, lips stretching into a grin that has him rolling his eyes endearingly before pulling out of the car park, watching Robin hurry back into the building in his rearview mirror. 
a/n: not the biggest fan but lemme know what you think :)
tag-list: @woahhhfidgett @sireeeeee  @lovelyy-moonlight @starselle @robinsprker @flourelle @robinbuckleysgfreall @robinbuckleyluvr @lesbiihoenestt @sumobug @milkiane @janeswhore @strvngerrose @rxbinbuckleys @amelies-a-simp @vampirtet@zzharrypotter
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in a song
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pairing: jake x reader | word count: ~3.3k | warnings: kissing??? | my masterlist
summary: jake and the reader have been best friends for years, but when they realize that their feelings may go beyond that, will they confess their love, or will the fear of losing their friendship get in the way?
author’s note: okay so i’ve been having the idea for this fic in my mind for at least a year or two so i’m thrilled to finally have it written out and share it with you guys. i’m overall really proud of how it came out, and i hope you guys really enjoy it! <3 also it's based off of the song "i'll have to say i love you in a song" by jim croce, which i have linked below.
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You and Jake became best friends in middle school. Your family had just moved to Frankenmuth, and it was hard for you to meet new people. Sure, you had talked to a few kids between classes, but it was nothing that went beyond a couple of questions about where you were from or what’s for homework. It wasn’t that your classmates ignored you or weren’t interested or anything, you were just a really shy kid who had a hard time adjusting. Until you met Jake. 
You remember it like it was yesterday. You were bored out of your mind, listening to your math teacher drone on through problem after problem when you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned to see your soon-to-be best friend leaning over his desk, staring up at you with big brown eyes. 
“Hey,” he whispered, “I really like your button.” He pointed at the small image of Jimi Hendrix pinned to your bookbag. You quickly glanced down at it, and then looked back at him. 
“Oh, thanks.” You replied with a smile. You began to turn back towards the front of the class when his hand shot out to your shoulder again. 
“Me and my brothers are gonna listen to a bunch of my dad’s old records after school. You wanna come?” He looked up at you, waiting for an answer. When you looked a bit indecisive, he quickly added, “we have some Hendrix records. And some Zeppelin and Beatles ones too if you listen to that.” 
You thought it over for a moment. You didn’t know the boy, but then again, you didn’t really know anybody yet. He seemed nice enough, and you needed to make friends at some point, so why not now? You shrugged and finally answered. “Sure. Where do you guys live?” 
“Just meet me out in front of the school after the last bell. We can walk there together,” he responded. You nodded and went to turn around again but were stopped when the boy held out his hand. “I’m Jake, by the way. The dork sitting behind Carly over there is my twin brother Josh. You’ll get to meet him after school.” You took his hand, shaking it and telling him your name. Jake smiled and gave you a quick, “Cool. See you after class,” before leaning back in his desk and scribbling down the answers from the board. 
From that day on, you and Jake were attached at the hip. You spent all of your free time hanging out with him and his brothers, and they quickly became a second family to you. They were part of all of your favorite memories just as you were a part of theirs. And as you grew together, so did your friendship. Jake got to see you come out of your shell, and you got to see him chase his dreams with his brothers at his side. You could be seen at the front row of every gig, singing along and supporting your friends. You were their number one fan. 
Things inevitably changed a bit when their careers really started to take off, though. It was great to see your boys making a name for themselves, but it was hard to be away from them so often. It was especially difficult to not have Jake around. You made the most of it though, traveling to see him whenever you could and going to whatever shows you could make it to. Still, nothing beat having your best friend at home, especially when it became an increasingly rare occurrence. That’s why you were so happy when he told you that he would be back in Frankenmuth for the next two months. The band had wrapped up their tour, and their newest album was finally finished, so they were headed home for a well-deserved break. You could hardly wait to see them. 
You had gone with Jake’s family to pick him and the boys up at the airport. The minute you two locked eyes, you sprinted over, pulling him into a hug so strong it nearly knocked him to the ground. You wordlessly held him for a few moments until he let go and looked at you, a huge smile plastered across his face. “So I guess you missed me, huh?” he joked. 
“Eh, maybe a little bit,” you answered with a shrug and roll of your eyes. The two of you burst into a fit of laughter, which was soon interrupted by Josh slinging his arm over your shoulder.
“Geez, and what am I, chopped liver?” he said with feigned jealousy.
You giggled, throwing your arms around him. “Of course not, Joshy. I missed all of you guys.” 
He hugged you back. “Good, because we missed you, too. Besides, you can’t go around giving Jakey all of the attention. It goes to his head, you know,” he lowered his voice to a loud whisper, “I think this rockstar lifestyle is starting to change him.”
You smiled softly and turned to see Jake hugging his parents, clearly thrilled to see them again. “Nah,” you responded, “he’s always the same Jake.”
Josh simply nodded in agreement and gave you one last hug before joining his twin. Sam and Danny soon arrived, and you greeted them with an embrace that more closely resembled a tackle, telling them how much you missed them. They returned the sentiment and after a bit of catching up, everyone piled into Karen’s vehicle, ready to go home. The boys entertained you with stories from the tour and recording studio the whole car ride, and everyone was still talking and laughing as you poured out of the car and into the Kiszka home. 
After the three Kiszka boys unpacked their suitcases, you made a quick stop at the Wagners’, allowing Danny to drop off his bags and greet his family. Once that was all done, you headed down to a local diner for lunch. The conversation seemed to flow between you in a never-ending stream as the boys tried to share every detail of their time away with you and you tried to catch them up on everything they had missed in Frankenmuth. 
You eventually left the diner, and everyone began to figure out their plans for the afternoon. Danny was going to head to his parents’ house so that he could spend some time with his family. Josh and Sam were both going to hang out with some old friends before coming back to dinner at their house. That meant you and Jake had the next few hours to yourself, which you were equally excited for and nervous about, in all honesty. 
It wasn’t that you felt uncomfortable around Jake. That probably isn’t even possible at this point. You felt so comfortable with Jake. You knew him better than you knew yourself, and he knew you better than anyone else. But as you both got older, you noticed a change in how you felt toward Jake. Where he used to just be your awkward best friend who made you laugh and shared his music with you, he now became a cool, confident guitarist who was setting the world on fire with his talent. He was the same sweet, lovable guy you always knew, but now he was a ridiculously handsome rockstar to boot. He’s practically perfect. How could you not fall in love with him? And that was the problem. You were desperately trying to not fall in love with Jake, and it was proving impossible. 
It was easier when the other guys were around. All the noise and chaos that they brought along with them could keep you distracted from how Jake’s eyes were enough to make you weak in the knees or how his smile could make you swoon at the drop of a hat. But when you and Jake were alone, there were fewer distractions. Actually, there were none at all.
So here you are, sitting on the Kiszkas’ couch, watching a movie with your best friend, and trying your hardest not to think about how close he is or how much you love the way his nose crinkles when he laughs or any of the other things that made him absolutely irresistible. 
After a while, you started to get more invested in the movie, finally letting your feelings for Jake slip your mind, at least for a little while. You subconsciously sank deeper into the couch, getting more comfortable as the film went on, and as the credits rolled, you realized that you were securely nestled into Jake’s side. Your head was resting on his chest, and his arm was slung across your shoulders. You felt your cheeks heat up as you slowly turned your head to look at him. To your surprise, he was already looking at you, a lazy smile painted across his features. Too afraid to break the silence, you didn’t say a word, opting to just hold his gaze and attempt a weak smile. It was then that Jake finally spoke up.
“Hey,” he said in a near-whisper, “I really missed you.” 
Your smile grew as you answered, “I missed you too.”
Jake continued to look at you, his eyes roaming your face and seemingly scanning every feature as if he were committing them to memory. “Have I ever told you how pretty your eyes are?” he finally asked, a hint of shyness in his voice.
You slowly shook your head in response and felt yourself lean in closer, and you could almost swear Jake was doing the same. But just before you could close the gap between you, the door opened, making the two of you jump apart. Josh and Sam came into the room, too caught up in laughing at whatever conversation they were having to notice how close you and Jake were mere seconds ago. You mentally thanked them for that. 
“Hey, guys!” Sam said, walking over and plopping down on the couch between you and Jake. You both mumbled quiet greetings, making Sam raise an eyebrow. “Wait did we interrupt something? Because I’m getting a weird vibe right now.” You and Jake quickly answered in the negative, but Sam still seemed skeptical. “You sure?” he asked. 
“Yeah, we were just trying to decide if we wanted to watch another movie,” you replied, hoping that your explanation was convincing enough. It must have been, because Sam changed the subject, filling you and Jake in on the events of his afternoon. Josh was soon chiming in, sharing how he spent the last few hours and cracking his usual cheesy jokes. The four of you fell into comfortable conversation, and you were honestly glad to have the extra company. The tension between you and Jake had felt thicker than ever earlier, and it terrified you. Tension that thick had the potential to turn into something that could change your friendship forever, and that was too special to lose.
As these thoughts took over your mind, you were soon brought back to reality by Jake’s voice paired with his hand waving in front of your face. “Hello?” he called, “anybody home?” You gave your head a quick shake before meeting his eyes. He let out a small chuckle. “There you are. C’mon, dinner’s ready,” he told you, beckoning for you to follow him into the dining room. 
You joined Jake and his family at the table, which was filled with plates of the boys’ favorite foods. It was all delicious, and you could tell that Karen had worked hard to make a special meal for her sons. The dinner table was silent, a rare occurrence for the Kiszka home, as everyone was too busy scarfing down their food to attempt a real conversation. After everyone had finished eating, you and Jake helped clean up, washing the dishes and saving up any leftovers that remained. You mostly worked in silence, simply content to be in each other’s company. Occasionally, you would make eye contact and share a small smile or crack a joke and give in to a small fit of giggles. As you were finishing up the dishes, Jake tapped your shoulder. “Do you want me to drive you home?” he asked, reaching for his keys. 
You nodded, drying your hands, “Sure, just let me say goodbye to everyone.” He gave you a thumbs up, and you made your way around the house, hugging everybody and promising to come over for breakfast in the morning. You waved one last goodbye before walking out the door, Jake following close behind.
You let out a contented sigh as you began the ride home, and a comfortable silence fell between you for a few moments until Jake cleared his throat and began to speak. “Hey, uh, about what happened after the movie today-”
“It’s fine, Jake,” you cut him off, “I really don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Well, wait, I just wanted to tell you-” he tried to start, but you stopped him again.
“Jake, I’m serious. I’d rather not talk about it, okay?” 
“Okay,” he resigned, looking a bit defeated, “I’m sorry I brought it up.” He turned the vehicle into your driveway.
“It’s okay,” you said, opening up the door and hopping out of the car, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” 
“Yeah, yeah, sounds good” He nodded and gave you a weak smile as you shut the door. You walked to your front door and gave him one last wave goodbye before going inside. You felt terrible. Why’d you have to be so dismissive? He clearly wanted to talk to you, and you didn’t even hear him out. But then again, what good would it have done? Unless what he had to say was along the lines of, “I’m madly in love with you. Let’s be together forever,” your friendship would never be the same, and you definitely didn’t want that. You didn’t know what to do. It was like a million voices and thoughts were flying around your mind in a million different directions. All you could think to do was try your hardest to not think about it at all. You tried to do just about everything you could to distract yourself. You scrolled on your phone, listened to music, and even tried to start reading a new book. But no matter what you did, all of your thoughts traveled back to Jake. You couldn’t shake him even if you wanted to. Admitting your defeat, you decided to just go to bed and hope to fall asleep as quickly as possible. Thankfully, your prayers were answered, and your eyes drifted closed not long after your head hit the pillow. 
After only a couple of hours of rest, you were woken up by a light tapping noise. You sat up, looking for the source of the sound. It repeated, this time louder, and you whipped your head in its direction. It seemed to be coming from your window. You reluctantly climbed out of bed and went to investigate. Once you had reached the glass, you immediately saw what was making the noise. Standing there at your window, at nearly midnight, was your best friend. He shot you a small wave as you came to open the window. 
“Jake, it’s almost midnight; what are you doing here?” you asked, your voice still raspy with sleep.
“I had to come see you,” he replied, “I have something to show you.” He raised his arm to reveal the acoustic guitar he had brought with him. 
You let out a sigh. “Jake, I’m glad that you want to share your songs with me, but I’d rather you show me what you’ve been writing in the morning, okay?” you said in a slightly frustrated tone.
“This isn’t one of my new songs,” he corrected, “It’s something different. Just please let me in. I have to show you.”
You stood there for a moment and then moved to the side, letting him climb in through the window. “I do have a front door, y’know. You don’t have to climb in here like a teenager,” you quipped. 
He grabbed his guitar and sat at the edge of your bed before replying, “Oh please, I’m bringing a sense of youthful adventure to your life.”
“Yeah,” you retorted, “like that’s something I need. Now what’s this big important thing you had to show me, mister?” You plopped onto your bed and looked at Jake expectantly.
You couldn’t be sure in the dark, but you could swear his cheeks reddened. “Oh,” he started, “it’s, um, it’s a song. It’s not one that I wrote, but I just need to show it to you. So, uh, here goes I guess.” He took a deep breath and cleared his throat before beginning to strum. As annoyed as you were to be woken up in the middle of the night, you had to admit that you loved hearing Jake play. He was so talented, and it always put you at peace to hear him gently plucking away at the strings. After a few bars, Jake began to sing, and you felt your heart drop into your stomach and tears form in your eyes. 
Well, I know it’s kinda late
I hope I didn’t wake you
But what I got to say can’t wait
I know you’d understand
‘Cause every time I tried to tell you
The words just came out wrong
So I’ll have to say “I love you” in a song
It was one of your favorite songs, and coming from Jake it sounded infinitely beautiful and more true and alive than ever before. He played with his eyes closed, almost as if he were scared to open them. His hands moved across the guitar, and his voice filled your room until the song was over. Then he slowly opened his eyes to see your reaction.
Completely overcome, all you could muster was a teary, “Oh, Jake.” 
He quickly averted his eyes and began to get up. “That was weird, right?” he asked. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have-” But before he could continue you grabbed his shirt, pulling him into you and connecting your lips with his. Your hands moved up to comb through his hair as his travelled to the small of your back, pulling you close to him with all the desperation in his being. The two of you slowly moved to lay against your bed, continuing to trace your hands across each other as you finally unleashed the love you had been holding back for so many years. When you came up for air, you rested your foreheads together, giddy smiles spread across your faces. Jake passed his thumb across your cheek, wiping away your remaining tears. Then he breathed out the words you’d been waiting to hear your entire life: “I love you.” You could hardly believe it. Jake, your Jake, your handsome, perfect Jake, loved you. He really loved you. 
You let out a soft giggle, “I love you, too. I think I always have.” 
His smile grew even wider as he pulled you in for another quick, but no less meaningful kiss. “Me too,” he said in a near-whisper, “Ever since we first met. You’ve always been the one for me.” 
Your face broke into the biggest smile as you threw your arms around him and buried your face into his chest, letting out a muffled, “I’m so glad you’re back, Jakey.” 
He let out a chuckle, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead. You let out a contented hum, nuzzling your head into his chest and eventually falling asleep. Jake wasn’t far behind, whispering another “I love you,” before drifting off to sleep with the love of his life in his arms. Finally.
tags: @bowievanfleet (anyone who wants to be tagged in future fics, please let me know!)
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