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#sometimes I wish I had my own laundry machine

cuubism · 3 months

Text

Morphology | Dreamling | 4.6k words | Explicit | AO3

eldritch Dream, genderfluidity of a kind, lots of smut, nonhuman organs, angst, body dysphoria, undefined body forms and transformation, brief eldritch panic attack, they/them pronouns for Dream

Dream is not meant to stay in one form. But they must, for that is the form that Hob knows. That Hob loves. Or so they think.

this is based on @gabessquishytum and their anon's post located here, about Dream believing Hob won't want him in all his nonhuman shapes, only to discover Hob is very much a monsterfucker... and also loves him very much. I was going to append it to the post but then it got kind of very long. Hope you don't mind me playing around!

---

It was not for dreams to be only one thing.

In the Dreaming, they morphed and shifted, merging from one form to another. Smoke to wind to water, lava to sparks back to stone. In the minds of dreamers they took every unconceivable form, a thousand impossibilities as various as the limbs of Destiny’s forking tree. They were all of unreality. All that could not be, all that was hoped for, fleeting, forgotten, or held, for a time.

In the Waking, it was different. Dreams Dream bent and condensed into a singular form. They he knew well enough from his dreamers that while fluid changeability may be accepted in the illogical narratives of dreams, it was not so in the Waking. To interact with humans, he must appear as one, with the limited mutability that allowed.

Which was not to say that Dream disliked his Waking form. He chose what was pleasing to him. But sometimes it felt… stifling, for one used to being as expansive as the clouds.

Particularly after his imprisonment. Kept like an insect pinned to a board. Immovable. When he was meant to move. When he was Morpheus. Shaper of Forms.

Dream put that away from him.

Hob liked this form of his. Dream had come to understand the way Hob looked on him, and he liked that Hob wanted this form. But. He was not meant to stay in this form. Not always. It was. Chafing. It was. Hurting.

No matter. He could stay in this form that Hob wanted, because more than wanting to break from this skin Dream wanted Hob’s love. And his desire. He wanted to keep Hob’s gentle, heated touch.

This form of lean muscle and sharp bone. This solid body that had endured Roderick Burgess’s prison but also received Hob’s love… he could keep it. Yes. He could. He could.

~~~

I am wind that wishes to storm. Cloud that edges on rain. I am caterpillar’s dream of flight, I am words of disbelieving, I am the hopeful light of new stars, I am— I am water’s dance with the shore, and the sun’s kiss of the moon, and— and— no—

“Yo. Roiling mass of terror that I’m pretty sure is the boss. You good?”

Dream opened their eyes. They did not have eyes, but no matter. Dreams were often about seeing. Matthew was standing on the sand before them, head cocked.

“You alright?” he repeated. “I couldn’t tell if the shrieking was a bad thing or just like. One of your things.”

“One of my things,” Dream repeated.

“Can never know,” said Matthew. He hopped onto an arm that Dream’s form generated just for him to stand on.

“I was not,” said Dream, “shrieking.”

“You were definitely shrieking,” said Matthew. “It sounded like a laundry machine dying.”

Dream grumbled in offense.

Matthew nudged his head against one of Dream’s hands. “Do you… wanna talk about it?”

Dream considered. “Do you often ponder your own physical form, Matthew?”

“Well, since I became a bird,” said Matthew. “Kinda weird. It’s cool, though. Who doesn’t dream of flying, amirite?” He flapped his wings in demonstration, lifting off Dream’s arm, then settling down again.

“And when you were human?” Dream asked.

“Every human thinks about their body, dude.”

“Did you desire to change it?” Dream pressed.

“You mean like a weight loss program?” said Matthew. “Those never work.”

“No,” said Dream. Their form morphed around them, here legs, there tail, wings, teeth. They could not make it settle, not on a human shape or on anything else. They felt— agitated. They should return to their usual human form. Should. “That is not what I meant.”

“Ohhhhhh,” said Matthew, and smacked his face with his wing in realization. “It’s this whole deal. Well, you could change it if you want? I mean. You’re doing it.”

“I did not mean to,” said Dream, their form still writhing around them, never landing on any one shape. “I—” they were meant to go see Hob. They had been cloaked properly in their usual shape. And. Something had snapped.

They remembered, now, falling to their knees on the sand, the careful construct of their human self, a body once worn easily as one of many, shattering into a million shards.

They should. Change. They should change back. They wished to see Hob, and Hob, for all his adaptability, was only human, he would not be able to tolerate this, this thing that could not even give itself a face, or decide what it was, this thing that found physical stasis anathema after so long pressed in glass. Hob cared for the being that he knew. Not this one that, Dream thought, sometimes did not even know itself.

“Whatever you’re doing, I think you should probably stop,” Matthew warned.

“You dare to question me?” Dream bit. He was condensing back down under his human mask, he could do it, he could. He had loved this form once. Could again. As one of many.

Matthew nipped at his hand with his beak. And it was only this that made Dream realize he was clawing at his face so hard he was bleeding starlight.

Solidity spiraled away from Dream again, and they let out a hard breath. It was useless. Whatever meager control they had maintained since their escape was slipping from them. It was pointless to pretend otherwise any longer. Or to pretend that they could truly offer Hob the form he was accustomed to.

“Matthew,” Dream said, and Matthew hopped to attention. “I have some business I must attend to. Please leave me now.”

“Are you sure—?”

Dream waved a hand and sent him back to the palace.

If it was impossible for them to consistently return to their prior state, then at least they should be done with it now. Show Hob what he was truly dealing with. That Dream was not what he thought. Or wanted. Then, at least, they would spare themselves any greater heartbreak.

Wrapping the barest trappings of their usual form around them like an ill-fitting coat, Dream stepped into the Waking.

~~~

Dream emerged directly onto Hob’s bed as a formless shadow. It felt good, to be formless. Normally, they did like to take a form, but to choose recently had been taxing.

Hob was awake and reading. Dream had been meant to come for dinner, and was late. When Dream appeared in a sudden fall of darkness, Hob shrieked and flung his book at them on instinct. It simply passed through Dream with no effect.

“Dream?” said Hob, gasping, the spike in his adrenaline clear. “Is that you, love? Somehow? Or am I about to get eaten?”

Those do not preclude each other, Dream said. Though as they were still a shadow, their voice was more a low rumbling vibration than a true voice.

“Not sure how I understood that,” said Hob. He tilted his head, trying to make out features in the darkness but not, Dream thought, managing it. “Always kind of knew you were more than you seemed,” he added. “Didn’t quite picture this, though.”

It is but one form I am capable of holding, Dream said. Strictly speaking, it was not quite a form at all. As they said it, they shifted, unconsciously, until they were the beam of lamplight caressing Hob’s face—Hob’s hand chased them across his own cheek—and then the lulling hum of traffic, comforting night sounds. Hob kept reaching for them, not quite knowing where he was reaching. And Dream slipped into his daydreams, his vision for what Dream’s many forms might be.

Hob’s daydreams were a comfortable place to land. Warm. Welcoming. And when Dream emerged, they were a thing of Hob’s imagining, something dark and shadowed and multi-faceted but ultimately. Touchable.

That was what Hob desired of them?

“Okay,” said Hob, “what actually is going on here? Are you okay?”

Dream did not reply, stuck on Hob’s daydreams. He did not wish for Dream to force themselves back into their usual form. He merely molded what Dream brought him into a form that was comprehensible to him.

Relief crashed over Dream, magnitudes greater than the dread they had refused to acknowledge. They knew, now, that they had truly expected this to be the end. To scare Hob off. But Hob did not seem to be scared.

“Dream?” Hob reached a careful hand toward them. He pet down Dream’s flank. Fur that was soft because he was touching it. He huffed an incredulous laugh. “Wow. It really is… you.”

“In some fashion,” said Dream.

“In some fashion,” Hob repeated. “In what fashion, exactly?”

Instead of answering, Dream butted their head into Hob’s shoulder. Following the relief of his touch, so much softer and more detailed, now that they did not have the barrier of a stifling form in the way.

“Darling,” Hob said, petting Dream’s hair, “need words.”

“No,” Dream mumbled petulantly. And Hob allowed them their petulance. Dream let out a long breath. It blew warm over Hob’s throat, and Dream felt him shiver. They trailed fingertips up Hob’s ribcage, along bare skin, feeling the stacked solidity of his bones. Hob shivered again.

“It’s like that, is it?” he said.

Dream shifted closer, half slither, half crawl, until their form, incomprehensible even to themselves, was draped over Hob’s lap. Bliss, there, the warmth of him. “You are not repelled?”

“By the ten arms? I think I can cope.” He pressed his lips in close to Dream’s ear. “In fact. I had a dream about this the other night. Well.” He laughed. “I guess I’m having a Dream about it now, eh?”

“Did you?” said Dream, ears pricking up. Had their… moods slipped into Hob’s dreams?

“Can’t remember the details,” Hob said. “But I remember how it felt.” He trailed fingertips up the bony knobs of Dream’s spine. Unlike Dream at the moment, Hob only had two arms, but Dream felt every press of his fingers acutely.

“How did it feel?” they whispered.

“Like,” Hob murmured, lips to Dream’s jaw now, “you were everywhere. Like I got into your body and made love to you from the inside out.”

The thought made all of the strange and varied nerves of Dream’s shifting body stand on end. They wrapped legs around Hob’s waist, arms around his shoulders. Scraped sharp teeth over his pulse. “Really?”

Hob laughed. “Interested now, are you?”

“Yes,” Dream rumbled, their form flickering in excitement, to shadow then a falling rainbow of light, to a mass of vines that wound all around Hob’s body, and then into roots, as if they could grow into Hob, then branching veins pulsing and racing with Hob’s heartbeat, then back to a morass of half-body, half-shadow, because yes, they wanted to be held by Hob, they must remember that.

Hob was still for several moments, then laughed incredulously. “Okay. You’re so cool. I don’t know what to do with any of that, so I’m going to have to wing it.”

He traced a hand along the soft feathers of a wing that had grown with his words. Dream shuddered. A sensitive part of the body, indeed.

“You’re gorgeous,” Hob murmured. “My strange creature.”

Dream purred in pleasure, wrapping their wings around Hob’s back, mouth catching on the edge of his jaw, and, incredibly, felt Hob growing hard under them, as he would if Dream lounged in his lap and mouthed at his jaw as a human.

“You like this,” Dream said, unable to keep the surprise from their voice.

Hob chuckled. “Didn’t you know I fell for you the second I saw the spark of the otherworldly in your eyes? Just didn’t know the whole of what I was looking at. Not then.”

The spark of the otherworldly. “You are in love with dreams.”

“Figured it out by now, yeah.”

“You are. In love. With this,” Dream said, voice echoing from more than one throat, choked up.

“With this? You mean with you?”

“I do not know quite what I am, now,” Dream admitted.

“Well,” said Hob, slipping a hand between them. Dream gasped in pleasure, wings fluttering involuntarily. “You want to find out?”

Squirming against his hand, Dream said, “Do you even know what it is you are touching?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Hob said cheerfully. “Made you go all shivery, though.”

It had. It was. Dream writhed in his lap as Hob experimented, moaned in startled pleasure, toes curling. Body shifting to hurtle towards that arousal. Hob startled as his hand was suddenly enveloped in heat, something he could press into, and Dream whined, so full all at once with no prelude, body twisting out of control without their explicit direction. But it was good.

Hob gripped them by one wing—these had stayed even as Dream’s form continued to spin—and Dream quivered as Hob pulled them closer, pressing his hand deeper into slick heat. He was grinning against Dream’s throat, scraped light teeth over his pulse, sucked a bruise there. Dream’s form rode the wave of his daydreams, provided a wet mouth for him to bite and kiss as soon as he thought of it. Dream tangled long fingers in his hair, claws digging in.

“Can I fuck you like this?” Hob breathed against his lips.

“If you can cope with me changing on you,” Dream said. “I am not. Entirely in control. At the moment.”

A shameful admission, but Hob groaned as if it was the hottest thing he could think of. “I get to have you multiple ways at once? Oh, how will I manage?”

Dream laughed. It may have been a bit teary. Their many hearts were racing, lungs stuttering for air. Wings shivered, feathers fluttering. A long, furred tail wound its way up Hob’s back to wrap lightly around his throat, possessive. Dream would not let this man go now. Could not.

“Budge up, let’s see what we’re dealing with,” Hob said, probing deeper under Dream’s form with his hand, the other still firm on Dream’s wing, which he seemed to have understood was very sensitive, and intended to press that advantage as much as he could.

The touch of Hob’s hand, in Dream, on them, around them, was bliss. Dream wished to be full of him again. To, as Hob had dreamt, be made love to from the inside out.

Riding that hope, their body shaped another hole for his questing fingers. Hob obligingly pressed his fingers in, but said, “Regrettably, darling, I’ve only got one cock, and I had other plans for my hands.”

“Regrettable, indeed,” said Dream, and Hob laughed. Then, “Plans?”

“Oh, yes. I expect some other interesting things may crop up, eh? Need hands free.” He leaned in close to Dream’s ear, which flicked toward him to listen. “I’m going to find every erogenous zone on this body and make it scream.”

Goosebumps broke out all over Dream’s body. They clung to Hob with every limb they could find. Hob grinned wickedly at this reaction. It was a look Dream knew well, one that always boded very well for them indeed.

Hob worked Dream open on two fingers—though he need not, Dream was already wet and gaping for him—then maneuvered his sleep shorts off, took his cock in hand and stroked it twice, hand slick with Dream’s fluids. Then he lifted Dream bodily and sank them back down on his cock.

Dream whined, careening up several registers, as they were filled so suddenly, as they took Hob to the base. Hob groaned at the feeling of their body. Dream tried to adjust to him but couldn’t, Hob’s cock pressed on sensitive spots deep within them, and any time they thought they’d gotten used to the feeling their body produced a new place to torment.

They clawed at Hob’s back, leaving red lines with sharp fingers. Hob gave an experimental thrust, shifting Dream in his lap, and Dream bit down on a scream as their body lit up, chasing the feeling, loving it, magnitudes more affected than in their usual, limited form.

“Wow,” Hob said, fond laughter in his voice, and heat too, as Dream panted wetly in his ear, “this is going to be fun. Have you been all worked up, my darling? Just needed someone to give you what you really need?”

“Needed you,” Dream murmured. They clenched around Hob, tried to steady themselves, but it only made things worse. Everywhere deep inside them was searing flame, their skin-feathers-fur prickly with static, they feared and needed Hob’s touch in equal measure. To soothe. To set alight.

Hob slipped a hand into the other space Dream had left to tempt him, probing deep. Dream bit down on his ear, drawing spots of blood. Hob drew his hand back, met one of Dream’s many eyes. Licked Dream’s fluids from his hand.

Dream lunged forward to kiss him, whimpering into Hob’s mouth as that drove them impossibly deeper onto Hob’s cock. Hob pulled them close, kissed them hard, caught a fistful of Dream’s hair and pulled. Dream’s body decided that it liked that very much, indeed. They whined at the grip, clawing at Hob’s skin with many hands.

Hob brought them close with a firm hand, bounced Dream in his lap, moving them on and off his cock. Dream wailed, overstimulated by all the angles of his touch, torn between pulling away and diving closer as Hob swept his tongue into their mouth, over sharp teeth and soft palate.

“There’s a love,” Hob breathed. “Does that feel good, darling?”

Dream couldn’t offer a reply, and Hob didn’t wait for one. He dug his fingers into the tight feathering of Dream’s wing and tugged. Dream shrieked, wings flapping wildly, sets of them bursting along their back, more, more, less, more. Hob didn’t let up, stroking his fingers through the feathers, dragging over soft skin, sucking on Dream’s throat all the while.

Dream saw white, their body seized up, and the nebulous hole Hob was using to fuck them morphed into a mouth.

Hob yelped to suddenly feel his cock grazing over shielded teeth. Then he laughed. “Don’t you dare bite my dick off, you menace. It’s horrible to regrow it.”

Dream would have asked how he knew that, except Hob’s cock was down their throat. They choked, swallowing around him. Dream did not need to breathe, and so the pressure was exquisite. Their long tongue wrapped around Hob to the base, caressed his balls. Explored further, along his perineum, to probe at his entrance, and then press in.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck—” Hob’s voice was a strangled shout. “Dream what the actual fuck are you doing?” It didn’t sound like a complaint.

I am fucking you with my tongue, Dream said, a hum directly from their form to Hob’s.

“I can bloody well tell, Jesus Mary and—”

Dream purred and rumbled in pleasure, the satisfaction of taking and being taken at once, of being inside their beloved and having Hob inside them in turn. As Hob had dreamt.

Hob’s fingers pressed into Dream. Dream’s form gave and made places for him to press into. Hob’s fingers tickled deep within them, starlight and heat tracking their path. Dream swirled in an indefinite vortex of shape, a hundred things at once, their body prickling all over with the pleasure of Hob’s touch.

Hob twisted against them, clenching down on their tongue, shouted “Dream!” and came down Dream’s throat. Dream swallowed him down in pleasure, retracted their tongue from Hob’s body, eliciting a long moan. They let Hob pull out, and licked the final taste of Hob from their lips before letting that mouth disappear into their form, the traces of Hob consumed.

And then Hob flipped them, somehow manhandled Dream’s indefinite form down to the mattress, pressed down immovably on legs and arms and wings so that the softest parts of Dream’s body were bared to him. Dream reached for him, always they reached for him, cock hard and straining, cunt aching, the slashes of their being weeping for Hob to come inside. Always weeping. They cried out, every inch of them trembling for Hob’s touch.

“You gorgeous nightmare,” Hob said. “You brilliant daydream. Oh, my darling, I love you so much. I’d do anything for you. Anything. But mostly I want to do this.”

He pressed his mouth to where Dream’s body strained for him.

Hob had a very talented and generous mouth, which Dream had blessedly been on the receiving end of many times. This was different: Dream’s form echoed out Hob’s touch, replicated it a hundred times over so every crevice of their body could feel the flat swipe of his tongue, how he drank Dream’s fluids down, the drag of his stubble over lips and folds and the soft skin of thighs. Dream’s many limbs trembled, bent, reformed themselves in ecstasy, they dragged at Hob’s hair, pressing his face deeper so Dream could grind against him, which only made Hob grin.

Hob pressed two fingers into Dream’s mouth and Dream greedily sucked on them, grounding themselves. Taking Hob in more than one way at once… yes. That was what they wanted. They closed their many eyes and gave themselves over to sensation. Hob’s mouth and tongue, the taste of him, the weight of his body as he bent Dream on the bed, his scent, musk and the woodsmoke that seemed to cling to him all these years later—or perhaps that was only in dreams.

They were a dream of completion. They were a dream of ecstasy. Of flight. Hob’s hand tangled in their fragile feathers. Hob’s mouth and fingers inside them. Then Hob plunged three fingers hard, deep within them, as he sucked on Dream’s clit, and with a piercing noise like glass shattering Dream came.

They were. Fragments. The individual colors splayed wide by a prism. Red, yellow, blue. Hob’s fingers trailed through them, blending the colors like paint in water. For several moments Dream drifted, more thought than being. Distantly aware of Hob’s weight on them. It felt… like kindness. Then they floated back to the present, light as the first flight of unfurled moth wings.

Hob was lying on them, looking at them, head tilted. A twinkle in his eyes. He skated his hands up Dream’s sides. Flowers bloomed in the wake of his touch, their soft petals shivering with sensitivity. Hob plucked one of the flower buds and, holding Dream’s gaze, ate it. Swallowed it. Dream watched the movement of his throat.

Inside out, he thought.

“Broke you into pieces,” Hob said then, with satisfaction. “Think I might have seen God for a sec there. Can do better, though.”

“Better?” Dream echoed, voice hoarse. Their form shifted, still, but slowly, languidly. No longer restless. A dark wing draped over Hob’s back. A tail played with his hair. He didn’t seem to mind.

“There’s so much we can do with this,” he said. He gazed at Dream, fond, terribly knowing. “Only getting started, love. I love—” he kissed Dream’s belly, a light, ghosting touch, and tickled Dream’s side with his fingertips— “how sensitive you are like this.”

“I—” Dream started. Absent the writhing need, now they just felt… stripped. Vulnerable. “I expected that you would. Not. Like this. It is not. Human.”

“Neither are you,” Hob pointed out.

“I appear so,” Dream said.

Hob snorted. “No, you don’t.”

Dream stared at him, unable to decide whether or not to be offended.

“I wear the guise of a human,” they insisted, and, to prove it, morphed back into the form that Hob would know as his lover. It was an easier coat to wear, now that they knew they could take it off.

“No, keep the wings,” Hob complained. “Those are cool.”

Dream obligingly returned wings to their form.

“I appear human, to you,” they insisted again.

“Dream, I say this with all the love in my heart, which is quite a lot because I do. Love you.” He leaned on his hand, looking at Dream with sparkling eyes. “You look about as human as a kid wearing a bedsheet looks like a ghost.”

Dream stared at him, mouth agape.

“Don’t worry, it’s a gorgeous costume,” Hob said. “Love it. Really, really do. But I could always tell that wasn’t the whole truth of the matter. Especially once I got close.” With this, he winked.

“A part of me is human,” Dream said. Had Hob truly always seen through them? Paid so close attention as to perceive the translucence of the mask? “For I am the dreams of humanity.”

“And a part of you isn’t,” said Hob. “For—” he mimicked the cadence of Dream’s speech, though not in a mocking way— “you are also the dreams of birds, and shadows, and stars.”

Dream nodded. “These and more.”

“Brilliant,” said Hob.

Brilliant, Dream thought.

Then Hob tilted his head, thinking back. “You expected me not to like that?”

“Recently,” said Dream slowly, “I found I could not maintain this form without pain. And so my hand was forced.” It hurt still, to think of. “I had no choice but to make my true form—or rather, my true formlessness—known to you if I wished to be here at all.”

Hob pushed himself up from where he was lying on Dream’s chest, and instead straddled his hips so he could take Dream’s face between his hands. “It hurts?” he demanded.

“At times,” said Dream. “More so. Since.” They didn’t finish the sentence.

“Why are you doing it now, then?”

“It does not hurt so much now,” Dream said. “It is simply that when I stay static, it begins to. Ache.”

“Ache,” Hob repeated, looking stricken. “Dream, if it hurts, then change back. Be a chimera or whatever the hell you were doing before.”

“That is how you interpreted it?”

“To be honest, I don’t think my brain was really interpreting it at all. You were just kind of… everything.” He stroked a fingertip along the fine bone of Dream’s wing, which was folded against their back now. “Did like the wings, though.”

“I’d noticed that.”

“Cheeky.” Hob shook himself. “Getting distracted. The point is, don’t hurt yourself. I don’t want to see you hurt yourself.” He tipped his head against Dream’s, lips to their skin. “Much rather see you how were today.”

“How?”

“Letting go. Enjoying yourself.” He smirked, Dream felt it against their temple. “Making all kind of lovely noises. Squealing. Shrieking—”

“I was not shrieking.”

“You were shrieking.”

Hob tickled his fingers through Dream’s feathers, and Dream made an embarrassing squeak. They smacked Hob in the face with that wing, and Hob burst out laughing, even though he had to pull a feather out of his teeth.

“I love you,” he said. “Don’t hurt yourself. Be... the indefinably strange creature that you are. And just trust me to keep up.”

Hob kissed them lightly on the lips. Dream leaned into him, made still for a moment by the depth of Hob’s care for them, how Hob caught all of their longing and swallowed it, kept it warm. How he loved Dream. And dreams.

Hob drew them both down to the bed, and the covers over them, and Dream let their other forms creep out, hesitant, but hungry for Hob’s affection. And a creature that was the sky’s dream of nightfall and the poetry of rain upon a still lake, that was the individual patterns of snowflakes and the sculptures built of their drifts, that was ambitious owl and frightened vole, quiet soil and its thoughtful worms, shape and narrative and human, too, of course, laid down its many heads, and curled its much-loved wings over its lover, and rested in his dreams.

#i wrote this so fast in truly a fit of insanity... hope it's hot and not just weird! it's definitely weird though #dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #nsft #my writing #gabessquishytum #eldritch smut

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dollwritesarchive · 2 years

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𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 ⎹ 𝓑.𝓗.

fandom horror / brahms masterlist / @dollshorror-library

featuring brahms heelshire x chubby nanny!reader ( f! )

rating none of my work is meant to be viewed by minors (anyone under the age of eighteen), and i will happily block any that interact with my posts or my blog.

content warning dubcon, mention of head injury, rough fingering, squirting, brahms uses his little voice

summary you finally meet your ward

word count 3.1k / one shot

attention do not repost or translate, even with ‘credit’. just don’t do it. reblog instead of like. leave feedback if you enjoyed.

thanks so much @theluckychemist for another commission! ❤️

commission info & contact

you were locked in a fierce staring match with the open window. the window that hadn’t been open when you had just come downstairs to retrieve your laundry from the machine. it was the same window that had been plaguing you for days. you would close it, only to have it open again the next time you walked by. it must be the vicious winds during the past week’s merciless thunderstorms that were forcing it open at first, but today didn’t make any sense.

today, there were no storms.

the sun was shining, and there was a gentle breeze; nothing strong enough to force the old window as wide as it was.

just looking at it now made you feel queasy; now that you knew it couldn’t have been the storm.

both hands tight on the grips of the laundry basket filled to the brim with your freshly washed, wet clothes, you had to crane your neck to look up at the latch. you wouldn’t be able to reach it, not even on your tip toes. if you stood on top of one of the chairs from the dining room, and still pushed yourself up on to the balls of your feet, you might be able to stretch and reach, but you weren’t chomping at the bit to test the durability of an old, wooden chair that has been around nearly as long as the manor itself.

with a huff, you drop the basket by your feet and careen around it, stomping over to the window. you push it closed with both hands, applying pressure until you hear a faint creak, and a soft click. “Now, stay shut.” you mumbled under your breath, wishing that it was sentient and would obey your orders. you take a step back, looking over the glass for another moment. it’s streaked with dirt from the outside, which has turned to mud and caked itself in place. you should probably wash it next, you thought as you hoofed it back to the basket, hauling it outside to the clothesline.

you had been worried that this gig would be boring— watching an old house, a porcelain doll, and being alone all the time, but you had severely underestimated how much there would be to do. it was as if the manor was a living being, always needing to be tended in some way. you found peculiar messes here and there that you could swear hadn’t been there only days before, and your list of chores never seemed to end.

and, to tell the truth, you didn’t feel all that lonely, either. surprisingly, you felt like sometimes the little doll that was upstairs at this moment could actually understand what you were saying when you rambled on to it. you told little Brahms everything about your life, and how relieved you were to have some peace and quiet here for once. the faux child had become so comforting that you had eventually stopped putting him to bed in his own room, and opted for cuddling with it at night. your bedroom was also where you would put him down for naps, as strange as that may sound to anyone but you, and that’s where he was now. lying on your pillow with a soft throw blanket tucked in around him.

you thought about the little thing as you stretched a skirt, clipping the hem to the line. you were only supposed to watch him for a few days, but it had already been well into the following month, and still the Heelshires hadn’t come home. the strangest part was that you hadn’t heard a peep— not a phone call, nor a text, not even a note. and yet? yet, every Friday, there was an envelope on the floor by the front door, appearing to have been dropped through the mail slot, containing your pay for the week. how they managed to be so punctual and still so eerily silent was beyond your comprehension.

a particularly pesky blouse had you wishing that you had another pair of arms as you wrestle it on to the line, a pair of clips clenched between your teeth, and as you were clipping one sleeve, you catch a glimpse of something, a blur fading over the window. it startles you, and with a gasp, you drop the other sleeve and the clips into the basket. it was just a bird, you tried to tell yourself, a healthy crow had flown in front of the glass and you’d only caught the reflection. however, when you squinted against the harsh sunlight, you see the window— that damned window, is open again. “You’re shitting me.” you expel in a scoff with a shake of your head.

that was it.

you were locking that damn thing.

your footsteps were thunderous as you practically leapt up on to the porch and flung the screen door open. it slammed behind you, a loud testament to your annoyance with only you there to witness it. you hooked your arm under the backrest of the chair in the dining room and dragged it across the flawless, wooden panels in the floor, the legs hissing as if they were displeased to be treated so carelessly. unfortunately for the furniture, you couldn’t care less. you were at your wit’s end with this fucking window.

you slammed it shut. determined it would be the final time.

angling the chair in front of it, you grasp the back to pull yourself up on to it, and the legs creak. you were certainly not confident that the rickety thing could support you, but you thought it best not to think about it. get up there, lock the window, get down.

standing on the very tips of your toes, you had to stretch your arm until it nearly ached, and even then, only your fingertips could brush the lock. “Come on,” you whisper, before biting down on your lip.

the chair creaks again.

“Dammit…” even trying to bounce, you couldn’t grab the lock. “Almost…” cautiously, you push yourself on to one foot, hoping to propel yourself high enough to push the rusted bolt into place, but you were unsteady to say the least, and the chair had reached its limit. one leg cracks under the weight, throwing you backwards like a bronco that had just bucked you off. you hadn’t even the time to scream before you felt the back of your head connect with the hard floor, a white, hot shot of pain, the wind knocked from your lungs, and then… nothing at all.

complete.

utter.

blackness.

the first thing on your mind is how much your head hurts.

“Ah…” you groan, squinting as you reach for it. something pushes your hand away, and it falls limp. you expect it to hurt when your arm smacks against the floor, but that doesn’t happen. it hits soft, familiar warmth. your mattress? eyelids fluttering, you feel fingers, big ones with roughly calloused pads holding your chin, keeping your head angled. “Who…?”

“Shhh.” comes a soft voice. your lids part, your vision blurred, and you stare at a mass of red and white on the bedside table. it takes a moment for the haziness to fade, and you realize what you’re looking at. a bowl of water, tinted red, and a rag tossed over the rim, littered with red blotches. blood.

your blood.

your attention snaps from the bloodied rag to the body hunched over you. you smelled him long before you could make out his shape. it wasn’t an unpleasant smell, but the rather strong scent of sweat. you could feel his warmth— he was, after all, close enough to your limp frame.

“Who are you?” you blink, eyes trailing over the trousers, the damp, white undershirt strapped down with black suspenders. there’s a furious tufting of dark hair that sprouts from under the neckline, and it’s sparkling with beads of perspiration. “Who—“ you start to ask again, but your jaw hangs open as your eyes coruscate, higher and higher until you see his face.

no, not his face.

the doll’s face.

“Brahms?” it came out as a question, an incredulous one, although you already know it to be true, and the massive figure hesitates, before giving a little nod. he seemed to be inspecting the back of your head, you expected he had also cleaned the wound that must’ve been back there, if the bloodied water was any indication. “But… how—“

“It hurts?” you blink, startled. the voice is soft, childlike, and not at all what you would’ve expected from the mountain of a man lingering over you. “It still hurts?”

you suck your bottom lip into your mouth, chewing on it uncertainly, but shake your head, glancing to the bowl again. “No… Brahms, it doesn’t hurt anymore. Did you tend to it?” another, shy nod. Brahms gently poses your head back on the pillow, and you resist the urge to wince. then, his rough digits fall to your neck, where they rest. “Thank you…”

he doesn’t answer, but he also doesn’t move. he’s still hovered over you, fingers trembling against your throat, and you’re starting to notice how his chest rises and falls with heavy, muffled breathing behind the mask.

“Have… have you been hiding?” you ask, heart pounding against your chest, “All this time?”

“Mhm.” he answers, his fingertips dipping just under your neckline. they were timid to a certain extent, you could tell by the way he shook, but something else drove him to act beyond his sheepishness. starvation, perhaps? years without another person to touch. “But I don’t have to hide anymore.” he says, matter of factly, “Not from you. You didn’t leave me.”

“Brahms, I—“

“You’re mine.” those words sank deep into your bones, resonated like a pounding drum. his hand pushes deeper into your shirt, cradling your breast in his palm, and he lets out a blissful whine. you gasp, and reach for his wrist to stop him, but his other fist finds yours and pins it to the pillow above your head. “Mine.” he says again, this time much more desperate as he kneads your breast, snorting like a wild animal already. “Mine.”

you don’t want to moan, but you can’t help yourself. it feels good, despite Brahms’ roughness, and you whine as you squirm under his weight.

“Mine…” he moans, too, only fueled by your soft, heavenly sound, and squeezes harder, pulling at your nipple with his thumb and forefinger, “Mine!” only a moment later, he has your shirt ruffled up over your chest and tucked under your chin, exposing both of your breasts, and he’s straddling your legs to keep them down, both hands now focused on your heaving chest.

you’re confused, lost, because you know that you should fight back— try to push him off, at least, but you don’t. your arms stay where they are, up by your head, and your back arches when he gropes you particularly roughly. it had been a while since you’d been touched like this. “Brahms!” you gasped, breathless, “Easy, I’m sensitive…” but that only seemed to spur him to grab you more roughly, squeezing your supple skin in palms that felt like sandpaper until you’re writhing.

and his shoulders are bunched together, leaned forward to rub the porcelain mask against your bare flesh, inhaling deep so that he may smell the sweet aroma of your flesh through it, nesting the nose in your cleavage. “Please…” you mumble, but now you’ve soaked through your panties, just letting this strange man grab on you, and you no longer knew what you were begging for.

“Beg me,” Brahms grunted, husky, as he scooted off your legs, grasping the waistband of your pants and panties simultaneously to pull them down, too. “Beg me again!”

with your head spinning, you start to bring your knees up in defense once you’re bare from the waist down, but he grasps your ankles and pulls them straight, spreading your thighs with his knees to give him enough space to sit in between them. “Bra—hms—“ you stutter, uncertain, your hands shaking against the pillow behind your head. “P—please…”

he moans again, pathetic and soft, as if just hearing you say his name was edging him, and he cups your sticky sex with one, large paw. his movements are uncouth and base, driven by instinct alone. he forces one, thick finger into you without so much as a bat of an eyelash, and he whines into your chest, feeling just how warm and wet you are on the inside. “Feels good…” before you could even protest, another finger has joined the first, stretching you open. your nails dig into the fabric of the pillow and you cry out, squinting against the sensation. “So good!” Brahms mewls, pumping both of them knuckle deep. he doesn’t bother with being gentle— in fact, you didn’t think he could even if he wanted to, because every sound that you make is driving him crazier and crazier. “You… sound…. So pretty. Wanna hear more. I need more.” he’s mumbling to himself as he drives his fingers into you deeper, harder, trying to force the sounds from your throat.

“S—slow down, please!” you cry in desperation, eyes wide and focused on the dark ceiling. all of the tenderness of your skull fades to make room for the brutal finger fucking you’re getting. one of your hands flee to grab his wrist and try to force him into a slower rhythm, but he refuses, pumping even harder. “Too much!”

“I can’t.” Brahms whines, laying against your body until the smooth mask is smushed against your cheek. you can hear him now, breathing ragged and moaning, soaking your body with his sweat. “I can’t… Need to hear you…!”

if he hadn’t been pressing you into the mattress, you would’ve been thrown about the sea of blankets like a lifeless, rag doll with just how powerful his barrage to your sex was. your knees come up again, digging into his sides, trying to push him off, but he’s so much stronger than you that you can hardly believe it. the primal beast curls his fingers and you nearly come out of your skin. they’re just lengthy enough, and reach deep enough, to caress your sweet spot. you whimper, mouth hanging open. “That’s—“ you try to speak, but your mind goes blank.

that’s the spot.

keep going.

you don’t say the words, but luckily you don’t have to. the muscles in his arm tightens, and he drives those cruel fingers into the same spot, relentlessly, until you’re practically in tears. there’s a hard, thick lump in his trousers that he’s rubbed against you until he starts to soak through them, moaning and pleading, calling for you. you can imagine he’s already cum himself, just from fingering you. the thought alone is enough to turn your stomach, and somehow push you closer to your own downfall.

he wasn’t skillful, not in the slightest, but he was eager, and he knew the jackpot when he found it.

you can hear the sound of your cunt gushing before he’s even pulled back to marvel. a whiny, “Wait!” escapes your swollen lips, as if begging yourself not to come undone, but it was much too late for that. you were already swept away, your pent up frustration exploding in the form of a waterfall that drenches him from chest to groin when he sits back on his calves. you imagine it’s to marvel at you as you squirt for him; you can’t imagine he’s ever seen that before, and even through your slitted lids, you can see his eyes in the dark holes of the mask, as big as saucers. staring. your countenance scrunches in humiliation, but he’s still pumping his fingers, pushing your buttons from the inside, so you just keep spewing. “Brahms!” you cry, nails digging into his wrist, your body pushing itself in an arc off the bed, levitating, trying to escape him. “I— can’t—!”

you’re spent when he finally slows down, and you fall back against the bed and struggle to catch your fleeting breath, your whole body a sea of shivers and shakes. his head dips with a happy whimper, and he smears the expressionless mask over your dripping cunt, coating the porcelain in your cum. “Do it again.” he whines, amazed, nuzzling. you can hear his lips smacking, and you assume he’s managed to lap at some as it finds its way beneath the mask. “Please do it again. It’s… so yummy…” mortification begins to overtake the temporary bliss of your powerful orgasm and you’re stunned with it, face on fire as you listen to him beg for you to cum again.

“I… I can’t…”

“Why?” he sounds heartbroken.

swallowing hard, your shaking hands rest against the top of his head, digits combing through wild, chocolate tendrils. they’re damp with sweat— and, maybe your slick, as well— when you pet them, he seems to croon into your caress. “B—because… doing that makes me really tired.” you try to explain, convincing yourself that you’re not going to simply pass away from embarrassment. but gods, you felt like you would. “I have to… rest before I can do that again.”

his head snaps up at that, so abruptly that you jump, too, pulling your hands back. you were worried you’d done something he didn’t like. “But you will do it again, won’t you?”

you considered that question.

your stomach bunched up in knots.

“I—“

he nods, as if answering for you, snaking both big and powerful arms around your waist as he hugs your midriff tight, resting the side of his head against your navel. “You can only do that with me from now on. Until forever. Do you promise? You have to promise.”

“I… promise…”

#brahms heelshire x reader #brahms the doll #brahms smut #brahms #brahms heelshire imagine #brahms heelshire smut #brahms heelshire x you #brahms x you #brahms x reader #brahms heelshire #the boy #the boy 2016 #slasher #slasher fandom #slasher imagine #horror

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blueywrites · 1 year

Text

I Will Wait

a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)

cowritten by @abibliophobiaa, @blue-mossbird, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, and @fracturedarkness

18+ only for mature themes and eventual sexual content. fem!reader, alcohol consumption

three (15.3k) | next | masterlist | AO3 | 🎵 shmackin' tunes

in this universe, there is no upside down, the year is 1995, and corroded coffin = nine inch nails. enjoy! 🐝

The next few months are an absolute whirlwind. Corroded Coffin was in the last legs of producing their new album when you were hired, meaning the period of time when they were gearing up for the debut was just getting started. Photoshoots, interviews, preparing press releases, scheduling future appearances, and a million other things all seemed to be happening at once.

In addition to being the middleman between Eddie and the powers that be, which mostly consisted of Steve sending you constant emails of new appointments, you also were quick to learn some of the other expectations that comes along with being a PA for a celebrity. Mainly: house work.

At first you had thought they were fucking with you when Eddie mentioned that he needed you to come to his brownstone in the morning to do his laundry. As it turns out, he was both completely serious and incredibly amused with your ignorance of all the things you had technically signed up to do for him by taking this position. So you found yourself letting yourself into the Munson brownstone in Greenwich Village a few times a week to do menial tasks for your client.

Today, you’d walked in around 10am, much to Eddie’s displeasure, and were greeted with a bag full of laundry thrown at your feet. “Good morning to you too, Eddie,” you offer, albeit a bit dryly as you place your pocketbook on one of the stools at the kitchen island. “Did the maid I hired not get around to laundry this week?”

“Fired her.” Eddie sounds way too chipper for this time of day, and you can only guess it’s because of his smug smile as he forces you into doing things you’ve tried to work around. “Kept looking at my underwear weird; thought she was gonna sell it or something.”

Not believing it for a second, you still give him a tight smile. “I’m sure. I’ll work on finding another maid to clean the brownstone. Again.”

“You do that!” He calls over his shoulder as he walks further into the bright and airy kitchen. In his black sweatpants and bleach-stained tank top, he looks completely at odds with his own home. It sometimes makes you wonder if his wife, Robin, picked everything out or if they had just gotten a designer to come in and make it like a show home. The first floor is beautifully decorated but stale, like no one actually lives there. It gets a bit more personal as you ascend but it still seems strange to have a home feel so disconnected. “Oh—” he looks back over as you lift the bag of laundry into your arms with a huff, “I have a pair of silk boxers in there that need to be hand washed, so don’t even think about putting them in the machine. And, uh… don’t worry about the stains.”

Oh, how you wish you could smack the cheeky grin off his face sometimes. You mumble an acknowledgement as you carry the bag through the first floor and past the kitchen, passing through an open door frame that leads into the laundry/mud room. Sorting lights and darks, despite the very intense lack of white articles that need to be cleaned, you start shoving black fabric after black fabric into the top load washing machine. When the tips of your fingers brush silk, your teeth clench tight together as you clutch it in your fist and throw it towards the deep sink a few feet away.

Once the machine is started, you walk back over to where the bundle of black silk now rests at the bottom of the plastic basin. Upon first examination, there are no suspicious ‘stains’ to be seen, but you still don’t trust it. Pinching one of the hems between your fingernails, you lift it up to eye level to inspect further, wanting to know exactly what you’re getting into before you get started.

The french door behind you pulls open with a stream of sunlight and a brush of floral perfumed air. Still holding the offending garment between your fingertips, you spin toward where Robin has just entered the mud room, a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose and a book in her hand. “Uh…” Her hand slowly drops from the door handle, a smile stretching across her face as her eyebrows raise. “Whatcha doin’?”

Embarrassment wells up to warm your face, which you assume was Eddie’s goal all along, while you give Robin a tense smile. “Eddie fired the maid again. Said his silk underwear needed to be ‘hand-washed’.”

Robin’s sigh is one of long-suffering acceptance as she crosses over to you, grabs the boxers, and throws them into the running washing machine. “He’s fucking with you; you know how he is.” The sunglasses are pushed up into her hair so she can fix you with her blue-eyed stare. “You can just… push back a little. Don’t let him walk all over you.”

“It’s my job to—”

“Your job is not to just do whatever the fuck he tells you to do. Like, hiring the maid was a good move. He probably would’ve had you over here everyday dusting his little trophies if you hadn’t outsmarted him.” Her smile is warm, almost like she’s proud. “Your job is to make sure he can do his job. That’s all.”

Since meeting Robin 3 months ago, she has been nothing but sweet and kind to you. Despite being your client’s wife, she very often put herself in your corner, facing off against some of Eddie’s more unreasonable requests. While you don’t necessarily need her intervention, it still is nice to have sometimes. Her reassurance has your tension easing, a deep breath expanding your lungs in slight relief. “Thank you, Robin.”

“No prob,” she taps the cover of her paperback against your bicep as she moves past you and out into the kitchen. “Eddie!”

You follow her through the entry just in time to see Eddie spinning toward her shout, an open gallon of milk in his hand and a white stain on his upper lip. “Hey Rob, what’s the move?”

“God, Munson, you’re so fucking gross.” She pushes his shoulder out of her way to reach into the fridge and pull out a decanter of orange juice. “Remind me to never drink the milk in this house again.”

He sets the jug on the kitchen island and leans on his elbow to keep himself in her sideview, a cheeky grin lighting up his face. “And you married me anyway.”

“Don’t remind me,” she groans, although it betrays a certain level of amusement with her husband as she places her palm on his forehead and pushes him away again. Watching the easy interaction of their back and forth, always acting more like best friends than a more formal married couple, has a pang twisting in your chest. You can only hope for such an easy and comfortable relationship with your soulmate one day.

Two days later, you’re once again standing in the Munson brownstone in the early hours of the morning. Or, Eddie’s version of early, which happens to be anytime before noon. You hadn’t had time to find another cleaning service yet so you were elbows deep in the sink in their kitchen, bright yellow silicon gloves protecting your hands from the hot, soapy water as you washed bowls and coffee cups.

Eddie appears at the bottom of the stairs, yawning loudly as he stretches his arms skyward, shirt lifting to show a peek at the ink beneath. You pay him no mind as you continue your methodical cleaning of ceramics, keeping your eyes down even when he walks right up beside you and leans on the counter. Fully content to ignore him until your task is done, you can’t help but startle away when his fingertips ghost against your temple, pushing the hair back.

“What are you doing?” You finally glance over at him, your voice pitching up a bit in surprise. His smile is mischievous, eyes shining in the light, leaning over further to rest his chin on his fist.

“Oh, I was just fixing it for you. Your hands are wet and soapy.”

Exhaling through your nose, you go back to focusing on scrubbing the burnt eggs from the bottom of a frying pan. Over the last month or so, Eddie has gone from barely tolerating your existence and trying to make your life miserable, to being very pleased with your existence so he can continue to push the envelope on making your life miserable. It has become more and more like a game for him – testing the boundaries on what you will tolerate. Both what you will do for him and how much he can flirt with you until you get terse.

After a moment of awkward silence, at least on your end, you move to break the tension. “We should go over your schedule for today.”

He gives an exaggerated sigh, turning to lean both arms back on the counter beside you. “If we have to.”

“Your stylist asked you to be on site by 10am so they would have time to get you ready before the photographers arrived.” You’re barely halfway through your sentence before Eddie is groaning, sinking a bit lower onto his elbows. Mustering a flat look, you turn your head in his direction. “Why are you pouting?”

“I forgot the fucking photoshoot was today.” A ringless hand comes up to rub at the side of his face, still a bit swollen from sleep. “The only thing worse is those stupid press interviews.”

You turn back to the soap filled bowl in your gloved hands to hide your smile. “Good thing that’s not today. The interview is later this week.” Eddie’s reaction is instantaneous and dramatic – he moans in outrage as he slides all the way down to the floor beside you, leaning over to lightly hit his forehead against the side of your outer thigh over and over.

“I swear, it’s like you hate me,” his voice is muffled from below, face directed down. “You hate me when I have been nothing but nice to you.”

An amused snort leaves you against your will at the idea. His head whips back to look up at you in surprise and you barely manage to school your expression in time. “It’s not personal, Eddie. I’m just doing my job.”

“Speaking of your job,” he picks himself up off the floor in a less-than-graceful fashion, his sweatpants running much lower as he rises. You keep your eyes in the sink as you wipe down the last coffee mug left and pretend you aren’t seeing him adjust the fabric around his groin. “I need you to walk my lizard today.”

Halfway through removing the stopper from the sink to drain the used water, you freeze with your forearm still in the slowly lowering water. “Excuse me?”

He’s leaning on his elbow again, a smug smile on his face as he watches your reactions. “My lizard. You know, the one upstairs?” You make a noise of acknowledgement that you know what lizard he’s referring to. “He needs to be walked once a week. Specifically on sunny days. Normally around noon when the sun is highest, so he gets the most of the heat, y’know?”

You feel your eyebrows drawing together in confusion, trying to think back to what you know about lizards. Which, admittedly, is not much. Still, needing to walk a lizard sounds incorrect. You’ve never seen someone walking around with their lizard on a leash. You’re about to start to question him more when you catch sight of his expression. He has his lips drawn in between his teeth, his eyes pinched tight as he tries not to laugh. “... You’re fucking with me.” The laugh escapes as a bark, his palm slapping down on the counter beside you as it echoes out into the high ceilings of the brownstone. “You almost fell for it too!”

Bristling in annoyance and just a little bit of embarrassment, you take a deep breath and hang the damp gloves over the edge of the now-empty sink to dry. “I think it’s time for you to get ready to leave.”

His mirth dies down fast, his head rolling back to sigh at the ceiling. “But, and here’s the thing right, I really don’t want to go.” You make another noncommittal noise, not looking to encourage his antics right now. Neck rolling toward you, that cheeky grin that you’ve come to loathe is back. “Beg me and I’ll do it.”

Another exhale out of your nose to remain calm, you weigh your options. If you beg, you are playing into his games and encouraging antics like this. But, you also get the result you want faster. If you refuse, you are technically standing your ground, but could end up with a bigger fight to try to get him ready and out the door in time. Deciding to play his game, you give him the flattest expression you’re capable of. “Will you please get ready to leave for your photoshoot?”

This time the sigh he lets out is satisfied, his shoulders falling and eyes closing in what looks like relief. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re accompanied by a lazy smile. “Love when you say please.” He taps the tip of your nose, shocking you still, as he turns back toward the stairs. “I’ll be ready in no time!”

He is not ready in no time.

You’re standing at the bottom of the stairs at 10:10am and have still not seen head nor tail of Eddie since he traipsed back up. The car outside has already honked twice, letting you know it’s waiting, but you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Eddie, we’re already late!” Your voice echoes through the multi-floor space, definitely loud enough for him to hear, but you get no response. Patience running thin, you raise your voice again. “Eddie!”

You finally hear him reply, voice far off. “I got stuck in my pants, maybe you should come up and help me!”

Pressing your fingertips to your brow bone hard enough to pull the skin of your eyelid, you call back, “If you’re struggling to put your own pants on, I should probably call a medical professional.”

The soles of now-familiar boots appear at the top of the tall staircase, your eyes trailing up their occupant as he begins to slowly lumber his way down the stairs. He’s in his usual attire. Scuffed Doc Martens, a pair of black jeans stretched tight over his endless thighs, leather jacket fitted against his frame, those chunky rings adorning his fingers. Around his neck he wears multiple silver chains of varying sizes, dipping low into the collar of his shirt. “Y’know you could stand to be a little more fun.”

You remain firm, arms crossed as you wait for him to hit the final step. “I don’t think I understand your version of fun.” He blows a raspberry in your direction as he crosses the foyer to start shoving things into the already-tight pockets of his jeans. “We’re already late, and that means we are just delaying further when we can get to your preferred portion of the day at the studio.”

He meets your eyes through the mirror before him. Both of you showing an attempt at nonchalance. “I swear, sometimes when you talk it’s like a fly buzzing around my head and I just,” he swats once, “can’t,” twice, “get it,” three times, “to stop.”

“Maybe you should get better aim,” you offer coolly as you cross behind him to hold open the front door, hoping to get him to finally walk through it. “Or, better yet, you should consider actually listening to me instead of letting it go in one ear and out the other.”

“But it's like a buzzing little bee in my ear. Gets so annoying whenever you’re droning on and on about responsibilities and my to do list and shit.” He walks past you as he continues his rant, bouncing down the small set of stairs leading to street level. You’ve just turned back from locking the door when he whirls on you. “Maybe if you wore something a little more easy on the eyes, I’d be able to focus more on what comes out of your mouth.”

When you grit your teeth, his grin only grows, backing up towards the black sedan waiting for you both. Your voice is a thinly veiled warning when you start to say, “Eddie –”

“Careful, little Bee,” he opens the door, lifting a boot to rest on the frame. “If you get too aggressive, you’ll lose your stinger for good.” Then he falls into the darkened car, leaving the door open and sliding across so you can get in next to him. With no other option, you stomp down your frustration and climb in after him.

You’re not sure what to expect as the car pulls up in front of an abandoned warehouse out on Long Island. At first glance, it’s a dilapidated looking hole in the wall. From where you’re sitting, you can see the rusted metal roofing, the smashed in windows, exposed beams standing erect to hold up the exterior of the building. You knew the team intended for a grungier, broken down scene to represent the lyrics of the band’s latest album portraying a man’s downfall; however, you hardly anticipated something such as this in the seemingly middle of nowhere.

Eddie’s knee spreads further right from where he sits next to you, jean-clad thigh brushing yours ever so softly. Your head shifts to take him in, gaze trailing instantaneously to where you’re connected, stamping down the feeling that wells up and lingers behind your ribs with every fleeting moment such as this. His amber eyes are shrouded behind a pair of sunglasses today, tattooed hand nearest to you sprawled over his bent kneecap. There’s a thought burgeoning in his gaze, ever present before he ever even opens his mouth to speak out his reluctant drawl of, “Guess it’s now or never.”

The two of you slide out the car in unison on opposite sides of the respective vehicle, winding around the exterior and meeting to join in the center of the uneven, grassy ground. His lip quirks upward as he takes in the sight of you like a newborn doe on heels that insist on sinking into the ground, head tipping your way in the only acknowledgement of your presence you’ll likely receive. Inside, you’re immediately greeted by rusted over conveyor belts in the center of the room. There are steel beam stairs leading to an upper deck overlooking the central portion of the interior. To your left is the wall least eaten away by rust throughout the years, silver metal spanning from floor to ceiling, with endless lights positioned around the edges of the parameters to illuminate the set.

Your head tips to Eddie, standing there disinterested as ever, head tipping up to the sky, visible through the broken up ceiling. Like this, you can see every dark wave of hair that dances along the leather of his jacket, the ridges on the column of his pale throat, the tattoos that creep up high along the neckline of his collar, hinting at intricate detailing beneath. And then that left hand settles over the bridge of his sunglasses and pushes them upward, the glint of his wedding ring catching in your field of view, and you set your gaze on the glowing set before you as you edge closer to your destination.

The room itself is bustling. People shift and mill about the warehouse, carrying various pallets and crates in hand and positioning them strategically around the room in order to create impactful angles for the intended photos. Workers chat amongst themselves with cameras draped around their necks, clipboards in hand as they mark down a list of tasks you’re not privy to. Once nearer to the group, a woman comes barreling over in a flurry of movement. She’s gorgeous. Deep russet skin, dark hair styled to perfection, a tape measure over her shoulder, and a pair of leather pants curled over a forearm. You catch the glint of her artful gold hoops in either of her ears and the bright makeup covering her eyelids. You admire the rips in her jeans and the fabric of her oversized hoodie as she tuts audibly and glares Eddie’s way. You assume this isn’t the first time Eddie’s run behind schedule, try as you might to get him there as close to on time as possible.

“You’re late!” She admonishes, hand dropping to a popped out hip. For the first time since you’ve been working for Eddie, you catch the slight drop in his steely facade. It’s barely noticeable, just the slightest downturn of his lips, but you capture it all the same, knowing this woman intimidates him in a way no one else seems capable of doing so. She turns to you then, flashing you a megawatt smile. “Erica. Erica Sinclair. I’m Corroded Coffin’s stylist. I’m sure you tried your very best to get him here on time, but you see Edward wouldn’t be Edward if he wasn’t late to everything.”

“Fashionably late, Sinclair.” She glances him up and down, clearly unimpressed by his excuse, and curls a hand around his shoulder.

“Says the man who would wear the same ugly ass Hellfire shirt to every fitting when I first started working with you all. It’s a miracle by my own doing that you know how to dress yourself now. Come on, the team is already paying for your lateness,” she says, and without another word your way, she ushers him to a trailer standing just outside of the warehouse, where you anticipate the rest of the band to be readying for their photoshoot within.

You’re left to stand in the back of the warehouse, trying to keep out of the way of those working around you. With a low sigh, you wander over to the furthest wall covered in sheet metal and broken in windows, looking out into the grassy landscape. A bird flits on by, drawing your attention, just as a voice sounds from behind you. Jolting, you whirl on the heel and spot none other than Steve himself, and beside him, a man you’ve yet to meet before.

The man’s bearded face is twisted in a scowl as he shouts into his brick of a cell phone. He’s gesticulating wildly, dark curls bouncing with every angry movement. You can only catch snippets of his impassioned rant, but you’ve gathered enough to know that he does not suffer fools gladly.

Steve stands awkwardly beside the man, wincing on occasion at his booming voice. The scene is not entirely inviting, but you have no choice but to approach when Steve’s gaze catches yours. His face lights up in recognition, and he waves his hand to beckon you near. As you approach, Steve steps forward and briefly pats your upper back in greeting.

“Glad to see you made it! I want to introduce you to our band manager, Murray Bauman.” Steve motions you over with a warm smile until another shrill taunt from the man in question has him flinching away. “But let’s just give him a minute, shall we?” You agree politely and turn with Steve to observe Murray closing out his phone conversation.

“I don’t care how busy you are, get it done TODAY!” Murray’s barking demand echoes throughout the warehouse, and you stare as he rips the phone from his ear and takes out his frustrations by repeatedly smashing the end call button. He lets out an annoyed breath before pushing his wireframe glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Fair warning, he can be… bold.” Steve whispers this warning for your ears only. Just another hothead for the collection, you snort to yourself. You deal with Eddie Munson on a daily basis. How much worse could Murray Bauman be? Steve walks ahead of you to serve as the bridge during introductions. Before Steve can offer an explanation, Murray’s annoyed face takes in your approach with suspicion.

“Who are you? Harrington, why are you bringing this person to bother me?” Murray interrogates you immediately. He regards you skeptically, assessing whether you are worth his time or attention.

“Murray, this is the assistant I was telling you about,” Steve explains, offering your name as he beckons you forward. “You know, the one who is currently working with Eddie.”

“You mean the one you forced me to hire?”

Steve casts a furtive glance your way before his gaze whips back to Murray, the stare holding weight as he replies, “She’s lasted four months, Murray.”

Murray looks back flatly as Steve tries to impress some knowledge upon him with a combination of wide hazel eyes and bushy brows. Behind his wireframe glasses, Murray squints. “Four months?” He replies skeptically, and Steve nods slowly.

“Four months,” he enunciates slowly, and you watch the men communicate through shifting facial expressions: Steve’s eyes implore Murray to be civil, while Murray appears exasperated by the prospect of niceties. Eventually, Murray lets out a groan before forcing his face into a perfunctory smile.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Murray offers, insincerity lacing his every word. His dark eyes cut to Steve as if to ask - happy now? All at once, his mask crumbles and he returns to his brash self. “Do me a favor, yeah? Keep Munson in line. I’d prefer to not clean up any more of his messes.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” you reply. “It’s very nice to mee–”

“What the hell are you wearing?” Murray sounds appalled, disgust written all over his face. His question makes you stutter to a stop. You look down at your outfit and see nothing untoward - white blouse, black cardigan, plaid pleated skirt, dark tights, and chunky heels. It’s simple and professional. It’s safe. Or so you thought. Confused, you look back up to see that Murray isn’t making eye contact with you. Instead, he’s glaring at something or someone behind you. That’s when you register the sound of heavy boots thudding your way. You turn to see who has inspired such a visceral reaction from Murray, but instinctively you know who you’ll find.

Eddie.

He strides toward you with Erica by his side. She looks proud of her work, and you can’t blame her. Eddie looks… well, he looks hot. To put it bluntly. Erica has given Eddie a monochrome look that’s enhanced by different textures and accessories. His black suit is striking with its satin lapels and tailored fit. The suit jacket is unbuttoned, revealing the pièce de résistance - a mesh top that leaves little to the imagination.

“You look ridiculous! Where’s the rest of your shirt?” Murray’s question is directed at Eddie, but his scowl is aimed straight at Erica. Any other person would have withered under the intensity of his glower, but Erica seems emboldened by it.

“Where’s the rest of your hair?!” Erica counters without a moment's hesitation, arms crossed in defiance. “Leave the dressing to the experts. Seriously, Murray. You look like a sad, middle-aged hack going through a divorce.”

“Oh, spare me, Sinclair.”

Erica and Murray’s jibes muddle with Steve’s pleas to stop, eventually fading into background noise as you observe the man standing before you.

You have to hand it to Erica - it’s a daring look. The mesh hugs Eddie’s torso in a way that flatters his lithe frame and provides just enough of a glimpse of his tattoos to captivate any onlooker. His pale skin is heavily decorated in ink, and you can’t help but try deciphering what you’re seeing through the mesh. Eddie’s collection of tattoos seems to pay homage to his love of music and fantasy. On his left side, you spy an unusual string instrument with the word bard etched underneath. Just below that, you see artwork of a dagger with a blade made of uniquely shaped dice. By his right ribcage, Eddie has a tattoo of a mighty dragon with wings poised for flight. The dragon’s claws seemingly tear into the supple skin of Eddie’s toned abdomen. You follow the dragon’s scales down, down, down until its tail disappears beneath Eddie’s suit trousers - along with a little patch of sparse hair below his navel.

I wonder where that tattoo ends. The thought jolts you back to reality. This is your client— your very married client— whose wife has been nothing but kind to you. The guilt and shame overwhelm you.

You become very aware that you’re still ogling Eddie’s body, and your eyes race upwards to find a more appropriate location to settle. Unfortunately, your retreat to safety is foiled by the glimmer of metal you spot by Eddie’s nipples. You feel flustered by the sudden warmth blossoming within you. Eddie Munson has his nipples pierced. You had been too distracted by his tapestry of tattoos to notice them at first, but now you’ll never be able to forget that the piercings exist. Great going, you think to yourself, you try to avoid staring at your client's happy trail only to stare at his nipple piercings instead. Well done, very professional.

To your horror, Eddie has caught you staring. He sports a look of faux disappointment with his plump lips pushed into a pout. His tattooed hand points to his face, and he teases, “Tsk, tsk, little Bee. My eyes are up here.”

Your mind races to find a suitable excuse for your staring, or better yet, a way to deny it happened in the first place. Eddie is looking at you like he’s a spider that has caught you in his web, and you break eye contact to save some face. It ends up being the wrong decision because your mortification only deepens when you realize that Murray and Steve have witnessed Eddie’s accusation. Erica has long since departed after her verbal sparring match with Murray. Without her there to act as the target for his irritation, Murray is now laser-focused on you and Eddie. “Hmm… that’s interesting,” he observes, his head tilting to the side in curiosity.

“What’s interesting?” Steve asks.

“Keep up, Harrington,” Murray offers no explanation and instead dodges Steve’s question with a dismissive wave of his hand. Steve places his hands on his hips looking utterly bewildered. He goes to speak again, but Murray beats him to the punch. “So, Munson… I hear that your assistant has lasted four months working with you. Is that right?”

Murray’s inquiry has an instant effect on Eddie’s body language. His playful pouting has dissipated, and his stance now appears guarded. He crosses his arms over his chest— over the distracting nipple piercings, thank god— as he eyes his band manager cautiously. “... why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason at all. Just curious,” Murray replies nonchalantly. “You must be getting along.” You don’t know Murray well at all. However, you do know Eddie well enough to take his weariness as a signal that things could soon become uncomfortable.

“I haven’t scared her off, yet. If that’s what you mean,” Eddie scoffs. “But don’t worry, I’m still working on it.” It’s a classic Eddie move - making a joke of something to avoid showing any hint of being rattled. He throws a coquettish grin in your direction, which does not go unnoticed by Murray. Steve looks uneasy, as if this conversation will upset whatever balance you’ve struck with Eddie.

“I sure hope she isn’t stroking your ego too much.” Murray’s tone is blasé, but his implication is clear. “And you better not be giving her a mouthful.” Steve can no longer stand idly by now that he has finally caught onto what Murray found so intriguing. He swoops in to intervene by physically placing himself between Eddie and Murray.

“Well this has been fantastic,” Steve forces a laugh out and runs a shaky hand through his brown locks. “Murray, let’s continue that chat about merch, yeah?” He is practically vibrating with nervous energy as he tries encouraging Murray to move.

Allowing himself to be led away, Murray offers a farewell over his shoulder, “Good luck, kid. If you need anything, anything at all, do not contact me. Bother Harrington instead.” At the mention of his name, Steve turns briefly to mouth I’m sorry as the pair exit.

Mind spinning off kilter from everything that occurred in the last few minutes, you turn yourself back toward Eddie for a sense of stability. Since when is Eddie something constant in your life? You find a very tense-looking man. The muscles in his jaw are pulled tight as he glares at the spot once occupied by Murray. The moment ends quickly as if he can feel your eyes on him. Eddie annoyingly seems to have gained a sixth sense for knowing when you’re staring. His crossed arms fall along with the seriousness of his expression, hands tucking into his front pockets. The action only causes his pants to inch lower and, for a split second, your eyes are instinctively drawn to the patch of skin now on show.

My eyes are up here.

The echo in your brain rings out and has your glance jumping back up in horror. Eddie watches every movement and his lips pull between his teeth again, the same face he made this morning when he was trying not to laugh. All you can offer in defense is rolling your shoulders back to look taller and making your gaze sharper, daring him to say something. He lifts his hands in surrender, his lips popping out into a self-satisfied smile as he turns on his heel and saunters back toward the set, whistling all the while. You begrudgingly follow after him.

Eddie’s pace is unhurried as he drags his feet in a clear display of apathy. You spot the rest of the band gathered around a petite woman speaking animatedly and pointing to various spots on the set. She’s captivating with her high cheekbones, loose brunette waves, and eyes like the ocean. Those eyes narrow upon seeing Eddie’s dawdling.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” she chides. “We’ve been waiting on you. Hurry it up.”

“Hello to you, too, Wheeler. I didn’t realize you were so excited to see me. I’d hate to disappoint a fan,” Eddie teases with a roguish grin wide across his face. Much to your surprise, he picks up his pace and joins the others in listening to Nancy— whose first name you learn indirectly, thanks to Eddie’s habit of calling everyone by their last names— detail the aim of today’s photoshoot. She explains that the media team will be experimenting with several looks in order to use the photos for both album promotion and touring purposes.

Eddie turns to you as Nancy begins guiding the others to their spots on set. “Enjoy the show. You sure seemed to earlier.” He winks and turns on his heel to join the others.

Deny! Deflect! Do something!

“I was only admiring Erica’s work! It had nothing to do with you.” You can see Eddie’s shoulders shaking with laughter, and you know he’s not convinced. To be fair, you haven’t convinced yourself either. It sounds weak even to your ears, like a last-ditch effort to save your dignity. Feeling defeated, you slump over to the chairs lining the wall where you can watch the photoshoot concealed behind the photography equipment.

Two hours pass and the band is still preoccupied with taking pictures. You watch as they’re pushed and pulled into different poses and settings. The process feels overall repetitive, but Nancy does her best to keep energy levels high. She directs the photographers to get solo shots, which leads to hilarious chaos as the band hypes each other up behind the camera. “Yeah, Harry! Rock out with your Cox out!”

Despite the momentary amusement, you find yourself mostly bored watching from the sidelines. You’re both surprised and grateful when you see a familiar face enter the set. Robin peers around at the flurry of activity before making her way over to you.

“Finally some good company,” you breathe out in relief. Robin is delightful to be around, and you mean it when you share your appreciation for her presence. She gives you a sympathetic look before taking a seat beside you.

“These things can take forever,” she commiserates. “But Nancy will keep them on track. Don’t worry. They’re lucky to have her. She’s brilliant.” Her husky voice sounds especially warm with adoration.

Just as Robin said, Nancy is brilliant in her precise and methodical approach. She directs the crew in adjusting the lights and backdrops with ease. Her critical eye allows her to observe each shot and offer valuable posing guidance. It’s impressive to watch someone be so in her element.

You and Robin sit together and make small talk until there’s a break for a set and wardrobe change. Robin excuses herself and makes her way over to Nancy. You notice Nancy’s focused demeanor melt into one of warmth upon Robin's approach, and the sight of their friendly affection for one another brings a smile to your face. Quite honestly, it makes you miss your friends; you’ve been so busy since starting this job that you haven’t found much time to see them.

Eddie walks past the pair on his way to meet Erica, briefling nodding at his wife in acknowledgement. He stops abruptly and looks around at the crowded set before swiveling back to face them.

“Hey Wheeler, did Robin tell you she’s getting new headshots done for her upcoming play?” he asks. “Do you mind giving her some pointers while we break?”

Nancy brightens at the suggestion, “That’s a great idea. I’d be happy to help!”

“Why don’t you two go somewhere private? I don’t want all these people leering at my sexy wife when she’s posing.” Eddie winks at Robin, who whispers a quiet ‘thank you’ before leaving with Nancy. You’re touched by what you’ve just witnessed. Eddie is actually a supportive and loving husband. The longing hits you unexpectedly. When will it be my turn? Soulmate, where are you?

It’s exhausting to pine for someone you haven’t met yet. You have all of this love to give without a person to receive it and reciprocate. It feels aimless, like being adrift in the dark ocean with no light to guide you home. You’re too lost in your yearning to notice that Eddie has returned and is standing beside your chair.

“Everything okay, Bee?” The question physically jolts you from surprise. You wait for the inevitable teasing from Eddie about catching you off guard. Instead, you look up to find Eddie eyeing you closely. Whatever he sees in you in that moment must cause him concern. His brow is furrowed, and there’s an unexpected tenderness in his gaze.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, I got distracted by my thoughts.”

“Well, that’s no good. What did I tell you this morning about having more fun?” Eddie hold his hand out for you to take, and he gently coaxes you to stand. His calloused hands feel rough against your gentleness, but you find it comforting. Once upright, he drops your hand and offers out his arm out as a replacement. “Come on, I’ve got just the idea to break you out of your shell.”

The two of you walk side by side comfortably, and Eddie guides you to where the band and Nancy have reconvened. The guys are looking up at one of the warehouse walls in deep observation. You squint your eyes, searching for something on the wall that might be drawing their attention. Having no success, you look back to the band and realize they’re each holding something. Are those spray paint cans? Your ears perk up at the sound of rattling as Gareth shakes the can he’s holding. Yeah, definitely spray paint. You send a quizzical look Eddie’s way.

“Murray thought we needed some more edgy photos. He suggested we graffiti the wall for the next set,” he explains. “Wheeler was all worried about it, but… Murray knows best.” He mutters the last part bitterly, shaking his head with distaste. “He might actually be right about this, though.” Eddie steps forward, breaking your linked arms, and snags two spray paint cans from the ground. He holds one out to you, his face alight with mischief.

You look around self consciously, noting that Steve and Murray are both within view. You fidget nervously and contemplate whether you can let your hair down while on the job. No one else appears to be partaking; only the band members have been given spray paint. “Are you sure about this? I think it’s just meant for you all.”

Eddie throws his head back with an exaggerated groan. “Come on! Live a little.” He snaps out of his dramatics when he hears the sound of hissing fill the air from the spray paint cans in use. Gareth, Jeff, and Harry have already begun doodling on the wall without him. “See?! We’re missing out on the fun because you’re overthinking.”

He extends the can out to you once more, gently nudging you to partake. He grins widely when you take the simple black paint from him reluctantly. You can do this. Show him you’re not always so uptight.

You slowly approach the wall and think about what to paint. You need to show him that you can have fun and keep up with his jokes. The idea comes to you easily, and you get to work on your masterpiece. It’s a simple piece that only takes a few minutes for you to prepare. .

Eddie is intently focused on drawing a large, crimson devil’s face, and you need to wave to get his attention. When his eyes meet yours, you point to your painting and await his reaction. Previously blank, the wall now sports the image of a humble bumblebee. The bee has two basic stripes, fluttering wings, and most importantly - a stinger. Eddie’s warning from this morning is fresh on your mind. If you get too aggressive, you’ll lose your stinger for good.

Your artistic choice has the intended effect, and Eddie lets out a hearty laugh. He smiles at you, and those brown eyes crinkle at the corners with joy. He looks proud, and it stirs something unexpected inside of you. You find that you like pleasing him.

“Atta girl.”

You suppress a shiver that the hum of his voice conjures despite the flippancy of his words.

That photoshoot, though chaotic in and of itself, somehow ended up becoming the calm before the storm for you. A demarcation point beyond which your days became filled with the relentless pursuit of planning a multi-month tour for a moderately famous industrial metal band. Days that had previously been spent ushering Eddie around to meetings with some semblance of timeliness and bringing him snacks when he gets cranky are now consumed by filling a thickening manilla envelope with neat documents, each marked with your precise handwriting as you plan and record each aspect of the trip logistics: contacting venues as per Steve’s direction, managing their hospitality riders, tracking expenses and budgeting for food and accommodations, as well as other minutiae that, frankly, has begun to make that vein throbbing in your neck a near constant companion by the end of the workday. The hours feel long, longer than they do when you’re trying to wrangle Eddie; though the days aren’t physically taxing as you spend them holed up at a desk fitted snugly into the closet you’d reorganized, they are mentally exhausting as those dates, dollar amounts, and contact names begin to tangle up in your head. You spill them out onto your trusty desk calendar, collecting them there as you stretch the strands and detangle them in order to begin weaving together Corroded Coffin’s first tour. It’s a feat you take no small measure of pride in.

Thankfully, during the weeks you spent taming this beast of a task, Eddie and the guys had been occupied almost entirely with rendering the final mix of their album. They’d worked closely with Argyle in refining the balance and levels of instruments and ambient sounds that would create the dirty industrial feel they were seeking with this upcoming release. You’d popped out of your stuffy little closet occasionally to check on them, though they didn’t seem to need much beyond being fed. Eddie, in particular, seemed quite consumed by a desire to see the vision brought to life, and was as serious and engaged as you’d ever seen him with a chair pulled up next to Argyle. That’s where you’d almost always see him when you emerged— long fingers idly twisting chunky rings, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed while he listened carefully and assisted in tweaking such small changes that you hardly could tell the difference with your unpracticed ear. He had a beeper to page you, but through your months of working with him, you’d begun to anticipate what he needs to sustain him daily in this routine— a hot to-go cup of black coffee first thing in the morning; at least half a box of cigarettes in the pocket of his leather jacket, on call for a smoke break; a salty snack around his lull time of four in the afternoon, which you rotate to keep him from getting bored; and next-to-no interruptions except a quick meeting of your gazes a few times a day in case it reminds him to ask you for something.

And now, finally, as late August adorns the New York streets with haze rising from the asphalt and paints sidewalks with the frantic bustle of summer tourists, your strands of dates and locations and prices and contact names have now been woven together to form a complete tapestry: Accommodations for Corroded Coffin’s ‘95-’96 Album Tour. All the knotted muscles in your shoulders, the bloodshot eyes, the late nights and early mornings had been worth it to get to this point— the point at which the final picture of what exactly that tour would entail has been tied off into neat and tidy knots of thorough efficiency. You stretch your arms above your head and your spine pops with relief; despite the fatigue you feel fuzzing between your eyebrows, you push back your chair almost cheerily and pull the headphones from your ears, prepared pop from the closet and join the men whose tour you’ve just planned.

When you emerge, you expect to see them all in some approximation of the same position as usual— Argyle and Eddie sat in front of the mixing board, Harry hovering close behind, and Gareth and Jeff either mucking about in the studio or sprawled on the couches in the corner where they call out their contributions. Instead, you’re surprised by the presence of an unexpected figure, who acts as the nexus point around which the rest of the band hovers. He’s got his hands stuffed under his armpits and his hip jutted out, one loafer tapping against the floor, though behind his wire-rimmed spectacles he looks less irritated than the last time you’d seen him. I suppose having the tour booked and the album finished would put any band manager in a decent mood, you think, eager to join the throng of smiling men who gather around him.

“What’s on the menu? Anything good? ” Gareth is asking as you walk up.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is free food not good enough for you? You eat Smarties in Yoohoo as breakfast cereal. Get a grip,” Murray snipes, and laughter rumbles through the group.

“Oh!” All eyes turn to you at your little sound of surprise. “What promo event are you discussing? Did Steve plan something? I don’t remember seeing it on my weekly agenda notes from him.”

There is a beat of uncharacteristic silence from everyone before Jeff speaks— not quite tripping over himself, but with an extra edge of enthusiasm you don’t typically hear in his voice. “No, no,” he assures you quickly. “You didn’t miss anything. It’s a celebration for finishing the album, not a promo event. Just a get together Murray planned for us tomorrow.” He lifts his brows, eyes warm and sincere, if not a little too wide. “You gonna be there?”

That familiar feeling in your chest— that subtle deflating that sinks into your stomach, reminding you of cafeteria tables lacking in saved space and friends reminiscing over shared experiences you hadn’t even been aware of— weighs you down inside as you look into Jeff’s kind face. It stings, the knowledge that you hadn’t quite been forgotten or excluded, but only just— only because you’d emerged from your makeshift office and wandered into the conversation at just the right moment. Had you not, you would have been none the wiser, and it makes Jeff’s question— ‘You gonna be there?’ — feel awkwardly like you’ve invited yourself.

Still, you choose to save face. “Oh, gotcha!” you say, turning to Murray. “Where is it?”

The neutrality in Murray’s expression in place of his typical sardonic scowl almost makes you feel worse. “My place. You been to the Upper West Side?” You nod. “You can show up anytime after seven. I’ll have Harrington shoot you the address, kid.”

You brace yourself against this second blow— being called ‘kid’ as if you really are just Eddie’s babysitter, as if you hadn’t just single-handedly coordinated an entire tour’s-worth of hotels and restaurants and activities— and smile. “Thank you,” you say, avoiding the dark brown eyes of one curly-haired menace.

Because if there’s pity there, too— pity like the kind you felt in Jeff’s too-wide smile or Murray’s soft nod— you think you might just burst into hot, utterly humiliating tears.

On Friday night, it takes some time for you to dress and even longer for you to resolve to actually attend the celebration party. That last-minute invite has rocked your sense of self, manifesting most clearly in the lack of clarity regarding your outfit. Clothes are strewn across your typically-orderly room like a cyclone of indecision has torn through it, and what you’ve chosen feels barely adequate: silver jewelry, simple mary janes, and a black silk blouse that flows like water against your skin, tucked loosely into the waistband of your bootcut blue jeans. You’d settled on the blouse chiefly because of the color, as if with some subconscious desire to blend in with the men you work with so that maybe next time they won’t forget about you.

After a good nights rest unencumbered by that looming task still hanging over your head— since you’d finally completed it, to your relief— and some consideration, you’d reasoned that the reason for your late invitation was probably not malicious. And when you’d checked your email to see that, not even twenty minutes after your conversation with Murray had Steve emailed and sent you details and the address, it essentially confirmed it. Sure, it certainly still stung knowing that you hadn’t been thought of from the get-go, but you chalked it up to your newness and the fact that you’d been cloistered in your ‘office’ so often lately.

You’d concluded the mistake was likely innocent, and as you stand outside the front door to Murray’s apartment hesitating to knock, you find yourself desperately hoping you’re right, and that you haven’t made a mistake by coming after all. This job is already so different from any you’d had before— nowhere else had you spent so much time intimately intertwined with the details of your employer’s life outside of a professional context. Spending time at Eddie’s apartment to wash his dishes, coordinate his meals, take him to his appointments, fetch him the things he needs… look after him… it all feels more domestic than professional, though in this role, really, those things are one in the same. It blurs the lines and leaves you strangely yearning for inclusion, leaves you feeling more vulnerable, as you finally press your index to the doorbell, than you’d honestly prefer.

A flash of panic hits you as you hear the approach of footsteps beyond the door. You prepare yourself for the sight of Murray’s face half-twitched into a reluctantly-polite smile as the rest of the men stare at you from their seats, drinks dangling from their hands as their eyes turn quickly from you and back to one another.

But when the door swings open, you’re instead greeted with the sight of Gareth’s poofy brown bangs and pink cheeks as he smiles so widely at the sight of you you’re sure his face must ache from it. “She made it!” he exclaims into your face, breath puffing loose and acrid with alcohol as he hooks an arm around your shoulder to pull you inside amidst a rousing chorus of elongated ‘ay’s from the rest of the band.

Your apprehension dissolves like seafoam as he pulls you eagerly inside.

The interior of Murray’s apartment feels as though you’ve walked into a time capsule. You aren’t sure whether the mid-century modern theme is because Murray is partial to the style or because he hasn’t bothered updating the furnishings since the seventies, but judging by his half-unbuttoned ‘party’ shirt striped with deep brown and cream— displaying no little amount of bushy chest hair within which a gold chain is nestled— you figure it’s probably the latter. You look around with interest at the furnishings, intrigued by the design’s ability to feel both high end and also warm, quite a contrast from the modern crispness many favor nowadays. Gareth doesn’t give you much time to sight-see as he leads you towards the party’s epicenter in the living room, though you do notice that the walls are a bold burnt orange, accented by geometric wallpaper and bookshelves filled with vintage books and knick-knacks likely gathered on Murray’s travels. As you pad over the shag carpet in your mary janes, your gaze is drawn to the men crowded on the low-slung sofa around a sleek, glass-top coffee table. The air is hazy with smoke, which wafts from a cigar resting in a crystal ashtray near Murray’s elbow, and the record-player in the corner is crackling with jazz— Miles Davis, if your memory serves you correctly.

All-in-all, it’s nothing what you expected Corroded Coffin’s album-completion party to look like, down to the way they all perk as Gareth leaves you to hover near the side of the couch while he plops back down in his spot on the floor. It’s all the familiar faces you would expect, and no one else. Murray, Steve and Argyle sit on low-profile armchairs pulled up beside the coffee table where cards and poker chips clearly indicate they’re in the middle of a game; Jeff and Gareth are seated together on the floor, and they lift their drink glasses to you when your eyes pass over them; and finally, Harry and Eddie are on the couch, knees spread wide and comfortable as they slouch, though they straighten at your approach. The mens’ greetings become a cacophony of friendly voices you can’t possibly discern as they overlap happily, and you accept them with somewhat shy nods but a pleased smile. Harry immediately shifts over towards the couch’s arm, and when he notices, Eddie does the same, narrowing his knees and shuffling over to the opposite side to make room for you.

It’s a clear invitation, one that makes warmth bloom in your chest as you step carefully over Harry’s shoes to sink onto the low velvet couch between them.

“Did you find the place okay?” Steve asks, and you meet his hazel eyes as you reply,

“Yes, thanks. Actually, my aunt lives—” You find a cup suddenly thrust into your fingers, and you close them hastily around textured glass, glancing down at the amber liquid inside. “What is this?”

“Whiskey, my dude,” Argyle replies, settling back into his chair with a lopsided grin. “Bottoms up.”

You stare at it for a moment skeptically, already balking from the burn in your throat. But, like sharks in the water, they sense your hesitation; as if with one mind, the guys lean forward to goad you with some light ribbing, flashing brows, and wide grins. All except Murray, that is, who seems more impatient to get back to the poker game as he grouses and sighs impatiently.

In the end, it’s Eddie’s elbow in your side and his brown eyes catching yours that do it— his gestures are loose with alcohol, and yet more gentle than you typically see him. “C’mon, little Bee.” He smiles, and something catches in your throat as it brightens his flushed face. “Time to get buzzed.”

Your head tosses back of its own accord as you laugh, tickled by the pun; when you look at him again, Eddie looks inordinately pleased with himself. “All right,” you concede; the guys cheer as Murray shakes his head. And though it burns just as much as you knew it would, when you clink that glass down against the coffee table, coughing slightly as Harry claps you jovially on the back, all you feel is warm. Warmth in your belly, warmth against your sides where Harry and Eddie sit beside you, warmth in your cheeks as you settle back against the cushions and look around at the friendly faces that surround you.

Now that you’ve been christened with your first drink, the group turns back to the game of poker your arrival had interrupted. You watch with interest as they take up their hands again, hiding your giggle behind your hand as Gareth dramatically flops backward in a sprawl on the floor when he loses to Jeff, who rakes the pile of chips in the center gleefully and dramatically into his corner of the table. “I put thirty dollars on that hand; come on, man,” Gareth whines, but Jeff pays him no mind nor offers any mercy.

“D’you know how to play?” Eddie asks you, and you shake your head.

“We can teach you,” Harry offers.

“Oh, I’m fine watching—” You begin to protest but it’s cut off almost as quickly with a sharp movement from Eddie, who snatches a handful of chips from his pile into his broad fist, heedless of the way some bounce to the shaggy carpet below. You’d felt warm in your belly, at your sides, and in your cheeks, but more than anything else, you feel that warmth in your heart as Eddie presses some of his poker chips into your open palm.

“Doesn’t matter if you don’t know how to play,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just have some fun.”

You smile at him, a gentle curve of your lips to match the way he pats your wrist before lurching forward to pick up his fallen chips and receive his next hand.

Throughout the games of poker you play, you find yourself both having the fun Eddie had instructed you to and simultaneously watching him, marveling at the way the haze and jazz and laughs and velvet couch have… softened him, almost. He's clearly drunk— more than a little glassy-eyed, with flushed cheeks and loose, heedless swinging of his wild curls and his limbs as he celebrates victories and laments losses— but it’s accompanied by more easy smiles and cackling laughs than you’ve heard from him in the last few months combined. He’s full of life tonight, but without as much biting edge. And you can’t help but think that to see him like this, so relaxed, so happy…

It’s nice. Nice in a way that makes that feeling bloom again— the one you’d been feeling more often since the photoshoot. You shake it quickly away.

His joy fuels the others, you notice. You suppose it makes sense; Eddie’s boisterousness and overwhelming energy tends to dictate the tides despite others’ attempts to direct situations otherwise. And as the night wares on, that easy looseness eventually devolves to become a bit more wild. Of course, it doesn’t take much for some of the others to follow suit.

Somewhere between the umpteenth hand of poker and your third round of drinks, Argyle wanders into Murray’s kitchen and helps himself to the bottle of champagne chilling in an icebucket, most likely prepared by Steve— you can’t see Murray bothering with that. Steve perks up when he comes back over, rubbing his hands on his trousers and rising as he reaches to take it from Argyle.

“Thanks, Arg,” he says, but his gratitude ends up being a little hasty. Because rather than passing the bottle into his waiting hand, Argyle instead begins to shake it with a jerky flail of his arm, forcing Steve to retract his fingers, who huffs affrontedly. “I was gonna say something,” he protests, and while the exasperation is easy to read there, it’s overshadowed as Eddie leaps suddenly off the couch, crouching slightly, face alight with mischief as he circles Argyle on the rug. Once Eddie’s up, everyone follows suit— Jeff and Gareth scramble to join him, and you and Harry follow close behind, your hands clasping your elbows as you eye the proceedings with cautious amusement.

“Yeah, yeah, Steve, we all know what you’re gonna say,” Eddie drawls, but the wide smile on his face takes the edge off the sarcasm. “‘What an incredible accomplishment, we’ve worked so hard, the culmination of many months of effort—’ blah, blah, fuckin’ blah.” Eddie cackles as he flings his arm out to smack Steve companionably in the stomach, making his PR manager stumble slightly due to the accidental force behind the gesture. “Allow me.”

Eddie flourishes and bows dramatically, his wild curls splaying around his shoulders as he jerks his head up to address the group— his face is flushed, pink rather than pale, with a vein popping on his forehead, and you can’t help but shake your head in reluctant, wry amusement as he declares, “Fuck bitches, get money, make metal, and raise fucking hell, boys!”

And with that— without any forewarning, really, besides a slanted smirk— Argyle pops the cork from the champagne bottle, spraying Eddie directly in the face with it.

You don’t know why you wouldn’t have expected it, but you stiffen with a little jerk as Murray roars, “Fuckin’— dammit, Argyle, not on the goddamn rug—!”

His ire is quickly overtaken by joy that fills the room as Jeff and Gareth jump towards the spray, mouths open wide in wait; ever obliging, Argyle coats their faces, too, directing most of the alcohol into their mouths but playfully directing it toward you and Harry too. You squeal and giggle as fizzy drops coat you lightly, turning into Harry’s broad shoulder for protection as the spray gradually weakens until it’s nothing but a dribble dropping to the shag.

In the ensuing silence, Steve looks at Murray sympathetically. “I’ll bill him for the carpet cleaning,” he promises, wringing his hands until Murray’s face calms from apoplectic to merely deeply aggravated.

You’re briefly worried he may pop an aneurysm until Argyle— the only one of you still bone dry— distracts everyone by pulling something casually from his pocket. “Oh, brochachos. Almost forgot. I got this advance copy of the album finished last night.”

The boys explode in a flurry of potent outrage and glee. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us sooner?!” Jeff shouts, and you’re taken aback to see the most even-keeled member of Corroded Coffin shake his producer by the shoulders.

“Relax, dude,” Argyle drawls. “S’not fully mastered yet, but it’s close enough.”

And when the needle scratches to a halt on the record player, replacing smooth, dulcet jazz with the rhythmic drum beat of what you know is the boys’ favorite song on the album: ‘Closer.’

It also happens to be one of the best tracks to dance to, and the boys take advantage of that, though their movements— mostly just flailing limbs as they jump and headbang— are really just some crude approximation of dancing. Yet that doesn’t detract from the glee of the moment as, at some point you get pulled in, too, finding yourself in the middle of it all— laughing and swinging your head and shouting along with them. “I wanna fuck you like an animal!” you scream, chest effusive with bubbling joy as Eddie doubles over in wild, joyful laughter at the crudeness of the lyrics shouted in your alcohol-hoarsened voice. You find yourself swung by hands, twirled under arms, spinning and sing-shouting until your throat goes scratchy and your head a little fuzzy from all the activity.

As the song ends, Eddie steadies you with a hand on your shoulder, and you smile up at him appreciatively but are surprised when he doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, he tips his head, jerking it toward the kitchen. “Come on,” he says, and you see his lips move but barely hear his words underneath the booming of the next track, which echoes so loudly it nearly rattles the knick-knacks on Murray’s shelves.

You trail after your employer as he leads you to the kitchen, sloppily filling an empty glass with water from the sink and handing it to you without any explanation. The intuitiveness of the gesture surprises you, as does the way he hovers nearby while you take tiny sips to soothe your parched throat.

Eddie leans a hip against the counter, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his dark jeans and looking you over appraisingly. It’s the first time you’ve really gazed at him all night, and as he appraises you, you don’t feel that instinctual need to hide, the impulse dulled by the warmth buzzing in your veins. Instead, you just appraise him back, eyes trailing over the silver of his handcuff belt buckle, the chain at his hip, the soft, faded black of his band t-shirt, your eyes lingering where he’s clearly torn the sleeves off, evident by dangling threads that tickle the alabaster of his pale biceps. His curls are frizzier than before, still damp and sticking to his neck from the champagne, and his plush lips are pinker than they typically are— shiny and wet as he licks across them with a swipe of his tongue.

You feel a distinct stirring deep in your belly and wrench your gaze from his mouth to his eyes, face heating as you anticipate a smirk and a crude remark, or perhaps a pointed comment about your wandering gaze. Yet Eddie’s face is calm, almost a little hesitant as he opens his mouth to speak— seemingly entirely consumed by what he wants to say. “So, you know we’re going on tour,” he says matter-of-factly, and you can’t help but snort at the ridiculousness of it.

“I think I’ve gathered that. I mean, I’ve only been working out your accommodations for said tour for the past few weeks now,” you retort with a little smirk, and his lips curl in a lopsided grin at your sass. You anticipate a rebuttal, but Eddie continues without comment.

“Well, I know it might come as a shock that I’d be admitting this, but, ah…” He scratches the corner of his lips with one dark-painted fingernail, mouth stretched wide before he continues abruptly, “things have been running a little smoother since you came around. ‘Specially once you got the hang of washing my silky drawers right.”

Your growing pleasure at the praise flattens along with your expression at that final comment, though it eases when he smiles at you, crooked but wide, as eager as you’ve ever seen his smile be. “So,” he says with an air of dramatic finality, “how’s about you take that laundry service on the road?”

In what is almost more to goad him than in genuine disgust, you wrinkle your nose, and your chest warms again when he chuckles huskily, knocking you with his elbow lightly again. "What I'm try’na say is... you wanna come on tour with us?"

When you think back to the way this party began for you— with a split second of awkward silence and a hastily extended invitation, clearly late-to-come— you hadn’t anticipated the way it would end up. In that moment at the studio, you couldn’t imagine being welcomed in so readily, sprayed with champagne, twirled underneath their arms, and cared for with poker chips and glasses of water. You hadn’t thought you’d be here, standing with Eddie Munson in his manager’s kitchen, being invited by him personally to go on tour with the band.

It’s confirmation that you do have a place amongst them, and it’s also exactly why you took this job in the first place— the opportunity to explore beyond the limits of your current world.

"Yes,” you reply, and you can’t help it when your voice comes out honey sweet. “I'd really like that."

"Well, good,” Eddie huffs good-humoredly, “‘cause you kinda have to whether you like it or not. But I'm glad I don't have to twist your arm after all."

You nod, and something small— small and tenuous, trickling like briny water— flows between you and Eddie as you gaze at one another. "Well... thank you," you say, your voice soft and almost shy as you look up at him.

Eddie blinks, looking a little taken aback by the gratefulness in your expression. Quickly, his eyes jump from yours to track around the room as he says distractedly, "Sure, little Bee— Hey, Murray!” His hoarse voice rises in a shout as he skirts around you, trailing out of the kitchen as he calls wolfishy, “Where's your top shelf shit? I wanna get fuckin' blasted tonight."

You watch him lope off toward the living room again without sparing you another glance. Quickly, you drain your water glass, leaving it in the sink and wandering back into the fray until you find yourself elbow to elbow with Steve.

“So—” Your eyes find hazel as Steve regards you with a friendly, knowing smile. “You ready for that travel I promised you?”

Another wild cackle— one that, after tonight, threatens to haunt you in your sleep— draws both of your gazes. For a moment, you and Steve watch as Eddie sneaks up behind an unsuspecting Gareth, grappling him around the neck and tugging him into a headlock as the other man sputters and kicks at him. All at once, they seem to you much younger than their years, and it makes you consider the question.

Are you ready for the travel Steve promised you— travel where wrangling these unruly rockstars, and one in particular, is about to become even more of your daily existence?

You find, as Eddie shoves Gareth into Jeff and licks across his bottom teeth with a manic grin when the two recover and face him, readying themselves to retaliate, that you have no damn idea whether you’re ready or not.

Dear Soulmate…

The early morning of the first day on tour, your feet carry you around the familiar walls of your apartment, taking in the comforting sights you’ve woken up to for the past year. Angela watches from the kitchen island, eyes full of unshed tears, an unspoken awareness settling over the room. Your life has changed since becoming Eddie’s assistant. It’s a reality you’ve accepted for some weeks now, but it feels real now—more than it ever has before. Because now you’ll be traveling on tour with the band, with him, moving across state lines you’ve never roamed. It’s a world of endless opportunity ahead, new sights to see, places to explore. It dawns on you that your home in New York City will be a far and distant memory for the next months you’ll be following Corroded Coffin around the country.

I’m leaving on tour with Eddie and the band today. Isn’t that crazy? I’ve never been this far from home – traveling was just never something I had time to do. I was always so focused on school, on trying to make my parents proud, on trying to be perfect. And now, I’ll be traveling with a metal band across the country! I never thought this is where I’d end up, but I’m trying to learn to embrace the unexpected (it’s so scary though!). I definitely didn’t expect Eddie to be the one inviting me. Although, he acted like he really had no choice in the matter, it’s still strange.

Angela helps roll your multiple suitcases out into the main living area, mouth a wobbly line as you push them over onto their side and make sure you have everything you need one final time. Heels and other shoes, boots and sneakers in one duffel bag, each one a proper pair, freshly wiped down for any imperfection or defects. Another bag holds all your toiletries, makeup products, and hair tools should you ever need them. You unzip your suitcases next, peering in at various tights, dark skirts, dark colored sweaters, dark wash jeans for your off days.

Eddie is… well, we’re still working on our relationship. I think most of the time he feels like I’m annoying him on purpose, but I’m really just trying to do my job. He’s not used to being on a schedule, which is a little wild to me because that’s all I’ve ever known. And maybe that’s what makes him push me away so much. His wife says I need to push back a bit, but I’m worried about keeping my job… I think I’ve grown to like working for him.

Angela walks you down to the street, helping roll one of your bags down and onto the pavement. Cars and taxis speed by in a kaleidoscope of color, but your eyes latch solely on the rolled down window of the car sitting on the curb’s edge.

Eddie’s thre with a cigarette held loosely between his fingers, those dark sunglasses of his shrouding his eyes, tattooed arm on display in the bright sun of the morning. An inky tapestry of intricate detail, etched with countless stories and meanings he’ll never divulge. In the front is Hopper, his usual bored demeanor in place as he opens the driver's side door and walks around to join you and your roommate. The back trunk of the vehicle pops open with a small beep, your heart hammering away as the heftier man helps hoist your things into the back and latches the car back into place.

“Ready?” Eddie calls from the car.

You’re on the clock, sure, but you still remind yourself to quench the desire to raise your middle finger in a vulgar gesture, annoyance writhing in your gut. Instead, you focus your tangle of nerves on the girl standing before you on the street, with her shiny blonde hair and mournful expression on her face. She takes a slow step forward, arms coming to curl around your shoulders. There’s a suddenness of the realization you won’t see her until you return to New York for the holiday season. For the last year you’ve woken to the comfort of the four walls of your bedroom, the warmth of your apartment, and your friendship with Angela.

“Go crush it,” she says, smoothing a palm up and down your spine, head close to your ear. “Take all the pictures. Try and enjoy yourself. New York will be here when you get back. I’ll be expecting as many phone calls as possible, and postcards of all the places you travel to! I want to hear about it all.”

He’s challenging, and yeah he calls me Bee (which I am STILL certain is short for Bitch despite his reassurances otherwise) but the work genuinely feels rewarding. Also, I am really enjoying getting to know the other guys in the band. They’re not friends, no, but they’re kind enough. And who knows? Maybe Eddie will come around. We don’t need to be friends, but I would like it if one day we could become colleagues, at the very least.

Eddie regards you with little interest, still unchanging in his distaste for any time before 12pm, as you clamber into the back of the car with him. He does not shift whatsoever to accommodate your presence, only haphazardly flicks his cigarette onto the concrete below and dips his head at Angela. The blushing blonde raises her hand in a nervous wave, an uneasy smile crawling across her features as he glances along her frame, telling her to have a nice rest of her day. It’s almost comical, though no laughter bubbles up from you, the easy kindness he shows her way; meanwhile, he regards you most days as though you’re no more than a pest when he’s not relentlessly flirting with you. Hot and cold, dependent on his mood on any given day. A bee to be swatted away. You suppose it’s understandable—knowing your mere presence is a reminder of the mistakes he’s made in the public eye. Huffing audibly in your mild upset, your fingers lift to wiggle in the air to wave goodbye to her as Hopper slides the tinted windows up to keep the air conditioned temperature within the vehicle, obscuring her from view.

I wonder about what you’re doing a lot these days. It’s summertime, the season of endless possibilities. Are you traveling? Maybe you’re on a beach somewhere tropical. Maybe you’re celebrating some good news. Or, maybe you’ve taken up a new hobby. Angela and I tried hot yoga last week (never again), so I suggest you stay away from that one. To be honest, and maybe it sounds silly, I just think about you a lot. With everything changing, it seems like knowing you’re out there is one thing I can rely on. Even if I haven’t met you yet.

Your fingers drop and curl around your notebook tucked within your pocketbook for safekeeping, trailing along the pages littered with words meant for the one person in the universe who will understand you better than anyone. It brings you comfort as Hopper peels away from the road and into the bustle of New York City traffic.

Outside, taxis speed in and out of lanes, regardless of bodies surging forward in intersections, heedless in pursuit of their destinations. The car jerks and thumps over numerous manholes and metal grates around street corners, Hopper’s fingers reaching across the center console to raise the volume on the radio.

One of Corroded Coffin’s songs is playing through the elaborate speaker system. There’s a spark of pride that springs to life within you. It’s not one of the newer, to be released singles—no; but there’s a sense of excitement for them, knowing how hard they’ve worked to get where they are, especially because you’ve witnessed the effort they put into their craft first hand.

Eddie seems unphased by his own voice on the radio — as if it’s a normal occurrence for him, and you suppose it is. While you’re still adjusting to your new life following alongside a public figure, he’s had some time to become acclimated. He’s experienced sold out concerts, screaming fans singing along to his songs, crowds surging forward to try and get closer to Corroded Coffin. He’s been on the receiving end of good and bad press that paints him in a caricature of himself; one that’s larger than life and not entirely accurate.

And you’re once again reminded you’re here with him because you’re his assistant when his thigh accidentally brushes yours as the car jolts over a particularly large bump, skin burning at the point of contact, seated beside him in the quiet space around you, watching as the city blurs behind your eyes.

“Remind me of what you have planned for the day,” he drawls, and you’re grateful his stare is presently focused on looking out his window and not on your face. He doesn’t capture the deep inhale, nor does he catch the slight gathering of tears on your lashes that you swat away with the pads of your fingers, brought upon by the suddenness of your change in scenery and leaving Angela.

It's as easy as breathing after that. With his cold, quiet words a distraction from the sadness swirling in your gut, you swiftly breeze through the mental list you woke with. You remind him you’ll arrive on schedule at six, where you’ll get on the tour bus around seven after having a meeting and breakfast with Murray and the rest of the band. After that it’s a two and a half hour drive into Philly. It gives you all enough time to get situated once in the city and for the band to relax a bit to get into the proper headspace before getting ready for their soundcheck in preparation for the first concert scheduled later in the evening.

You tamper down and try to hide the thrill of excitement that buzzes in your veins at the prospect of seeing the guys all perform together. It’s been one thing watching them in the studio for the months they’ve been working on the album, and another all together to see the culmination of all their hard work come to fruition. However, it also brings up a new bout of anxieties over what exactly will be required of you while on the road. Thus far you’ve run errands and kept Eddie on schedule for meetings, interviews, photoshoots and other appearances. Following him across state lines and watching him on the stage, however, seems like a new, daunting task you’re hoping to tackle head on.

“Ever been to the exotic Philadelphia?” Your head jerks as the words break through the silence, those dark eyebrows of his furrowing in confusion when your mouth opens and closes, no words falling freely from your lips. “I’ll take that as a no.”

You swallow thickly, pushing aside the indignation that burns and builds at his words. His inked fingers reach up to grasp the sunglasses perched on his nose, sliding them down slowly to fold them away beside his thigh. You’re no stranger to Eddie’s features at this point. Those amber eyes of his, emotive and magnetic, immediately capture your attention. You regard him carefully, just as he is you, his gaze trailing your features in a slow perusal. When you finally speak, it’s a soft utterance of, “I haven’t really ventured too far out of New York.”

He chuckles gleefully, mouth drawn upward enough where your eyes catch on the dimple in his cheek. He’d be prettier, you think, if he scowled less. Like this he’s vibrant and bright, and appears much younger than his twenty nine years. For a moment you wonder what he was like before all the fame, before the party lifestyle, before the allure of the industry sunk its greedy teeth into him and spat him right back out. His head shifts toward the streets, and your eyes drop down to your lap, fingers toying with a frayed edge on your pocketbook. You hear him then, voice a husk of, “Looks like it’s time for my little worker bee to finally leave the hive.”

My first stop is Philadelphia. I’ll definitely be sure to take a bunch of pictures to share with you someday! I’d like to try and draw a bit too while I'm gone, but who knows. I haven’t really had much time for that lately with the new job. If I create anything worth keeping, I’ll definitely save it so I can show it to you.

You offer him an easy smile, returning your gaze to the world outside the vehicle, exhaling deeply when Hopper pulls up into a parking garage. He mutters briefly that he needs to go check on the tour bus and leaves the two of you to your own devices. You can hear the echoes of voices closer to the tour bus, whoops and calls from the other band members reach your ears through the softly parted window as they catch sight of Eddie’s vehicle. Vaguely, you even catch the utterance of your name in the midst, teasing in nature, urging the two of you outside.

Before you can even say a word, Eddie’s opening his passenger side door and getting out of the car, leaving you behind with your things. Exhaling deeply, you move to open your own side and nearly fall out when the man in question tugs the door open and extends a hand in your direction. There’s a brief clash of stares while your eyes drift from his to his palm, uncertain as to what he’s doing.

Unamused, Eddie huffs out, reluctantly explaining, “So you don’t bust your ass like you did your first day working for me.” His eyes drop to your largely inconvenient heels. You’d only worn them because you weren’t sure what one would wear before heading off on a concert tour. Noting your apprehension, he continues, “Bee, I’m not going to pull my hand away at the last second. I can be a gentleman, you know?”

You snort, wrinkling your nose. “I didn’t doubt it.” It’s not the fullness of truth, but you suppose for your client, it’s better to abstain from telling him that most days he is quite determinately, or at least it seems that way, driving you to the brink of hysteria. It’s probably also best to not remind him how not very long ago, before you hired him another maid you insisted he keep this time, he would make you clean his brownstone top to bottom. A task that also included tending to his clothing and highly suspect underwear on more than one occasion.

Deciding to appease him, you envelop his palm within your own and allow him to help you down onto the concrete below. Your feet wobble a bit from the drop, but he’s there with a gentle hand at your bicep to steady you, before the moment fizzles and he pulls away all together. You walk side by side, though not together, to join the rest of the band where they stand in an excited huddle around the tour bus.

Even the vehicle itself is larger than you anticipated. It looms above you, imposing and impressive, signifying the success the group has seen in the time they’ve been in the media spotlight. You have little opportunity to think about it, however, because the boys greet you with warm welcomes and hellos, trading their normal handshakes they’ve given you for hugs. A recent development, brought about merely by spending as much time with them over the months as you have. Jeff in particular lingers a little longer just as Murray calls the band into a circle for a meeting, muttering a “Happy you’re here,” before rejoining with the rest of his band mates.

You’re not left alone long in that parking garage, luckily enough. Steve’s there to urge you off to the side when he pulls up in his car. He’s a little worse for wear, acknowledging his lateness with a wave to the guys and a pleading look shot your way. He requests you follow him, putting yourself out of earshot from the rest of the men. For a brief moment, you worry you’ve done something to muddle your position. Stomach dropping at the thought you might have unintentionally said the wrong thing to Eddie, a vendor — maybe even Robin, but that fear is quelled immediately when Steve clears his throat, his hand coming to cup around the back of his neck, kneading the muscle beneath his fingertips.

“Look, you’re doing great. I’ve told you more times than I can count on two hands how grateful I am you’re here and everything, but I need you to know that the Eddie you’ve seen thus far is nothing like Eddie on tour. He’s — ”

Your mouth opens briefly to ask what his meaning is behind the clear warning, just as Eddie appears out of the blue and claps Steve on the shoulder, chuckling brightly as he asks, “Ready to go, Bee?” He looks to you imploringly, and you haltingly meet his stare before shifting back to Steve’s kind features. He tips his head, dismissing you, and you join at Eddie’s side, following him in the direction of the vehicle. Murray shoots Eddie a stern look as the two of you walk along by, your eyes darting to the Corroded Coffin logo stretched across the entirety of the exterior. “Here is your home for the next few months.”

You’re uncertain as to what you might expect. You’ve never been on a tour bus before. The closest thing you can attribute it to is a coach bus for a school field trip back in your early education days. What greets you as Eddie turns back to extend a hand once more and assist you in climbing up onto the first step is greater than anything your mind might have conjured.

He’s not kidding by his assessment that the bus will quite literally be your home for the duration of the tour. At the head of the impressive vehicle belies Hopper’s station, full of buttons and displays you’ve never seen before, and a dashboard with a hanging Corroded Coffin logo dangling from his rear view mirror. The burly man raises his hand in a wave as you and Eddie pass, heading into the lounge area that follows immediately. Your eyes are drawn to dark red couches, like that of a red wine, with black pillows strewn about. Nestled in front of the couch is a table pressed against the corner wall, new magazines displaying photos of the band and a headline that details the upcoming tour.

Deeper into the vehicle is the adjoining kitchen, all in the same color scheme of dark black furniture, with red and silver accented bits. Eddie shows you around the space, opening the fridge for emphasis, showing you how to use the different amenities, before moving on down to point out the bathroom. Lastly, you’re brought into the bedrooms. Or rather, one spacious room lined with bunk beds on either side of the bus.

“Normally I like being on top, but when it comes to sleeping I prefer the bottom." Eddie says suggestively, gesturing to the bed on his right. Your head shifts his way, taking in the little alcove he’ll be sleeping in for the night. He waves his hand to your left, smirking. “That’ll be yours. In case of an emergency.”

“In case of an emergency,” you repeat slowly, placing your pocketbook down on your assigned bed as you settle down beside it, positioned specifically across from Eddie’s in the event he requires you for anything. You quickly reach inside and jot down a few sentences in the unfinished letter, affixing a bright floral sticker to one of the corners.

I have to go. We’re about to leave, but I just wanted to let you know what I’m up to. I’ll talk to you soon. Wouldn’t it be fun if we met in Philly?

As you shut your notebook, you realize you never heard the rest of Steve’s harrowing warning. I need you to know that the Eddie you’ve seen thus far is nothing like Eddie on tour. Your eyes narrow in piqued curiosity as you take in Eddie, that now familiar lanky form of his flopping down against his own mattress. He nods his head in your direction and you wave back numbly.

You hear it then. That soft howling in the distance, a creeping sense of something looming with no name to place on it.

You offer him a soft smile, and he throws a pillow over his head, settling down to nap.

Steve’s warning is suddenly very far away from your mind.

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blueepink07 · 4 months

Text

In search for warmth

I'm too impatient to get my invitation link from ao3, so I will post it here until I receive it! I should get it around 4 January... It's a Yuno centered fic with a wholesome interaction with Amane! I hope their interaction is spot on!

"Cold. Too cold"

The blanket that should have kept her warm was now half on the floor, standing lifeless, like a puppet in the strings, waiting for its owner to pick it up. Tired eyes are trying to get used to the dim light, a deep sigh resounding in the cell at the apprehension of the mocking blanket.

Did she have a nightmare again? That's why she moved so much in her sleep? Whatever the motive was, Yuno can't answer, her mind being too fuzzy.

She stays in silence as she is watching the gray and monotonous walls. Maybe she should have decorated them, when she had got the chance. Mahiru told her, when they first arrived here, that decorating would definitely have a greater impact on her mental state and she would feel more energized every time she wakes up. She even offered herself to help Yuno with ideas inspired from her favorite magazine. At that time, the high school girl declined as she had never considered that the interest she had for the Milgram prison would ever disperse. But, oh how wrong she was…

Sometimes, during the rougher days, she can't even manage to get up. Everything is so dull, without color… How much she wishes that she could turn back in time, before the voting results, to decorate her walls together with Mahiru, to have a girl talk with the other prisoners, maybe Kotoko too. Yuno is sure she would have many interesting stories to tell.

The girl moves over, watching again the blanket that is now entirely on the floor. Alone, cold and lifeless, that’s how she would describe the blanket. Awfully familiar descriptions… When was the last time she felt herself, lately…?

Yuno is still watching the blanket. It feels like a war between her lazy consciousness, she should really wash it before covering herself with it again, and her wish to sleep more.

But she knows it's futile, she can't sleep when her body is cold. With a tired sight, the girl stretches out her limbs and picks up the blanket.

She carefully opens the door from her cell, not being in the mood to talk, if there is someone still not sleeping at this late hour. She slowly walks to the washroom, her pink irises desperately shoving off the eyelids. How annoying, only if the blanket could wash itself…

When she finally arrives, after lots and lots of yawns, Yuno takes the laundry detergent, a faint sweet smell of tuberose reaching her nostrils as she is pouring the contents in the washing machine. Then, she swiftly places the blanket and sets the time for a 15 minute wash.

"That should be enough…! "

What Yuno had to do now was to wait for the timer to finish, so she can finally go to sleep! How hard can it be?

"Poor Yuno, why is she even in prison?"

"It's not even a crime what she did…"

"She is so innocent!!"

The voices. How she would sometimes wish to have a button to turn her brain off. She knows that she should be thankful. Yuno often stays with Mahiru, after all, and knows that her older friend is haunted by them. At first, it was hard to convince Mahiru to not let herself be swayed by the voices and to distance herself from her own beliefs… From being herself… But with some time spent together, Yuno put her back on the right path. She would never change, because of Es's judgment, and neither should Mahiru.

"Poor Yuno…"

"I'm sure that in that prison it is so cold…!"

For once, the voices aren't wrong, it really is cold in here. She makes an attempt at hugging herself tightly, but she knows it's pointless. It's still cold.

*Stomp!*

"…!" Is she so lonely that she starts imagining noises…?

*Stomp!*

No, there is someone awake. Should she really check…? After all, her mission here will be done in 10 minutes and she really wants to sleep.

*Stomp!*

Curiosity kills the cat, that’s what she has heard and has been told many times, when she was a child. But the noises feel almost…desperate. Maybe she should really check.

It wasn't hard to pinpoint from where it came from as Yuno quickly could register the stomping gradually becoming louder as she was approaching the kitchen.

What she wasn't prepared for was seeing Amane jumping, if she could call that, as the green haired girl was hardly propeling herself, due to her restraints. Yuno followed Amane's hand, who was trying to reach a… box of soy milk?

Now that she thinks about it, she remembers, a few months ago, Amane's mug not being placed in the kitchen cabins, instead sitting neatly in the support for drying dishes. So, it's not the first time Amane has woken up in the middle of the night.

Yuno moves carefully, not wanting to scare the concentrated girl. She slowly raises her hand and takes the box of soy milk, placing it on the table.

"Kashiki Yuno… what are you doing?"

"Giving you the box of soy milk…?"

"... Your eyes… If it's pity, I don't need it. I can manage on my own without help."

"... It's not pity. I just thought you needed help. You didn’t seem to have done much progress, and since I was awake and heard the stomping, I decided to prevent you from tormenting yourself like this."

"I was actually very close… Just one more jump and I could have reached the box!"

"Is that so? Then ~ I guess I should treat myself from time to time! After all, you can easily get another box, right? ~"

"Yes… Of course I can."

Yuno carefully opens the box, watching with anticipation at the green haired girl. Amane has turned her back to Yuno, contemplating if she should jump again. She already feels embarrassed that the older prisoner has seen her like this, but, at the same time, she really does want to prove her point.

Yuno starts to hum as she is heating up the soy milk. The sound does nothing more but to annoy the younger girl. Amane doesn't want to jump again, so, in order to show that she's capable, she needs to find another solution. She tilts her head, so she can have a good view of the kitchen, trying to search for something that could help her. Next to the table, there is a small chair, which has fur…? Since it's already dirty, then it would be no problem to use it, so she can reach the kitchen cabin. Her younger self four minutes ago, would have found this idea a disgrace. However, considering that she has been already spotted by the older prisoner in such a childish stance, this is no more an option to be embarrassed about.

Yuno watches with a small amused smile as Amane is dragging the chair below the kitchen cabin. The high school girl looks at the time and decides that the milk is warm enough. The moment she turns around to take a mug, a desperate yell comes from the green haired girl, who is struggling to maintain her balance.

Right when she was going to fall, Yuno quickly holds Amane by her left hand and stabilizes her on the chair.

"... That was unexpected… Are you okay?"

"I'm… Fine! ...Can you please take your hands off me? I'm fine, Yuno, it's not like I'm going to break at any moment…"

"Considering your distaste towards Shidou, you would have never accepted medical care, if you would have been injured. That's why, I was holding you like this…" That’s what Yuno would have wanted to say, but decided against it, in order to not inflict more rage to the younger prisoner."Wait…when was the last time she had been called Yuno by Amane?"

"... The box… "

" Hm~?"

"I couldn't take it. I… Disappointed… I-I…!"

"Let’s take a seat!"

"..."

"I just wanted to mess with you, I don't want to drink it. Take it~"

"... Thank you… "

While Amane was drinking the liquid, Yuno decided to break the silence:

"I wanted to ask you something, actually. Why are you awake at this hour?"

"The same question, I could ask you too, Kashiki Yuno. But… Since you helped me… The reason it's simple, I just couldn't sleep. That's why I decided to drink warm soy milk. It usually works… "

"I see… But, me too. I woke up suddenly and I couldn't sleep anymore. My blanket was on the floor, so I went out of my cell to wash it."

"... You said that you don't want to drink it, however, warm milk usually helps you sleep. I suggest drinking some."

"No, no, It's for you, I don't need it!"

"It's too much… I can't drink it all, I apologize for the waste. Unless…somebody helps me finish it."

"It will not work with me! I'm an older sister immune to such tricks!"

*Beep* *Beep*

"Seems that my blanket is ready! Good night, Amane, it was a nice talk!"

"Good night to you too…"

Yuno stands up from her chair and goes to the washing room. Despite, initially, not wanting to have a conversation with someone at midnight, Amane was really a good company. It was nice seeing a glimpse of her older self, before the verdicts….

She swiftly takes the blanket and starts walking, as carefully as before, to her cell. Right when she was going to enter, in the dim light she saw an object shining at her door. A glass? Has Amane…?

"It would be impolite of me to not accept it, wouldn’t it…?" Smiling, she goes into her cell, places the blanket on the bed, not forgetting to take with her the small gift. She finally sits on the edge of her bed, slowly drinking the liquid, a warm sensation spreading in her body.

"Warmth…"

Yuno feels so warm, so cozy… A yawn splits her lips in two, a sensation of lightheadedness slowly taking over her body. She crawls on the bed, covering herself with the washed blanket. With the smell of tuberose reaching her nostrils, Yuno can finally sleep.

#milgram #writing #milgram yuno #yuno kashiki #milgram amane #amane momose #I tried to include more elements inspired from Minigrams #or little details about them!#honestly I was kind of scared to share but if you don't try you never know!!

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hadit93 · 1 year

Note

Will you buy the book “Spare” by Prince Harry? Thoughts on this scandal? Is there a love generational curse on this family. The Queen’s uncle abdicated for his love, the Queen’s son also created a mess by marrying Camilla and now Harry was involved in a big scandal.

While I like the public image of the Queen I’ve came to realise that it is all an illusion. Not in the sense that she was a reptilian who fed off children but in the sense that behind the polished image there are many lurking secrets that would create shady gossip. Well on the other hand if I were born in a royal family, be it in the UK, Denmark, UAE, Japan or North Korea, We can agree we would all do everything for our kin so I do not entirely blame them.

My partner bought it, I've skimmed through it a little. I personally will not be reading it, I have more important books to read both fiction and non-fiction.

I don't believe there is a curse. What is important to remember is that the monarch is head i.e. the spiritual leader of the Church of England. There are certain expectations surrounding marriage that church held which the monarch was expected to uphold also. The Queen's uncle certainly gave up everything for love, however, the way the public and the family looked at it is he sacrificed his duty for love. It is either heroic or selfish dependent upon how you look at it. But he certainly did not suffer for it- at least across the shores. He still got money from the British public. Then when he decided Hitler was good company it is shocking to me that he was ever allowed to be buried here. He was not a good man.

Again, Charles was in line for the throne and thus in line to be head of the Church of England and at the time of his marriage to Diana it would not have been okay in the eyes of the church and the queen for Camilla to become divorced and her and Charles to marry. She also had to make such a decision in regards to her sister. Diana was quite literally a trophy wife, a breeding machine and she said as much in her own words.

The royal family are human, they are privileged humans who simply cannot integrate with real people- it would be a threat to their lives for them to just pop down to the local pub. They are out of touch and also prone to mistake which is why they have aides etc. I don't think the Queen was perfect by any means, I don't think the current king is perfect, I don't think any of them will be perfect. But I think they are contributing more good to the world than evil despite sometimes saying stupid and thoughtless things.

I used to like Prince Harry. But I cannot respect his current actions. He has spat on his family and on his country. You do not air your dirty laundry in public. Unless of course you WANT the attention. "Oh no, Meg and I are shy, we just want to live in our massive house and feed our chickens!"......Lets write a book, do a Netflix documentary, go on several interviews, and still use titles we no longer have claim to. Actions do not match the words.

They have all just lost both the matriarch and patriarch of their family. Harry and his family should be closer than ever. I am sure all of this needs discussing with a mediator in place. Perhaps the royals are not open to it, they are of a different generation. My grandparents would never attend therapy for example. But a conversation needs to be had.

As for Megan, I wish her no ill will. I don't think she truly knew what she was getting in to. But I was thrilled that the royal family were progressive enough to okay and allow a marriage to a mixed-race person. It was a highlight of how accepting Britain should be. This being said, the media did absolutely destroy her. Unfortunately the royal response to any scandal is to stay silent. Harry didn't like this and kicked off- I believe as a trauma response from what his mother went through. It is a mess, I think no single person is to blame, it is a complex situation. It requires a complex solution. This being said I believe Megan and Harry have crossed several lines now, and this isn't as a royalist, this is if my family members did what they did I would never speak to them again. You do not shout family secrets in public, you simply do not. And I found Megan to be rude in her interviews on Netflix, that is not to say I think she is rude, but this is how she came off. And yet this interview was in their control so it is not just the media casting this image of her.

She has also lied. There is photographic evidence proving she has lied. And if someone lies about little things, I can no longer trust big assertions they make 100%. This is simply how I am.

BUT despite all this, I think the British public, myself included, are over it. I don't care about Harry and Megan, I just wish they would go quietly like they said they wanted. The media left them alone for the most part. We have bigger things to worry about as a nation- we can't afford our gas bills, all our essential services are striking over pay, the country is literally falling apart. There is war in Ukraine. And yet some prince thinks we should care that his privileged life isn't all that happy. I'm sure they are warm, surrounded by luxury, and eating three good meals a day. He wants to look at the British public he left behind and be thankful for what he does have.

#Prince Harry #Megan Markle #Real housewives of Buckingham Palace

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hauntingthechateau · 6 months

Text

Thursday November 9th

Tried to see how fast I could get up and out the door this morning... the answer is not very fast if I'm wearing makeup hahah. Got to the studio around 7:50 after a brief detour in the village. Really gotta go for a full walk of the village sometime. The wind was howling and the water was burbling and I made my way over the bridge onto the property (this I think will be the sound I most associate with this place) and got to chai and journaling. Realized my shirt was inside out... getting out of the house fast is clearly challenging for me 😅

Over breakfast, Stephanie paid me the complement "you look like someone who reads books" and sure enough our goodreads accounts are super similar! So I started on Iron Wing (surprised it was just available from the library with no waitlist) on audiobook so I would have someone to scream at about it haha.

After breakfast Beulah gave her bussiness of art talk in the salon with big trays of coffee and tea. While some of it was stuff I've been doing for years, it was great to have the perspective of someone who has owned galleries, been doing art for years and has lived all over. I definitely have some new resources to look through and want to follow up with Beulah about more international representation stuff later.

The bussiness talk ended around noon and although I usually take a later lunch, I just killed a little time doing computer work before grabbing lunch and heading down to the studio (theived a profiterole for later 😈).

I've been accidentally carrying around a bottle of wine in my bag because I keep forgetting to take it out. I finally remembered this morning and my bag is feeling much lighter now haha.

I saw a picture of a sculpture the other day (Gaetano Motelli (1806-1858) La sposa dei Sacri Cantici (1854)) and I love it but I don't know what to do with it, so I will put it here for later inspiration. I've really been vibing with victorian art lately, which is always mixed feelings because these fuckers really ruined society and so much of what they were doing is often seen as milk-toast versions of better art, but there's something about some of the art that really has a teenage angst to it that I'm drawn to. Also, so much of the art o medieval inspired in a way that I wish I could incorporate into my work!

Wasn't really feeling painting this afternoon (this always happens if I don't get to work in the morning) so I spent the day collecting resources and preparing for the next bunch of paintings. By end of day I was getting a little itchy to play with paint, so I finished a couple smaller pieces. Dusty came down to the studios to visit at one point (followed Stephanie down from the Chateau) and he had a lil look around my studio.

Headed up for dinner, Schnitzel, spaezle, scalloped potatoes, fresh radishes, salad with corn, zucchini soup and these little creamy seafood bakes that I didn't catch the name of, but they were INCREDIBLE! I'm definitely having another for lunch tomorrow! Dessert was creme brûlée!!!

Went home early with Lauren and conquered our laundry machines (turns out its quite easy when you have translate on your phone and theres an english manual online). Read in the living room while waiting on laundry and I really feel like I'm getting close to the end of the book now! Due back in four days!

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timeoverload · 9 months

Text

I'm sorry for talking about my dreams last night. I was half asleep when I wrote that and I just needed to vent. I shouldn't have said anything about it at all.

I want to clarify that my ex has no place in my life now I have been over him for a long time. Most of the time I forget that he even exists. I won't say another word about him ever again because he is dead to me. I hope that is the last nightmare I ever have about that.

I don't want to have PTSD anymore and I have moved on. I am in a better place now and I am content on my own even if things aren't perfect. I need to remember that I am safe and I never have to go through that again.

I am happy that I keep seeing children in my dreams and that is the main thing that I am focused on. I feel like that's a good sign. It's weird that you posted that picture of the tarot card of the skeleton in the field with the 2 girls at the bottom. In my dream, the girls were playing in a field so that's a crazy coincidence. I think everything is going to be ok.

Anyway, I still have a migraine and I don't know why it won't go away. I got something to eat but it didn't help. I don't think I can sleep anymore right now and I probably shouldn't do that anyway. I just took more ibuprofen and I've been drinking so much water. I hope it helps with my back too. I've been thinking about going to get a massage but I've never gone somewhere to get one before. I don't know if it's safe to go to a chiropractor with my injury. I just can't get any relief.

My pain is making it difficult to do anything even though I have a lot I need to do and it's making me so angry. On a scale of 1 to 10 I would rate my pain right now between 8 and 9. My dad said he was going to move my washing machine to the basement sometime soon and hook it up so I can finally do some laundry. I still need to take my boxes down there but I can't do it right now. I'm so tired of them being in my way. I wish I had the energy to just go to the laundromat like a normal person.

I got new stuff for my room and I want to be able to use it. I know it would make me more comfortable. I can't make any progress and I feel stuck. I'm not trying to be lazy and I should have been done with everything by now. I know I am not a lazy person. I am going to try to do something once my head stops hurting. I don't know what's wrong with me and I'm tired of acting like an old lady. I want to feel young again.

I am sort of afraid to go to that party next weekend now because I feel like I'm not capable of having fun anymore. I haven't done anything like that in years. I'm nervous about socializing. I don't even want to drink that much. I don't want to be a downer and I have to pretend like I'm not falling apart physically. I don't want to have to leave early because I'm in pain. I'm still planning on going but it's giving me anxiety.

I'm trying really hard not to cry right now because that would just make me feel worse. I hope that I feel better soon. I need to try to stay strong and keep moving anyway.

Thank you everybody for listening to me complain. I appreciate you. I hope you all enjoy the rest of your day. 💖

#personal

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flaminggoddesstemple · 1 year

Text

Teddy’s NSFW Ask Game:

Answering them all, just for fun:

1. Have you ever gotten off to a mutual before?

Yes

2. Least favorite interaction with a tumblr dom?

Haven’t had any

3. Was your blog URL your first choice? If not, what was?

It was, yes

4. What’s your favorite thing about kink/nsfw tumblr?

There aren’t many places you can be so…free.

5. What’s your least favorite thing about kink/nsfw tumblr?

Remembering how it used to be lol

6. Why did you join NSFW/kink tumblr? Why did you stay?

Because I love to explore kink and sexuality and share my interests, and this is a great place to do exactly that

7. Is there anyone on here you wish you were IRL friends with?

Not yet, pretty new here

8. What is your biggest pet peeve in mainstream porn? (Besides all the known problematics and ethical failures within the industry)

As a bi sub male it’s hard to find non-degrading/humiliating femdom and bi porn. I just wanna get fucked and be encouraged to push my boundaries

9. What is your least favorite part of how sex is treated in Straight™️ culture?

It can be pretty…formulaic

10. What is the funniest porn intro you’ve ever seen?

Any one where the woman gets “stuck” in some ridiculous position like the laundry machine lol

11. Name an album you want to have sex to. Any one of Miguel’s albums

12. Name a song that makes you want to fuck.

Woman- City and Colour

13. Favorite underwear you own?

Red boxers

14. Does your personal favorite color match your favorite color lingerie/underwear for a partner to wear?

Surprisingly, no

15. Is there any fictional characters you’d want to fuck? (Humanoid)

Can’t think of any right now, but I’m sure there are a few

16. Are there any monsters/monster characters you’d want to fuck?

17. If you own stuffed animals, do you turn them away when you have sex/masturbate?

Don’t have any

18. Do you have a squishmallow collection?

Nope. I’ll have to Google that sometime

19. Does grinding do anything for you?

A little

20. Is sex hotter when it’s not in a bed?

It can be, but I like the bed too

21. Car sex: overrated and uncomfortable or believe the hype?

I’ve never done it, but I always assumed it’s uncomfortable

22. Could you ever have sex with someone with the same name as you?

Sure, why not?

23. Could you have sex with your doppleganger?

Yep!

24. Are you scared of being told you’re bad in bed?

I’m not scared of it; if I ever hear that then I’m willing to learn how to get better

25. Has anyone ever told you you’re bad in bed?

Thankfully no

26. Favorite thing to be called during sex? (Names, titles, petnames, etc. )

I haven’t been called many things in bed, but “good boy” really did it for me lol

27. Best season/time of year/weather to have sex?

Autumn/Winter. Get that body heat!

28. Creampies: hot or gross?

INSANELY hot.

29. Were your sex education classes in school thorough?

Not at all

30. Girth or length?

I’m not sure, I’d have to have some experiences and compare lol

31. Do you have any friends kinkier then you? Any more vanilla then you?

Both! I don’t think I’m all that kinky actually, but I am enough that I’m kinkier than my vanilla friends

32. What’s a sex toy/kink product you wish existed but doesn’t?

Hmmm….I’ll have to think about this more.

33. How do you feel about Discord voicechat fantasies?

no clue

34. Werewolves or Vampires?

Werewolves!

35. What’s a petname/title you really like that isn’t popular?

Woman, Mine

36. Does your partner need to have the same sex drive as you?

No. It’s more important that we’re compatible when we do have sex

37. Are there any sex scenes in movies that made an impact on you growing up?

Nope, grew up too sheltered to see anything like that lol

38. Is there any sexual activity that you know is unsafe and will never do, but still wish you could? (ie anal penetration to vaginal penetration)

Nothing that I can think of

39. What is the oddest outfit that you find hot when people wear?

I don't know how odd it is, but long dresses really do it for me

40. Any fantasies featuring bluetooth/discreet vibrators?

Doesn't everybody? I'd love to try it in public at least once.

41. Are nudes overrated?

Not at all

42. If it was genuine, would you take part in a sugar daddy arrangment? (Either role)

Probably

43. Do accents do anything for you?

Absolutely

44. What is the most romantic sexual thing someone can do to/for you?

I'll do basically anything for someone who's being sweet and encouraging to me

45. What’s one popular bdsm concept/activity/toy that you just don’t like?

Humiliation/Degradation

46. What is the smallest bed size you could fuck in?

I guess a twin?

47. What’s a porn scenario/plot that you wish existed but doesn’t?

Any scenario where someone is caught in the act and the person who catches them simply joins in lol. Also bored and ignored.

48. What is a safety lesson/tip for sex/kink that wish was more common knowledge?

I don't have any, so I'm open to suggestions!

49. What’s a porn category you wish existed but doesn’t?

hmm...mmf bi threesomes where the woman is praising and encouraging the men to explore their bisexuality. No humiliation or cuckolding, just everyone enjoying themselves experiencing something new

50. What is a hot tumblr post you’ve seen that lives in your head rent-free?

This one: https://finalgirlinpink.tumblr.com/post/678121464208195584/okay-but-like-a-soft-dom-who-tells-you-to-ask

gothteddies

Extension Pack:

51. If you were to start your own high budget porn company right now, what would be the first film you would produce? Be as incredibly detailed (plot, scene, set, talent, genders, body types, etc.) or as vague as you want.

I'd make a film about a bi couple getting getting tied up and gangbanged together by an assortment of people- men, women, women with strapons, etc. Together they get covered in cum, all their holes used, and the whole time they're being groped, caressed, squeezed, praised, and complimented.

52. Do you like to sleep in the cold or in the heat?

Cold!

53. Favorite position/angle for nudes? (For either receiving or sending)

over the shoulder?

54. Would you fuck any of your exes?

Nope

55. What was the most relaxing sexual experience you’ve had?

Lying back for a very slow handjob. I do love those. It's nice to just lay back and enjoy sometimes

56. Do you enjoy the idea of your partner carrying around lewds/nudes of you in their wallet? Or vice versa?

Not particularly, no

57. Least favorite kink you’ve witnessed on tumblr?

Not sure

58. Is the “doms in suits” looks overplayed?

A bit, yeah

59. What’s an objectively bad song you unironically enjoy?

After Googling "bad songs" i can confidently say I have bad taste in music lol

60. LED light strips on or off during? If on, what color?

Sounds fun! I assume red would be best

61. If you had a partner that was a music producer/artist, would you let them discreetly mix audio from a clip of you cumming into their tracks?

Sure

62. Would you enjoy a calendar of just lewd photos of your partner(s) each month? Would you give you partner(s) one of you?

I would love that lol. And I might give them one

63. Is there a sexual or kink related tattoo you want or have?

I would actually love to have one but can't think of what I'd get. It'd have to be subtle.

64. Do in person kink events and conventions interest you?

They do, yes

65. What’s something stupid that’s turned you on?

Unexpected head pats

66. How did you masturbate when you first started to, and how do you masturbate now?

Jack hammer speed when I started, slow and steady now

67. Do you prefer your tumblr persona or your IRL personality? Which do you think your friends/mutuals would prefer?

I prefer my Tumblr persona, but I think it's only really going to be a hit here on Tumblr lol

68. Were you on preban tumblr? If so, what do you miss about it and what are the biggest differences you’ve noticed between then and now?

I was on preban Tumblr, and it was a lot easier to find what you were interested in back then

69. Do you enjoy the idea of using ice sexually?

I'm neutral on ice, if my partner's into it then we'll be using it

70. Is there anyone (on here or otherwise) you wish you could take nudes/lewds with?

absolutely

71. Are there any kinks or fantasies you have that you wish you didn’t? What are they?

no, I like all my kinks, even the ones that I have no intention of actually experiencing

72. If you were having a threesome and there were two of you in your role (2 dominants/2 submissives), would you be willing to wear matching outfits with them? What would you wear?

That could be fun! I'd probably wear very little lol

73. What are your preferred petnames/titles to call a partner?

I usually call them darling, woman, or babe

74. Would you fuck your clone?

yes

75. Would you have a threesome with your partner and your clone? Would you have a threesome with your partner and their clone?

yes and yes

76. Any fantasies featuring supernatural elements?

A few, yes lol

77. What’s the hottest thing you’ve ever watched a stranger do?

not counting porn, probably that clip of the woman swirling her tongue to eat pasta lmao

78. Ever had a dirty thought in reaction to seeing an attractive stranger?

hasn't everybody?

79. Any sexual fantasies featuring strangers?

Yes

80. What outfit would you want a partner to wear to seduce you in?

A dress, or something with lots of straps on it. Or a strapon lol

81. Do you like when a partner wears gloves?? If so, what type of gloves do you like them to wear? (leather, latex, lace, etc.)

I'm neutral on gloves

82. What’s the hottest scene in sexual media you’ve ever seen/read? (porn, hentai, erotica, etc.)

a gentle femdom hentai that made me realize I was into gentle femdom

83. Are there any non-sexual scenes/moments in movies that turned you on??? What were they??

Not really, no

84. What would your pornstar name be?

Pendleton Steele lmao jk that's terrible

85. Do you have a favorite pornstar? Who is it?

Lance Hart, Maddy O'Reilly, or April Olsen

86. Are there any professions you find attractive?

Nurse (most healthcare professions, honestly)

87. Is possessiveness hot?

88. Pick one: a partner with a big truck, a fast car, or a motorcycle.

Big truck. Roomy for fun times, and functional otherwise.

89. Have you ever tried to seduce someone and they didn’t notice? What happened?

Nope, the few times I've ever tried they always noticed lol

90. Do you enjoy sexting? What’s the hottest text you’ve received while sexting?

I enjoy it but I'm not very good at it lol

91. Do you have a favorite kink blogger on here? Who is it? Why?

Goddess Ignited, because she was my favorite before we even made these blogs

92. Morning sex or evening sex?

I can't decide!

93. Switches: do you lean more towards domming or subbing? Why?

Subbing. I'm very submissive, but I do think domming would be fun and I'm interested in trying it sometimes. I think I'd just need to be extremely comfortable with my partner to be able to. Variety is the spice of life!

94. What sort of kink related objects are in your dream house? (Sex toy closet, pet bed, bondage anchors, cage, etc.)

A whole room with bondage anchors, a variety of toys and equipment lol

95. Do you/would you enjoy making sex tapes with your partner?

Makes me anxious but I'm also intrigued

97. Would you ever get off to your own nudes/porn? Have you?

No, I'm not my type lol

98. What’s your go-to movie to put on when you’re going to “Netflix & Chill” with someone?

I've never Netflix & Chilled to have a movie just for that lol

99. Is there a sexual act you feel particularly talented at? What is it?

Cunnilingus. Because I love to do it.

100. Have you ever sent a sexy anon to someone on tumblr?

Nope

0 notes

frannyzooey · 2 years

Text

In The Dark: Chapter 2

Ezra x F!Reader

Chapter One

Summary: After a couple of lonely months as a new transplant to New York City, you meet Cee in your grad school writing class and hit it off immediately. Finally finding a friend, you wouldn’t risk upsetting that for the world — until she invites you over for dinner one night and you meet her guardian, Ezra. Immediately drawn to each other, you both know it would be wrong to get involved — but you just can’t help it.

Rating: none now, but this will be an age gap fic - I’ll rate it explicit when we get there

—

You secretly wished you could spend the night in the laundromat.

Enveloped in the cozy, fragrant warmth, surrounded by the low, rhythmic rumble of the dryers; you had a suspicion it would be the best night of sleep you’d ever get.

You had been slightly worried about the logistics of laundry when you heard it was rare to own a washer and dryer in New York, but were surprised to find out how much you ended up liking going there. The satisfying click of the quarters into the machine, the methodical folding of clothes that allowed your mind to wander while your hands were busy, the people watching.

The free wifi, of course, was an added bonus. You used it frequently, your laptop open in front of you now while you trace the edge of the table you sit at with your fingertip. The formica is worn and scratched from use, smooth and cool under your touch and you wonder what it would be like to lay your cheek on it. Your computer screen dark, your gaze is resting instead on your washer across the room while you listen to Cee.

“Where are you?” she asks, the sound of a washer door slamming shut momentarily drowning her out and you push your earbud deeper into your ear.

“The laundromat. It was time.” It was, judging from the outfit you were wearing.

“I told you, you should just do it at my place. We have a washer and dryer. A real luxury,” she teases and you smile, doodling a design in the corner of your notebook.

“Meh, I like it here.” You did — it really had become one of your favorite places. A slice of the city all rolled into one - the constant movement of people around you, the task itself so mundane and normal. Everyone had laundry to do. “Tell me more about this application. What’s it for again?”

“It’s just this short story thing,” she says, going into the details and you listen while narrowing your eyes at someone checking the time on your dryer. Keep it moving.

“I gotta get the outline made,” she continues, getting your attention again. “Hey, wanna go see a movie tonight? Ezra texted me. He had plans, but they got canceled. A date or something.”

You stiffen at the mention of the word date, your brow tugging together. “I didn’t know he was dating anyone.”

“He’s not,” she replies. “But he goes out a lot. Probably doesn’t wanna sit at home with me all the time,” a tone of self deprecating humor creeping into her voice. “He meets people real easy — women are always chatting him up. It’s kinda cringe sometimes, ya know? The way they throw themselves at him.”

You had noticed that.

You’d been hanging out with them a lot lately, since your first trip over to their house. Eager to show you around town, they had been taking you out to dinner at places in their neighborhood; the two of them arguing over which place to go. Lots of visits to tiny, crammed bookstores where both Cee and Ezra had this endearing way of leaning in close to the bindings, crawling their fingers over the titles to keep their place as they browsed.

After a few visits to their house, you thought maybe you sensed something between yourself and Ezra. He had this way of looking at you, his eyes sliding down your body before quickly coming back up with a smile. A touch of his hand against your back in the kitchen, a teasing bump of his shoulder on the couch. Standing close while waiting for a table at dinner, his fingers brushing yours when he took the books in your hand, insisting on paying for them. You had liked it all, maybe a little too much, until you saw that’s how he was with everybody.

Warm, personable, always making small talk, always flirting with that lilt in his voice. It was like it was nothing for him to instantly build a comradery with whoever he met, immediately putting them at ease. He was present and open, familiar in his touches and smiles, but he didn’t always come with and when he was gone, you found yourself waiting for him to show up. Hoping, actually, would be the better word.

You tried to hide it from Cee, assuming that your friend wouldn’t be too happy to know just how much you looked forward to seeing her guardian and probably would like it even less to find out how much you thought about him at night, alone in your bed. Rolling onto your side, slipping your hand out from underneath the waist of your briefs; your body sated and sleepy.

She knew you fairly well by now and sometimes you wondered if she had any idea. Hopefully not - you didn’t want to risk your only friend.

You hear the sound of traffic in the background on her end and thinking about how much you’ve read into his actions, a wave of embarrassment washes through you.

“Anyway, he was bummed,” she continued. “I guess he really wanted to see it. Something about space. You in?”

You didn’t have anything else to do tonight. Tamping down the embarrassment you felt a minute ago and resolutely ignoring the leap in your stomach at the thought of seeing him again, the buzzer of your dryer sounded loud and you stood up, grabbing your canvas bag.

“Sure, sounds good.”

–

It’s funny, especially given how charming he was, that it never entered your mind that Ezra might be out with another woman when he wasn’t around. The word “date” lingering in your mind as you folded your clothes, you didn’t know why you assumed he was with friends, or at a bar, or running antiques errands when he wasn’t around. It’s like the word unlocked something in your brain and you found yourself unable to stop thinking about it that afternoon, the idea still tugging at you when they picked you up for the movie.

Who does he go out with? What kind of women does he like? You thought about these questions as you sat in the backseat of the car, staring at the dark curls on the nape of his neck while he and Cee joked in the front seat. The city slid past your window, the blue tones of twilight bathing the buildings. What was he like with them? Was he like how he is with you? Different?

“You okay back there?” he asked, looking over at you in the ticket line and you nodded with a self conscious smile, embarrassed that your withdrawn silence had been noticed.

Stepping up to the window with an easy confidence that you now knew was just him, you watched him order the tickets and thought about how he did that with everything. Loose in his skin, a stroll when he walked; it was the same kind of casual deftness that you noticed when he cooked, when he drove, when he sanded a desk or paced while he talked on the phone. He knew what he was doing, was comfortable in his body and as you glanced at him standing in line for popcorn, you noticed the breadth of his relaxed shoulders under his T-shirt, the rounded bones of his shoulder blades pulling the fabric into a tight drum.

He stood there like he was meant to be there and it was funny, you couldn’t explain it, of course he was meant to be there but he acted that way everywhere — in line at the coffee shop, at the grocery store, reading in his living room. It was a confidence you admired, one you wish you had. One that told you (and everyone else) he knew what he was doing and you wondered what else he knew how to do.

“Large, right?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in wait for your answer and when you nodded, you liked the way he ordered for you. His actions made you feel taken care of, made you feel as though he had everything under control, which appealed to you, especially since moving here had left you feeling so……unmoored.

His close cropped hair was disheveled as usual, the bright white threading with the dark at his temple and you admired the fine lines surrounding his eyes, the strong bridge of his nose. His tanned skin was clear but textured, aged in a way that made him even more handsome and you longed to touch it just to see how it felt. He shuffled closer to you, making way for someone else to pass him, and you inhaled his masculine, clean smell; the warmth of his body felt so close to yours. He seemed so strong even just standing next to you like this, his frame larger and taller than yours.

Your eyes focused on the tiny curls of dark locks at the nape of his neck, the ones you’ve seen him push his fingers through to scratch absentmindedly when he reads and you wonder what it would be like to do the same. The urge to place your hand on his lower back pulled at your hand, an ache to feel the solidness of his body and you wanted to fist the cotton of his shirt loose at his sides and tug him closer just to fit your lips against that pebbled hollow of skin below his ear and smell him.

You wanted him. More than you’d wanted anyone in a very long time; maybe ever. It was almost unbearable sometimes, the magnet that pulled you toward him and you wondered if he ever felt it too. You thought so, judging by the way he looked at you sometimes, but you assumed it was probably just wishful thinking.

Filing into the theater, you sit between the two of them and when your knee presses against his, you will yourself not to move it away. Again, when his forearm shares your arm rest, again when his shoulder fits neatly against yours. You subtly lean into his warmth while talking to Cee, hoping neither of them notice.

When the lights dim, the tension you feel between your bodies raises a notch and you suddenly feel restless, finding it hard to breathe steadily. He shifts in his seat to get comfortable, the light of the screen illuminating his profile and you fight the urge to look away from the screen and just at him.

Taking a sip of soda to distract yourself, you pause for a moment when he holds his hand out and when you give it to him, you watch the way he takes a slow drink from the same straw. This is so dumb. Why does it turn you on so much that his lips are touching right where yours had just been?

Placing the drink back in the holder, he shifts again in his seat and leaning closer, you are going to ask him if he has enough room, when he has the same idea. Your faces almost come together, his warm breath skimming over your lips, his hand coming up to catch your cheek to steady you and just a moment, your mouths are inches apart.

“Sorry,” you immediately apologize, the whisper felt against his mouth and his eyes drop down to yours for a moment before he catches himself, leaning back.

“It’s okay,” he replies with a smile, but you notice with disappointment the way he pulls away from you, shifting to lean to the other side.

You stare resolutely at the screen in front of you, trying not to feel hurt and the rest of the time is spent trying to ignore the steady, thick tension between the two of your bodies as you try to focus on the movie instead.

–

“Ezra.”

The three of you turn in the lobby at the mention of his name, a woman walking towards you and when she gets close enough, you back away slightly to give them room to hug.

“How are you?” She is pretty, you note, her eyes shining with affection at him.

“I’m okay,” he answers, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he grins at her. “You?”

He looks over his shoulder a moment at Cee, an acknowledgement that he’ll be a minute and as you ask her what she thought about the movie, your eyes keep glancing over at him. The woman’s hand is resting on his arm and he is laughing, an obvious familiarity between the two of them. You wonder how they knew each other. Did they date?

“Hey,” he says, leaving the woman standing and waiting, “I’m gonna go grab a drink.” He gestures over to her, receiving a warm smile in return. “Will you two be okay getting home?” His brow momentarily scrunched in concern, Cee waves it away while rolling her eyes.

“Of course. Go have fun. We won’t wait up.”

He says nothing, his eyes flashing towards yours and you aren’t sure because it happens so fast, but you think you see them skim down your body with something that looks like…want. He turns, walking towards the woman with a smile.

“You ready? Let’s get out of here.”

–

You keep your distance after that. The sting of his rejection felt every time you thought about that night, you felt silly to even feel it because you knew how one sided the crush was - yet you couldn’t stop. Rather than be confronted by his face and the reminder of how he felt sitting so close to you, you start inviting Cee back over to your place. It was better this way, you told yourself. Just end it before it gets any worse.

It wasn’t too hard to avoid him anyway with how school took up most of your time these days. A month or so into the semester, classes were getting harder, deadlines filling up most of your weekends and you didn’t think you had ever read so much in your life. The leaves began to change color outside of the public library as you sat in your favorite spot by the window, the beginning of fall felt in the crisp air as you walked around campus and even as busy as you were, you looked forward to when you and Cee could fit into each other’s schedules.

She liked coming over to your place for dinner, but after almost a month of accepting your invitations, she extended one to you for her place, insisting that she felt bad because you were always cooking for her. You said yes because you didn’t want to hurt her feelings - or, that’s what you told yourself anyway.

A nervous energy lights your body up from the inside out, even more so when you picture his face on the way over to their house and when you climb the familiar stone steps, the front windows are dark. Not sure if anyone is home, you knock just in case, pulling your phone out and getting ready to call Cee, the door opens.

“Hey there.” Ezra stands in the doorway, his fitted t-shirt covered with a fine, light dust and your breath catches at how good he looks; better than you remembered. It’s like seeing him anew after all this time brings the crush back tenfold and hearing the register of his voice reawakens the hunger you felt before.

“I haven’t seen you in awhile. I’ve been asking Cee about you.” He wipes his hands on a rag and you watch the movement for a moment, his features flickering with something like concern shifting into curiosity. “Wanna come in?”

“Sure.”

“She’s not going to be home for a while. I’m just working right now, but come and keep me company. I’ve missed you. Tell me what’s new.”

“Not much,” you replied, dropping your bag by the door and following him back to his work room. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, dust motes slowly swirled in the beams and the trembling, powerful voice of Cat Power sang out into the room before he lowered the volume on his stereo in the corner.

“Just busy with school.” You leaned your hip against the corner of another piece of furniture, the worn cloth covering it coated with fine wood dust. You push a pile of it around with a finger tip, making a small hill. “Not a ton of time for anything else.”

“Sounds lonely.” He returns to his task, sanding the dry, aged wood of the desk in front of him and you watch as he focuses on it for a moment, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Cee’s been keeping you company though, right?”

“Yea, when our schedule’s line up. I know she’s working on that submission right now. It’s been fun talking about it with her when she comes over.”

“She’s at book club right now, right?” He looks up at you, clear interest on his face. “What about you? Have you found any groups to join yet? Any book club or writer groups?” His arm flexes with effort as he pushes the fine grit sandpaper across the edge of the desk. “Cee found some on Meet-Up, have you used that? Or Tinder, maybe? Depending on what kinds of activities you’re looking for?” He thumbs at an imperfection and looks up, a curl of a grin under his mustache and you huff a laugh.

You feel embarrassed at the question, not wanting to admit the trouble you had finding friends in this city. He made it sound so easy, like you could just go out and join groups and find your people and it probably was that easy for him - he definitely seemed like the type who could do that. You hadn’t seen him for a month and he’s picking up like no time has passed at all between the two of you, not missing a beat. It relaxes you, puts you at ease and you think about how much you missed him.

You don’t want to touch on Tinder, not wanting to tell him that you did recently join it, but the profiles of the boys on there all seemed so much like…..boys. Their youthful pictures and clever captions did nothing for you; your actual type standing in front of you right now.

“Tinder? Really?” you deflect and he laughs.

“I don’t know, whatever site you use these days to hook up.”

“Hook up?” you tease, and he smirks, looking you directly in the eyes.

“Fuck then, Birdie - is that what you wanna call it?” He says it softly at first, his voice lowered in concentration on his task, but when he looks up, his eyes don’t leave yours, mischief in them. “However you find someone to fuck.”

You freeze, a shift in the room and the way he is holding your eye contact feels like a test — one you don’t want to back down from. A pulse beats between your legs at the sound of that word rolling off his tongue.

“Right..,” you reply and he seems to delight in your hesitation, standing to full height.

“Come on, Birdie, you can tell me,” he says smoothly. “I know from the way you don’t want to answer right now, you’ve been on there. Don’t forget - I raised Cee. I know all about deflecting when someone doesn’t want to talk about their love life.”

“A boy? A girl?” he presses, and you shake your head.

“A boy, definitely.”

“A boy?”

“A man,” you correct, suddenly feeling like you were being walked backwards into a trap.

“A man?” He raises his eyebrows and your face heats. He has you right where he wants you and you bit your lip with a smile, trying to back your way out of it.

“I —“, the door interrupting your sentence and you both pause, listening to Cee come in. She announces her arrival, calling out Ezra’s name, then yours and he grins at you for a moment, tossing the sandpaper from hand to hand before going back to his task.

–

Dinner made and served - enchiladas, with fresh guacamole on the side - Ezra came into the kitchen briefly only to get his plate, thank Cee for dinner and to disappear back into his work room. You had watched him go, feeling a mixture of relief that he wasn’t staying and a yearning for him to come back. He spent most of the evening there, the whine of an electric sander sounding down the hallway at some point and eventually, you heard a door shut and the shower start up. Not that you were keeping tabs on his whereabouts in the house, obviously.

You and Cee had started with homework, but had long since abandoned it in favor of scrolling through the NYC events page for the upcoming fall weekends and as it got later and after a couple of Tito’s and sparkling water cocktails later, the plans you were making were getting more and more elaborate. The stress of school was starting to squeeze in and you both were antsy for some time off.

“We should just get out of here for a little bit,” she suggests, squeezing a little more lime juice into her glass. “Or maybe – ooooh, what if we rented a little cabin and had a weekend away in the woods?”

You nod enthusiastically, leaning back in your chair. You stretch your arms in front of you, your body cramped from hovering over the screen for the last hour. “That would be awesome. It would be nice to get out of the city for a couple of days for sure.”

“What are you ladies doing in here?” Ezra strolls into the room and over to the table, his hand resting on the back of your chair as he bends down to look at the laptop over your shoulder and you can smell the crisp dampness of his shower. “Wanna come watch TV with me?”

Cee nods, grabbing her drink and standing up. “We don’t have a lot of streaming options, but we have regular TV. Ezra likes the gamble of what you might find,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Me? You’re the little channel rat, always digging around in the menus to see what the weirdest show you can find is.” He settles into the couch, fishing around for the remote and Cee takes the other chair in the room, reaching behind her for a blanket.

“Remember that crazy knife show? The one we found at like, 11pm one night, about those two guys having a competition on who could make the best knife? And the ridiculous way,” she starts laughing, the sound breaking up her words and he joins her, “they tested them? Cutting weird shit in half?”

“You were addicted to it, don’t lie,” he laughs again. “You wanted to make your own knife after that. You wanted to cut shit in half too.”

“Come on,” he says, patting the cushion next to him. “Let’s see what we can find.” He winks.

–

You never did sleep very well at other people’s houses. You needed a cool room, your fan blowing, the backdrop of the street noise floating in through the window and you heard a little of that, but not enough. You turn onto your side, looking at Cee’s profile in the dark. She is fast asleep, her face relaxed in slumber, her light hair a tumble on the pillow and you envy the slow, deep rise and fall of her chest.

Hoping that a glass of water would help, you get up and when you pad into the kitchen, the hardwood floors under your feet chill your body; the loose t-shirt and sleep shorts Cee lent you not warm enough to keep it out. The flickering light of the TV casts shadows into the hallway, drawing you further into the living room and you see Ezra, slumped under a throw, watching television. He looks up at you, giving you a tired smile and he shifts slightly, making a small effort to sit up straighter.

“Did you need something?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you reply. You sit down next to him on the couch, trying to keep a polite distance between your bodies, but when he sees you bring your bare legs up and curl your arms around them with a slight shiver, he scoots closer, draping half the blanket he is using over them. It’s just large enough for the two of you and once you’re settled, his eyes drift back to the TV. “Couldn’t sleep?

“No. I came out to get a drink of water, thinking it might help, and then saw you. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. As long as you’re okay with late night reruns.” He’s trying to be quiet, the husk of his voice deep and gravely and he sinks deeper into the cushions, leaning slightly towards you.

You couldn’t care less what was on the screen, your body filling with a slow spreading tension at sitting so close to him, sharing his blanket. The thick, soft material is warm, even more so filled with the heat of his body and if you shift even slightly to the side, you know your knee would be touching his thigh.

“Cee seems like she’s excited about that submission,” you make conversation and he nods, a smile curling at the edge of his lips. A tired one, laced with pride.

“Yea, she’s been talking about it a lot.” He turns his head to face you. “What about you? You find anything like that?”

Resting your teeth on your lower lip, you slowly nod. “I’ve just been working on this story, outside of class. Something for myself. I was thinking about maybe trying to submit it somewhere.” You meet his eyes with a shrug.

“Could I read it?”

He asks the question while scratching his thigh and when you feel his knuckles graze your skin under the blanket, everything in your body pulls tight and focuses on that spot. “What’s it about?” His hand stays in place, resting on his leg.

“It’s —,” you stumble, not quite knowing how to answer. You wanted to tell him the truth, but also wanted to make it sound as boring as possible so that he wouldn’t be interested. His opinion meant a lot to you, or maybe it’s that you wanted to impress him — either thought halting you for a moment. It’s not like you’ve had issues sharing your writing before. “It’s a romance. Or — it’s more fiction, actually, but there is romance in it. I don’t think you’d be into it.”

“You wound me, Birdie.” His words are said softly, yet with a hint of mock hurt, a glance up at you with a grin so you know he’s teasing. “What makes you think I’m not into romance?”

Birdie — you felt a flush of joy at the nickname he’s called you after that first night in the car. “I don’t know,” you laugh, meeting his gaze. “You don’t seem like the type, I guess.”

He raises his eyebrows, seemingly agreeing with you. “What type do I seem like, then?”

“I don’t know,” you stall. You want to say “someone who seems like they would read something much smarter than romance”, but it dies on your tongue, sounding too much like something a crush would say. “Regular fiction, I guess. Maybe sci-fi or something.”

“I do like those. I like a good Western too.” He grins, flicking his attention back to the TV for a moment and you admire the glow of his profile bathed in the light before he looks back at you. “But I also like romance.”

“Just for the dirty parts, right?” The teasing words fly out of your mouth before you can stop them and he surprises you with a laugh.

“Of course,” he says.

You let the silence linger between the two of you for a moment, commercials playing in the background. You pick at the blanket with your fingers, wondering if he knows the back of his hand is still touching your skin and you fight the urge to move your leg just to feel his skin slide against yours.

“This submission. If I get it, I’d have to move. It’s like a workshop thing, in London.” He looks at the hesitancy on your face, the way you rest your teeth on your lower lip in thought. “But I don’t know. I probably won’t get it.” You shrug, as if you’ve already given up on it and he frowns at the gesture.

“I’m sure you will, and then we’ll miss you.”

“You will, huh?” The smile on your face is a rueful one, hope lighting dimly in your chest before you could stop it.

“I’ve grown used to having you around. Or, I did. I’ve been thinking about you.” Your heart picks up pace at the words, even though your mind wills you not to read too deep into it. He cares, is all. Just like he cares for Cee. “Missed seeing your face around here.”

He hesitates, his eyes dropping down to your lips for a moment before coming back up to meet your gaze and you wait, your breath held in your throat. Under the blanket, his fingers move, only just and he watches your face. You feel a heavy weight build between your legs, his finger resting lightly on the inside of your knee before tracing the smallest of circles on the bare skin and you don’t think you’ve ever been so turned on in your life. He could do anything to you right now and you wouldn’t stop him - all because of one finger.

“Why did you stop coming around?” he asks, his finger a slow, maddening circular path and it takes you a minute to answer.

“I, um,” you swallow, trying to steady your voice. “I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. Didn’t want you to get sick of me always hanging around.”

“I wouldn’t get sick of you.” His words were directed at your mouth, said with no real conviction and you didn’t dare move; both scared that you would disrupt the moment and also held captive by his gaze. He says nothing more, swallowing slowly and you watch the bob of his throat. A second finger joins the first, this one barely skimming the ridge of your knee and you knew he was doing it on purpose, but his eyes search yours, like he was waiting for you to stop him.

You thought about how much you have wanted this; how much you want it now. How you wished he had done this in the movie theater, or at any time during your dinners over here, or in the car when he drove you home. The woman he left with the other day suddenly entered your mind, releasing a flood of images along with it: him, flirting with the baristas at the coffee shop, with the waitresses at dinner, with the staff at the bookstore. The way he touched that woman, his hand on her back as he led her from the lobby. He doesn’t really want you, a voice in your head said quietly. You’re too young for him. You’re here - that’s enough for him. This doesn’t mean anything.

You push against those thoughts, thinking now of Cee. Of what she would think if she walked into the living room right now and saw the two of you. You weren’t doing anything, even though you wanted to do everything, but thinking of how hurt she would be to find out you wanted to sleep with basically her father - you didn’t want to risk it for what was probably just boredom on his end.

“I don’t know about that,” you continued, looking back at the TV, the words sounding sadder than you wanted them too and his brow furrowed; his finger stopping. You looked back at him. His face shifted from want into a resigned, tired look.

“You should probably get to bed,” he withdrew his hand, pulling away on the couch and directing his gaze back at the TV and it was like he had suddenly shifted from Ezra your friend to Ezra the parent. “It’s late.”

You already missed his fingers. Hurt by the rejection that you brought on, you suddenly wanted nothing more than to curl up under a blanket and hide, nursing your confused feelings alone. You nodded, pulling the blanket off your lap.

“Goodnight.”

Knowing full well you weren’t going to sleep any better than you had been and feeling the heaviness of his gaze on your back, you made your way back to Cee’s room.

Fuck.

#ezra prospect #ezra prospect/you #ezra prospect/reader #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect x reader

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shorkbrian · 3 years

Note

yandere Aizawa x male reader, reader has a wet dream and doesn't know what it is so he asks Aizawa {overstimulation dry humping}

(What to expect - Incest (please I am begging you, if that’s not your cup of tea, scroll past), NSFW, Dubcon, dry humping, groping, Aizawa in teacher mode.)

Aizawa wakes up as you trundle past his room, all of your blankets and sheets wrapped up in your arms, some of them dragging against the floor.

The man’s curiosity is piqued, and of course he wants to make sure his son is okay, so he leaves his bed, follows the noises of someone awake until he finds you in the laundry room.

You’re in nothing but your boxers, back bare as you’re facing away from him, legs spread for balance as you stuff your bedding into the washing machine, struggling with it.

“Everything alright?”

You freeze, a little gasp falling past your lips as you hear your dad behind you, voice rough and scratchy with sleep. “Uhm, yeah! I’m fine.”

But that doesn’t explain why you’re up in the middle of the night, washing your sheets.

Aizawa steps closer, peers at you curiously. “What happened?” His gaze is focused on your rear, how it looks as you shift in place, unscrewing the laundry soap and adding it to the load.

“I.... Well....uhm-” Reluctant, you avoid the question.

“Are you okay?” Dad asks, stepping ever closer, and you nod your head, cheeks burning with shame.

“IthinkIwetthebed.”

“What?”

You bend, rest your head against the washing machine as you groan in shame, forced to repeat yourself. You know how much dad hates mumbling. But it’s so embarrassing! “I... I wet the bed.... I think...”

Aizawa’s mind churns. You’re too old for that, haven’t wet the bed since you were a child. There’s moonlight coming through the laundry room window, and Aizawa can see the way your thighs rub together, the slight flush on your skin, can hear the breathy tremble in your voice.

“Mm, I don’t think that’s it.” He steps closer, and now he’s almost pressed to your back, heat radiating from his bare chest. “Were you dreaming?”

A hot blush rises to your cheeks as you straighten suddenly, press closer to the washing machine to avoid the press of your father’s body. “U-uhm, yeah-yeah.”

“About what?” Aizawa touches your shoulder, soft, warm. His other hand grazes against your hip.

“Just-just stuff, y’know.” You try, but you can almost hear dad’s frown.

“What were you dreaming about?” His hands slide against your back, tease at your shoulder blades, ease up and over until they’re eating against your clavicle.

“Izuku.” You rush out, tears rising in your eyes. This is embarrassing, wetting the sheets and getting interrogated after.

“I see.” Dad slides his hands down further, down your chest, skims over your nipples. “What was he doing?”

You always try to be truthful, shy away from lies of half-truths, but right now, you really wish you could find a way to stop the truth from tumbling out of your mouth. “He... was touching me.”

Aizawa leans closer, until he’s pressed against your back. Your whispered reply has him humming as his hands play with your chest, smooth over the skin, squeeze at the barely-there fat. “Was he touching you here? Or-”

One hand drops to your crotch, easily finds your half-hard dick, gropes it through your boxers and you squirm, gasping out a plea. “-Here?”

“There, there.” You confirm, both aching to back away from the touch and buck up into it. Dad’s hands are so big, and he knows how to touch just right, squeezing gently at your shaft.

Aizawa smiles a bit, rocks his hips against yours, and you feel his length press against your rear at the same time that his hips press you more firmly against his hand. “You like Midoriya? He’s a handsome man.”

“I.......uh.....” You can’t think anymore, not with dad plucking at your nipples with one. hand, teasing and stroking you over your boxers with the others. He’s so hot against your ass, and you can feel his length, bigger than your own, trying to slide between your cheeks.

“You didn’t wet the bed, you had a wet dream. There’s a difference.” Aizawa explains, slowly finding a comfortable rhythm of humping against your ass, which drives you forward against his hand where he rubs at your cock.

“A wet dream is when you ejaculate during your sleep. It’s more common during puberty, but not unheard of in adulthood.” He’s in teaching mode, but you’re barely listening, instead gasping and bucking your hips forward, rocking your ass back. You can’t decide which feels better.

“Sometimes the dream contains erotic material, sometimes not. It seems you had some particularly pleasant imagery of Midoriya, and that caused you to ejaculate. There’s no shame in that. It means you’re a healthy young man.”

You nod your head, trying to convey that you’re trying your best to listen, but there’s a pleasant feeling building up in your stomach, and you know you’re about to cum.

Then dad leans even closer, grabs your bulge, uses his hold there to drag you back against his body where he rubs his clothed erection against your ass. “Do you ever dream of daddy?”

You don’t know what to say, can only manage a squeaky “Uhm-” before Aizawa cuts you off

“Daddy dreams of you.”

The thought has you spurting in your boxers, wetting dad’s hand, messing your clean boxers. The man keeps massaging you through it, and it feels so good, you can’t stop rocking your hips again and again and again.

You collapse against the washing machine, exhausted, cheek resting against the cool metal as you heave out breaths. Your crotch is sticky, and dad moves his hand away, to your thighs to rub the skin there soothingly.

“Dad-wha-what?”

Then you’re being pinned against the machine, Aizawa curling over your body as his hips never stop, working smoothly against your ass. It grinds your softened cock against the edge of the machine, and you can’t catch a breath, can’t formulate thoughts. You just came, you need a minute, you need-you need-

“I have dreams where I’m fucking you. You’d look so good all spread out, letting me fuck you nice and slow. I’d keep going, even after you cum. You’re young, your refractory period is much shorter than mine. You can probably get it up again in a few minutes.”

Your hands are scrabbling against the machine, back against your dad’s body. It’s too much, this is all too much, you can’t-

“”Dad please! ah-ahh! ‘M sens-sensitive!” You whimper, and only then does Aizawa chuckle, pull away from your body.

“You can sleep in my room tonight, yeah? We’ll get your bedding in the morning.”

You’re dazed, pliant and sleepy after your second orgasm of the night. You barely protest as dad leads you to his bedroom.

You’re going to have a lot more material for wet dreams now.

#aizawa #shouta aizawa #bnha aizawa #aizawa shouta #aizawa smut #aizawa sensei #aizawa x y/n #shoto aizawa #my hero academia aizawa #mha aizawa #aizawa x reader #tw.incest #tw.dubcon

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 3 years

Note

Something hoochie with Luke and working on his solo album

Taking limited requests. 4 slots left.

Hoochie, but make it soft. So soft. CW: NSFW 18+ Content.

______________________________________

Dealing with things positively sucked and Luke was sure that his plan previously to keep living, keep burying was the best for him. But there was progress--and he couldn't deny that. He could actually talk to you about things. The wall that made it seem like it was always going to be on an emotional island or emotional hell was cracking and it felt good.

But it fucking hurt--to realize so many mistakes he made. Knowing that's not the kind of person he wanted to be, not anymore. And right now, he fucked up. You asked him to help you clean the kitchen taking the trash out and help you clean the top of the cabinets. Easy work really in the grand scheme of it all. If it had just buckled up and got fucking down to it, he would be done already.

But the house is way too silent. At first he doesn't hear it due to the guitars and keys in his ears, but in his pause and stretch in the computer chair, he realizes in fact the house is too quiet. When he looks up to the time in the right hand corner of his laptop, his jaw drops. He asked for five more minutes before helping you. And you agreed--because five minutes was reasonable. But not this. This was far from reasonable.

"Holy fuck," he mutters, spinning around in his chair. "Babe, I'm so sorry," he shouts, only realizing the door is closed and most likely keeping his voice from carrying outside of the makeshift studio. "Babe!" he calls again, taking the hallway in a half job.

How had an hour passed? One moment he was just importing tracks, fully intending to stop there and but then he wanted to check them to make sure the takes were as clean as he could get them before cutting anything else together.

When he skids to a halt in the kitchen, you're at the table, a plate of crumbs in front of you. "I know I asked for five minutes and then I totally spaced. And it's not an excuse. I should have set a timer. I'm very sorry," Luke says, approaching slowly from your left.

"I'm trying hard not to blow my top, Luke. I just--I agreed to the five minutes because that was reasonable. I figured I could do something else in that time until you were ready. And then I tried to knock and call your name. And you didn't answer."

"My headphones were on. But really, I should've set an alarm. I can help now. Do you still need help?"

You shake your head. "No, I finished it up."

"Baby, that's not safe. If you had of fallen--"

"I didn't fall," you interrupt, staring into the glass in front of you. The water glistens in the sun and for a moment you hate it. Hate how pretty it is, how much it doesn't care given all the shit you're going through right now. And you know it's not right to blame sunlight and water. And you're trying not to blame Luke. You're trying not to make him into the villian.

Luke doesn't like how sad your voice is. "Let's talk about it?" He walks around the table and settles across from you. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I just--" you start and then stop. "I feel like this has been happening a lot. And I don't want to feel like I'm being neglected."

He never meant to make you feel that way. But just because he hadn't wanted to, didn't mean he hadn't. "I'm very sorry I've made you feel that way. I know I need to do better. Do you think you have that kind of capacity? To give me time to get better?" The language is awkward on his tongue but his therapist says not making assumptions and using language that gives others choice is going to serve best. So he's careful as he speaks to make sure he's not making any assumptions on your behalf.

You sigh, but nod. "I do. I think that maybe putting household stuff on a schedule can help?"

Luke nods. "I like that idea. It would force me to track of time too." The silence envelopes the two of you and you look up to his face. Luke looks pensive, as if trying to decipher something.

"Is-is there something else you want to say?"

Luke blinks, turning his icy blue eyes back to you. "Not right now. But when I get the right words later, I'll let you know."

You nod, picking up your plate and taking it to the sink. Luke's voice floats up from behind you. "Do you need help with anything else?"

"No, I think I'm going to take a nap."

Luke hums, to let you know he's heard you. And when you shuffle just over to the couch, Luke walks back to the sink, washing the plate and a few sparse cups left by the two of you.

You curl up around Petunia and drifting into sleep isn't hard. Luke watches your breathing slow and become steady. He keeps his distance in the kitchen, watching you from the table. If you already finished cleaning the kitchen, he wonders if cleaning the bathrooms were next on your list.

Yeah, he can do that. Clean the bathrooms, and do the laundry. And once that's done if you're awake, he'll draw you a bath. First he checks to see if your favorite sweets are in the pantry. If they aren't he'll go out and get them and a few other grocery. But you're well stocked. So he careful goes down the hallway, grabbing all the cleaning supplies.

Luke's careful to shut the door to the bathroom so the running water doesn't wake you. He sprays down the tub and walls and let's it sit for moment as he clears off the counters and the top of the toilet cover. Once those are clear and cleaned he turns his attention back to the tub. With that clean he wipes down the mirror and lines the inside of the toilet with cleaner.

It gets a little stuffy, so he cracks the door just a smidge. His har flops in his face, and he pushes it back with the back of his hands. He can't keep letting this kind of stuff happen. Maybe Mondays are kitchen days. A way to reset after the weekend. Then Tuesdays could be laundry. Or maybe Tuesday's can be bathroom days and then Wednesdays can be laundry.

Done with the the first bathroom, he carries his supplies to the master bathroom.

Something about laundry on Wednesdays feels better to Luke. Right now it's being done on as needed basis, and there wasn't anything wrong is that. But he felt like sometimes because of this he was constantly running the bottom of the barrel for his own clothes. So doing it more consistently would help him with that.

Luke finishes the master bathroom quicker than he anticipated and then heads to the half bath and cleans that quickly. By the time he's done his shirt is just starting to cling to him. He feels off the gloves, puts all the buckets and cleaners back up. You still sleep peacefully on the couch and Luke grabs the laundry pins from the closet--both yours and his.

While laundry wasn't always Luke's favorite, mostly because separating out the delicates, darks, and lights, made his head hurt, he threw together a little chart that you got lamented and hang up in the laundry room to help whenever he's not sure. And it feels stupid sometimes, but at this point it's just about making sure that he can do things done, no matter how they get there.

Luke runs the light colors first with only a handful of delicates. The darks is a larger pile, but he's worried if he runs them first something will get left behind and stain.

By the time he gets lights out of the dryer and starts to transfer over the darks into the machine, you knock on the door modeling. Luke smiles as he looks up, letting the few things in his hand, drop into the dryer. "How was your nap?"

"It was good." You spy the basket full of light colored clothes and go to pick it up but Luke's vocalizations to get you to drop the basket stop you.

"I got it. How about I draw you a bath once I get all these into the dryer?"

"Luke, you don't have to."

"But I want to," he counters, head dropping to make sure the shirt in his hands can go into the dryer. It can't so he drapes it onto the pile on the side of other things that need to get hung up to dry.

"Will you join me?" you ask, hiking up the basket in his distraction.

"If you'd like."

"I would."

When Luke turns, he sees the basket in your hands. "Hey, I told you I was going to do that."

"Well if you're joining me in a bath, you're going to need help folding clothes."

For a moment, he glares at you, but when you don't back down he hiccups out a laugh. "Fine, I guess."

*****

The water's warm as you step into it, Luke's already submerged, pressed up against the back wall. You settle between his legs and let the bubbles lap up against your chest. Luke encases your waist once you're under the water with his arms. The bubbles smell like lavender as the scent softly creeps up your nose.

There's not many words. Not even as Luke kisses across your shoulder and his fingers skate across the skin of your side. You sigh at the feeling and sink further into him. "I'm sorry again," he whispers against your ear.

"I accept your apology," you return just as quiet. "We'll just have to figure something out. Like we always do."

Luke smiles for a moment. Like we always do. Because you two always do. You manage to work things out and come out better. He just wished it wasn't always something to fix. he wished that he could get it together without it falling apart. It felt like a leaky boat sometimes, just scoping out enough water to keep afloat.

He just barely catches the feel of your hands running over his thighs and he shivers. And it's just stillness for a moment, maybe even two. But you stretch up and turn just a hair to kiss him. And Luke lets himself go into the kiss. His hands wander your body, gripping at the flesh and it's just enough pressure to make you moan, just enough of squeeze to make you give into the tingly that runs down your spine.

The water sloshes just a little as you spin all the way around, climbing onto his lap. You're thankful for such a large bathtub right now as your arms wind around his neck and you find his lips again in a kiss. It's slow, not rushed in any sense, but still dizzying. You pull away from Luke and he chases you down.

A giggle falls from your lips. "Thank you," you whisper. "For doing this. But for also working hard to make this relationship work."

Luke should be used to the patience, to the gratitude. But it still blows him away everytime you are firm, but willing to help. "Thank you. For, like, literally everything."

You two share another kiss, deeper than the last and you ever so gently rock against Luke's length. Luke groans into the kiss. "Please," he says so softly against your neck, his lips barely closing around your skin to give you kisses.

"Hmm," you start with a devilish grin crossing your lips. "Please, what? I need words."

His fingers dig into your hips and the air's leaving his lungs at the feeling of you against him. With a firm grip onto his hair, you tilt his head back. His eyes are blown but he smiles at you. "Of course you need words," he finally responds.

You quirk an eyebrow--a warning. But Luke's never needed more than that to get back in line.

"Please fuck me," he finally returns.

"That's more like it," you smile and seal his lips in a kiss briefly. "I'm more than happy too."

#luke hemmings #luke hemmings blurb #luke hemmings smut #luke hemmings imagine #luke hemmings fluff #luke hemmings 5sos #5sos #h writes #5sos fanfic #luke hemmings fanfic #luke hemmings fic #5sos smut #5sos fic #5sso blurb #5sos imagine

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impaladolan · 3 years

Text

Home Alone - Grayson Dolan

summary: after a long week of work, y/n needs some sort of relaxation and relief. although, her outlook on relieving her frustrations isn’t what grayson had in mind...

warnings: tid bit fluffy, swearing, vibrator use, & smut

a/n: been in my unfinished drafts for a bit..

"Are you sure you don't want to tag along, baby?" Grayson longingly questioned, his brows crinkled and his lips almost forming a pout.

"I haven't been able to do laundry all week. God knows it won't get done unless I do it now." Y/N chuckles, balancing a full basket of freshly dried clothes on her hip, watching her lover wrap his fist around the front door's handle.

Every other weekend, at the Dolan residences, the two brothers, and sometimes their wives, would gather with some of their friends and watch their favorite football teams. And later on, they'd play board games or watch some movies. Normally, Y/N would be the one begging Grayson to hurry up and get ready to attend the biweekly event, except this time.

Y/N has different plans...

It had been a brutal week at work, her boss was currently taking out her "divorce emotions" on her employees and Y/N was getting the rougher end of it. She was relieved when it was finally the weekend and she could stress clean, calm her nerves in some sort of self efficient way and relax after a tough couple days.

She hadn't even had the thought of a sexual release, until she had dreamt multiple naughty scenarios just last night during her deep slumber. She couldn't exactly pinpoint what all she had dreamed, but she remembers waking up with a dripping arousal and a sore ache at her very center. And though her husband was laid right next to her, perfectly capable of satisfying her womanly needs, she decided using other resources would be a better fit.

Don't get her wrong, she loves being pleasured by the only man who knows exactly how to, but she felt embarrassed. She didn't want to come across as a sex-crazed women to Grayson, even though it would never make a difference to him.

They're married, for goodness sake.

"I can stay back and help out. We could even have our own little movie night if you wanted," He began, releasing his hand from the door and taking a few steps toward Y/N, whose lips turned into a cheesy smile as he drew closer to her.

"Just you and me," He took the basket filled with clothes from her hip and set it on the floor, intertwining his large hands with her smaller ones, eliciting a short laugh from Y/N. He brought her closer to his frontside, creating a ballroom dance-like formation and began shuffling around with her in his arms. Like an old married couple, they slowly danced around the room, him twirling her in his grasp while Y/N admirably gazed upon him.

Her cheeks were rosy with admiration, finding his little act of affection adorable. "You get easily distracted, huh?" Y/N grinned, resting her chin happily on his shoulder, his minuscule beard hairs tickling certain parts of her neck.

"Well, you looked too pretty over here by yourself," He softly explained against her ear. "And I wanted to dance around a room with a beautiful woman like you. So, I am." He lowered his hands beneath her and slew her into a romantic dip, planting a sweet kiss upon her lips. She returned one back, feeling her heart grow two sizes larger, much like the Grinch movie portrays, if anything.

"Grayson, I know how much you enjoy football, especially with the boys," She was only making excuses, but he had tempted her to just cuddle on the couch all day and watch plethoras of movies and munch on various snacks. But the low rattle in the depths her core was motioning her in a different way, and she just couldn't survive the rest of the day without fixing her little problem.

"Hmm, you're right. But when I get back, we're ordering take out and watching movies. Got it?" He chuckles, bringing the both of them back up into a standing position.

"M'hm, be safe." Y/N smiles, planting another kiss on her lover's lips before leaving his warmth. She waved goodbye to him as he left their abode, sweetly grinning as she went back to finishing up the laundry before the real reason she was staying home, would begin.

Though the couple's intimate relations seemed innocent and loving, they each had a different side to them, specifically in the bedroom.

The two never shied away from new experiences and would most certainly dabble into different areas of the "sex world," if you will. They, of course, had their preferences and different kinks, but Y/N seemed to be more open and freeing for that sort of stuff.

For the different occasions that they felt a bit more lustful and yearning for one another, they kept a locked trunk of knickknacks in their closet. You see, that's the one Grayson knows about, but Y/N keeps a smaller one, filled to the brim with all of her own toys, in a section of her closet that he never really pays attention to. If he had any idea that she kept self-pleasuring items for her own uses, he'd be absolutely ballistic.

Thankfully, he doesn't...

The moment Y/N threw the last bits of dirty laundry left, into the washer, she practically sprinted to their shared bedroom. After rummaging through the trunk filled with "accessories," she found a nice, pretty pink vibrator to do the trick, as well as a black silk blindfold to shield her own eyes. She was already rid of her clothes and sprawled across the wide bed in an instance, tying the piece of cloth over her eyes.

Though, unbeknownst to Y/N, Grayson was already on his way back home. As soon as he had pulled into his brother's driveway, they had called to cancel— a certain emergency about something Grayson didn't really pay attention to listen to. He was thrilled that he didn't have to leave Y/N at home, all by herself to do chores all day. And luckily, their houses weren't too far apart from each other, so Grayson was back home within fifteen minutes of leaving it.

He didn't feel the need to text Y/N, she was probably busy anyway and possibly wouldn't respond. He figured she would hear the garage door open and expect that he was already home.

Little does he know...

As soon as he was parked and out of his vehicle, Grayson was trudging down stairs to the laundry room, in search of Y/N. He was surprised that she wasn't there, but he figured she might just be folding on the couch, trying to get ahead on one of the TV series the two were drawn into.

Grayson chuckles as he makes his way back upstairs, though his brows curtly furrow, his ears almost perking at the muffled sounds coming from the hallway.

Their shared room, to be precise.

With a pondering look upon his face, he kicks off his shoes and makes his way towards his bedroom, quietly twisting the door handle and pushing it inward. He opens the door wide enough to secretly look inside, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness that enveloped the entire expanse. The noises he had heard only seconds ago were more prominent, and his eyes had fallen on the object creating the aroused sounds;

Y/N.

She was laid out on their bed, legs wide open and shaking while her hands were constantly pressuring a fucking sex toy against her soaked pussy. Grayson froze, pure anger washing over him and turning his face a turbulent shade of red, washing away his pleasant mood. He almost stormed in there, ready to rip the stupid machine away from her hands and show her what a real orgasm feels like.

But he somehow contained himself, and instead, watched the scene play out in front of his very own eyes, vexation spilling from his entire countenance.

Y/N didn't hear the garage door open and close, or even the beep of Grayson's truck when he locked it. She hadn't even heard his feet stomping up and down the stairs, or his lingering chuckles. She was so caught up in how she was feeling.

The artificial vibrations that buzzed upon her core made the world around her so euphoric and heavenly. She'd brush the toy upon her clit, forcing her entire body shake with deep pleasure and a soft moan to emit from her mouth. It felt so nice, and she was so close to the brink of releasing.

She was already feeling better, and naughty. If Grayson were to find her this way, masturbating freely in the open and satisfying herself, she would never live to see another day. But she didn't care at this point, she just wanted to finally cum.

And she was extremely close.

Her hips began to buckle, while her backside rose from the bed and her free hand twisted at the sheets beneath her. "Mm- just a little more—" Her entire core was pulsating, so fucking close to just letting go.

So close..

"Don't fucking cum yet, slut." Grayson's voice boomed throughout the room, making Y/N's movements freeze in terror and shock. Before she could think of some sort of explanation or reasoning as to what she's doing, her blindfold is ripped from her eyes, while the vibrator that was once nuzzled up on her pussy, was taken away as well. Now, she felt so empty and wanting, edged to an almost release.

"Jesus- You're fucking dripping, for fucksake." His tone was harsh, and Y/N felt like crying. She held onto her tears as she watched him examine the drenched vibrator, still buzzing in his hands. Out of the loss of contact, she began to whine, squeezing her thighs together to create at least a little bit of friction.

"Grayson, please—" She began to huff, but her shuttering voice was interrupted by the aggravated man pacing in front of her.

"I don't think I fucking asked you to talk, did I?" He glared at her, though just the sight of Y/N's exposed body made him shudder with a tinge of want.

Against his wishes, Y/N continued her whines, her breathing still ragged and finally her own hand traveling down to her soaked heat. She didn't care if she'd be in more trouble, she just needed to unravel the knot inside her, whether she'd pay for that mistake later or if not.

She didn't get far, because Grayson caught her wrist before it made it all the way down to her center, and brought it up to the headboard. He wrapped a leather strip around both of her wrists, mumbling incoherent spews of anger, doing the same with her ankles against the bedposts.

"I-I, I thought you were gonna watch football.." She began, but a low growl sounded from Grayson, and the blindfold was placed back over her eyes, while a different type of cloth was shoved in her mouth. Y/N feels the numbing slap across her thigh before hearing the connection's sound, an exasperated scream muffling out of her filled mouth.

"I'd stop talking if I were you. Unless you want to be choked by Daddy’s fucking cock, darling." His voice rattled her insides, and she dared not to make another sound, already dug far too deep in a hole anyway. "Get ready princess, m'gonna edge the fuck out of you. Maybe then, you'll remember to ask me for permission to use your fucking toys." His voice soon faded from her ears as a higher vibration than before was nudged right up against her swollen clit, making her figure convulse in imploding pleasure.

It took an entire hour for Grayson to edge Y/N twelve fucking times. She was a mess, sweat droplets dotting her hairline while her pussy remained in slippery shambles. He didn't say a word, and Y/N held her tongue from shouting profanities after the several losses of contact. She hadn't came yet, but if she didn't soon— she would find a way to get out of her restraints and finish off what she had started herself.

It had been several minutes since Grayson had pulled her to the brink of an orgasm, and she was starting to think that he'd never come back. She had heard the sound of a zipper earlier, and she couldn't tell if he was doing something to ease his own pain while she laid there, so high strung and breathless. She was about to call out his name, but the warmth of his tongue wrapped around her bundle of nerves and she let out an exasperated sigh, pulling on the cuffs tied around her wrists.

He slipped his tongue in skillful motions, his hands pushing up underneath her thighs as he lapped up her liquids. Y/N was so sensitive to touch, anything that remotely stroked her could heighten her arousal and make her lust for more.

Within seconds, her hips were shaking and her back arched above the mattress, her toes curling under the pressure. And his voice finally sang the heavenly words she had been waiting for the entire time;

"Cum, princess."

Y/N released all over his lips, a high-pitched scream sounding from her mouth as she finally unravels, her legs bucking against their restraints. She spits out the cloth from her mouth and heavily breathes, murmuring praises to the man between her legs.

"I'm sorry, Grayson."

a/n: did this completely suck? i haven’t really written in third person in awhile, so i need honest opinions..

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kodzumie-archived · 3 years

Note

hi! sorry, i think my request was too specific so lemme rephrase: poly! nagito x reader x kokichi, with a loving and considerate reader -💙

❝SWEETHEART’S CONVEYANCE❞

Synopsis; What are the the antongnistic duo like in a polyamorous relationship with a loving partner?

Featuring; Kokichi Oma x GN! Reader x Nagito Komaeda

Warning(s); Polyamorous, romantic relationship, self-degradation (Nagito), and suppression of vulnerability (Kokichi).

Kodzumie’s Note; Ahh, the original request wasn’t too specific, don’t worry, dear! But thank you for being so considerate! And also, thank you for being my first polyamory request! This request makes me so happy, I felt obligated to do it as soon as possible, hehe. And of course you can be our beloved 💙 anon! I’m so happy to have you with us! <3

➤ KOKICHI OMA & NAGITO KOMAEDA

⤷ Contrary to bystander belief, this relationship would be as boisterous as it is philanthropic; built upon a foundation of veiled compassion.

⤷ Whilst your boyfriends contradict traditional conveyance of affection, there’s no doubt they truly do appreciate you. But neither could compare to the benevolence you’ve granted the duo.

⤷ Albeit in rather old-school conveyance, you persistently seek forms of portrayal for your affections. Whether it be the occasional handwritten notes left beside the plates of breakfast you’d left behind for the two, each expressing your fondness and wishing them a wonderful rest of their day.

⤷ Or even the splurge of gifts for the two, purchasing trinkets you believe they’d enjoy. And, for every dollar spent, it’ll all be worth the million-dollar gleam that brushes upon their eyes.

⤷ Nagito infatuated with the idea that someone would dare spend money on scum like him, much less buy him something they insisted he’d be interested in. It’s a foreign sense, an exotic appreciation in which you’d taken the time out of your schedule to even think of him.

⤷ And as he’s about to spout his gratitude and disbelief upon such devotion to trash such as himself, he’s cut off by the infamous trickster himself.

⤷ “Save that crap. What about me? Where’s my gift? Huh, huh?” Kokichi’s petite stature leaning to the right as he attempts to catch a glimpse of what you could possibly have in store for him.

⤷ Paying no heed to the interruption of his valuation, Nagito smiles fondly as he eyes the amethyst-haired male eagerly bounces on the balls of his heels, awaiting his gift, though impatiently.

⤷ One would assume you’d get fed up at his persistent antics but, in all honesty, it was one of the many things you―along with Nagito―had appreciated.

⤷ Even amidst moments in which the air is stilled, tension doused in the form of metaphoric clouds above your heads, he’s bustling with a rowdiness that shows no hintings of dissipation.

⤷ And as you reveal the gadget hidden behind your back, presenting it to your practically vibrating-in-anticipation boyfriend, you swore not even the stars could capture the illumination of glee that brushed upon his lilac eyes. His hands reaching forward with such fervor that he was seemingly a blur within that very moment.

⤷ “You didn’t!” He professed in disbelief, lips split into a grand smirk as he eyes the gift you’d presented him; a water gun.

⤷ Albeit an inkling of concern swirled within your gut upon his sinister cackle as he testingly aims at Nagito, in which the taller male’s eyes widen in surprise as he raises his hands in surrender―his own gift within his left hand.

⤷ Upon Nagito’s reaction, Kokichi’s cackles morphed into wicked chuckles as he feigns to reload his water gun with imaginative ammo.

⤷ “That’s right, put ‘em up.” He jests. All the while, you rolled your eyes with an amused visage of your own at the sight of your shorter boyfriend’s antics.

⤷ A Pavlovian reaction from the younger male, eagerly jumping the gun—quite literally—and pestering Nagito to engage in his games, claiming he’d be the perfect companion. (Though, by this, it usually meant the perfect individual to carry him piggyback due to his tall stature.)

⤷ Nonetheless, the sight of your boyfriends joining forces against you with the gift you’d bought is undeniably one you cherish. Even as you sprint full speed through the household, dodging the blasts of water aimed towards you.

⤷ Despite Nagito’s persistent insistence that you’d be better suited to entertain Kokichi than a mere nobody like him, the aforementioned amethyst-haired male that assures him he’s the only one capable.

⤷ It isn’t the common occurrence to be of witness to Kokichi’s considerate moments; withdrawing himself from his playful nature to build another’s esteem.

⤷ And thus, it’s even more satisfying to bask in Nagito’s united laughter with Kokichi’s manic cackles as you narrowly avoid a blast of water. The former carrying the ladder on his back—rather easily due to how light Kokichi is—and dashing after you.

⤷ It’s a laugh so carefree—so riddled in unhindered joy—you almost couldn’t believe this was the same, unabashed laugh of your self-degrading boyfriend.

⤷ Not even Kokichi was immune to the flurry of butterflies within the encompass of your stomachs as he, too, smiled giddily upon the melodic laughter, a roseate decorating his pallid cheeks in momentary euphoria.

⤷ In the beginnings of your gifts, Nagito struggled immensly to accept them. Even as he blushed a hue so fiercely—face burning with awe as sweat began to dampen his rosette skin—he insisted he couldn’t accept any gift from someone of your ethereality.

⤷ He swore up and down that he was already taking far too much of you and Kokichi by intruding on the relationship, much less, garner your affections.

⤷ Though, with time, he steadily learned to see past the hindrance of his self-loathing, it was still rather difficult to bear witness to the one who’d claimed both of your hearts to avoid your conveyances due to their poor views of themself.

⤷ Much to your delight, he’s now discovering value within himself as he peers through the lens of you and Kokichi’s combined love. It’s a gradual process but one that you’re more than willing to wait for to see the treasure of Nagito truly loving—if not love—than tolerating himself.

⤷ With every conveyance of your affections, you hope that your love can be transferred to the two, and assist them in melting through the walls of their hindrances; their shields in which they’d desperately hid their vulnerabilities from the world.

⤷ Whether it be through the gifts in which your taller boyfriend would insist that he was undeserving of and promise to return the favor with a gift of his own whilst the shorter would use your gifts against you, similarly to the water gun incident, comically; love letters; domestic care; reassuring consolation; service.

⤷ Anything that could possibly provide insight of the affectiom you’d withheld for the two, you’d committed to with a fiery passion. Not a trace of hesitancy or delay.

⤷ Typically, within the day-to-day, you and Nagito would withhold a majority of the materate responsibilities. Though Nagito eagerly offers to take the workload upon himself entirely, there’s no denying the softening of his eyes as you reject his offer and, rather, offer to take the workload off of him.

⤷ He appreciates your insistence, especially the way you’d put his wellbeing within the realm of priority. A hierarchy he’d never considered himself within, so to think that you could do so much as care for his state is more than he could ever ask for.

⤷ Truth be told, one of Nagito’s favorite domestic activities to complete alongisde you is laundry. The intimacy of being able to sit alongside you and fold the articles of clothing whilst chatting, blissfully distracted, is serene.

⤷ More so, the lighthearted, momentary comedic relief of revealing that your underwear was within his clutches is always a treat. Especially when you’d rapidly swipe the garment with the inklings of embarrassment within your grin.

⤷ Though he does have quite a habit of sniffing the fresh clothing. The extent to which he does so is—by bystander perspective—questionable, but he promises that he merely adores the cleanliness of the warm clothing. (And that even after the garments trip through the washing machine, there still is the lingering of both his lovers’ scents.)

⤷ Kokichi has offered to help at times—though usually with an intentional entirely other than to actually do laundry. The petite, amethyst-haired trickster sedentary between you and Nagito as he sloppily folds the clothes.

⤷ It’s blatant that his mind is elsewhere as he appears less than pleased whilst assisting. Even offering to “spice things up” and tosses a pair of socks at you and Nagito with a wicked giggle.

⤷ Sometimes he’ll even steal some of your—you and Nagito’s—clothes and wear them while working, claiming they make his Ultimate Supreme Leader senses at top-notch. To which Nagito agrees with, mindlessly, as he mumbles something about wanting to appease the wishes of a leader.

⤷ But, of all the domestic activities Kokichi has taken part in—not much but still—he claims that cooking together has to be his favorite.

⤷ Not only because he adores being the taste-tester—of course, as the Ultimate Supreme Leader, he must test it first to assure that it’s adequate for his beloveds—but because he’s enamored with the teamwork; the collaboration.

⤷ Not within a lifetime will Kokichi ever explicitly confess such, but he admires the notion of teamwork. To make a collaborative effort and genuinely place dependence upon one another to reach an end goal... he finds the idea to be so far from the encompass of his will that he adores the conception of it.

⤷ He, himself, struggles with depending on others. Opting for completing everything on his own and taking charge in the form of claiming stake upon the workload.

⤷ So being able to ask of you to grab something and to be able to complete the order asked of him—he’s usually the mixer—it’s euphoric for him. And, along with this, he truly does enjoy cooking.

⤷ Though his skills are rather questionable due to only being able to properly create a selective variety of dishes. But when he does succeed, it’s an absolute delight to be able to taste it. Nagito sometimes claims the dishes to be something akin to that of an Ultimate Chef.

⤷ A love delievered through the swan-sunken eyes of sensuality, fingers brushed upon one another as you go about your daily lives, is a love in which your two lovers value above all. To be cared for even when there are other priorities, it’s empowering.

⤷ However, amidst the serenity of the closest of affections, nothing can counter their equally preferred time of day; the nighttime cuddles.

⤷ Laying atop the mattress that could just about fit the three of you, entangled limbs drawing each of you closer as the warmth of the blanket barely rivals that of your bodies. Each of your breaths rhythmic of one another.

⤷ Kokichi’s form—by his drowsy request—between your bodies as he rests his back against Nagito’s chest, gazing up at you with a rare yet genuine grin riddled with the inklings of slumber.

⤷ The aforementioned male coiling his arms around the waist of your boyfriend, too, has his arm extenting outwards towards you, pulling you into the spooning as well. Much to Kokichi’s delight, the ladder instantaneously latching his legs around your hips, pulling you into his arms.

⤷ Yet the most blissful of these moments in which true adorations lie is the most miniscule of all. It’s so peaceful; such tranquility to be within each other’s arms as each of you is gradually lulled to sleep.

⤷ And yet, it’s as uneventful as it is impactful. Perhaps it was the nights in which each of your boyfriends felt sleep come easier? Perhaps it was the warmth of your collective bodies that brought upon the savory bliss?

⤷ Or perhaps it was the way that as each of them gazed upon—meeting your eyes with each of their infatuated own—there was a fire alit. One in which, after the periods in which you’ve all spent together; learned together; changed together, had never seemed to fade.

⤷ Not even as they, too, know they’re pushing your limits, irritating you to no bounds. Not even as they find their moment sin which they’re far too sluggish to be of decent assistance. Not even during the meltdowns in which they’d shut you out of their heart and recline to their suppressive defense.

⤷ There was never a moment in which the flames of had dwindled; an eternal ember of compassion. Not even throughout the sabotage of their demeanor. And not even as you flutter your eyes shut, enveloping slumber within your embrace.

⤷ The searing of love within your eyes had never faltered and that, on its own, is enough to reign over each of their hearts—assuring them that they, truly, are lovable without condition—and lull them to sleep as well.

#sdr2 x reader #dr2 x reader #ndrv3 x reader #drv3 x reader #nagito x reader #nagito komaeda x reader #kokichi x reader #kokichi oma x reader #kokichi ouma x reader #danganronpa x reader #nagito hcs #nagito imagines #kokichi headcanons #danganronpa hcs #danganronpa scenarios

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let-it-raines · 3 years

Text

I Hope We Never See October (7/?)

When his personal life and football career go up in flames, Killian Jones escapes England for America, finding seclusion in Martha’s Vineyard in order to hide from his demons. It’s a fresh start, or at the very least a paused moment in his life, and all he needs is a few months alone to allow his heart to heal. He doesn’t count on meeting Emma Swan.

Emma’s life depends on tourists who come to the island every summer. It’s how she makes her money working in restaurants and clubs across the vineyard, but every year, she cannot wait until autumn comes and her life returns to normal. She especially cannot wait for Killian Jones to leave.

Rating: Mature

a/n: I so rarely get the time to go through comments anymore, but I had some time this morning and just plowed through responding to a bunch but not all (I'm getting there). I want to let you all know that you're sweethearts, and I really appreciate you! ❤️

AO3: Beginning | Current Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |

-/-

“So tell me, what are your intentions with our dear Emma?”

Killian coughs on his water, but luckily, he swallows it before it can all come out on his shorts. They’ve finally dried after Emma pulled him into the water, payback for him tossing her in, and he’d like to not be chilled after the sun has set and the air around them has cooled. Most of the Nolans’ neighbors have left and returned to their own homes, but several still remain lounging in the pool or inside where it’s warmer.

“Excuse me?”

“Emma,” Ruby repeats. The woman’s a little drunk, but no one would know it if it wasn’t for the slight way she delays a few of her words. Ruby’s girlfriend is inside getting her coffee now, but Killian already knows the hangover in the morning will be a killer. “Our lovely Emma Swan. What are your intentions with her?”

“To be her friend,” Killian says, not sure how to answer. Emma’s inside with David and Mary Margaret, and he wishes she were here to save him from this conversation.

“And to fuck her,” Ruby adds, and Killian nearly chokes on his water again. “But let me tell you something.” She pokes his chest, and Killian laughs. “She likes you.” “Is that what she said?”

“No, but she’s my best friend. I know her, and she likes you. Emma doesn’t like anyone. She talks about you all the time. I think she has a crush.”

“Does she now? Talk about me, that is.”

“Maybe not an official crush, but she talks about you, so she might as well write Emma Swan likes Killian Jones on all of her notebooks.”

She’s drunk, he reminds himself. She’s drunk, and she’s not sure what she’s saying. He and Emma have an agreement, and even though they can be rather friendly with each other, that’s simply the aftereffect of spending so much time together. You have to be a good communicator in order to have good sex, and, well, he might not be good at a lot of things now, but he’s good at that.

“Okay, lass,” he starts, standing from the chair. He helps Ruby stand as well, but she quickly does it on her own. Like her words, her steps only barely fumble, and he thinks that has something to do with the ridiculous heels she’s wearing. “Let’s go inside with everyone else, and let’s not talk about Emma anymore.”

Ruby hums, but he knows she won’t listen. He braces himself for the fallout.

But to his surprise, she doesn’t make a beeline for Emma. She goes straight to Mulan, hugging her as she makes Ruby’s coffee. Killian, however, does head for Emma. She’s on the couch in the living room. Her hair is freshly combed through, and she’s wearing what he can only assume are a pair of Mary Margaret’s pajamas. He’s seen an assortment of Emma’s, and there are very few floral sets like this.

Killian slips onto the cushion next to her, keeping his space. They’ve crossed a few of their own boundaries lately, but sometimes it’s good to keep them in place, especially around other people. Not that it matters here when everyone knows what he and Emma are to each other.

Well, what he thinks they are to each other. He’s trying not to put too much stock into what Ruby said, but the words have settled directly into the middle of his mind.

“What are you wearing?” he asks since everyone else seems to be occupied by the baseball game on the television.

“Mary Margaret’s. I didn’t bring extra clothes, and some asshole threw me into the pool.”

“What a wanker.”

Emma laughs and pulls a blanket up further over her, wrapping her body in it. “Do you want to leave soon? Go back to my place? It’s closer than yours.”

“You sure you haven’t had enough of me today?”

Emma exhales and pats his knee. “I’m sure.”

They drive separately to Emma’s place. Killian parks in his usual spot across the street while Emma parks in the driveway and leaves the front door unlocked for him to follow through. She’s already tossing her wet clothes into the washing machine by the time he gets inside.

“Hand me yours. I’ll wash them too.”

Killian glances down at his clothes. “I won’t have anything else to wear, darling. Though, I’m sure that’s your intention.”

Emma rolls her eyes and holds her hand out. “I don’t have to fake doing your laundry to see your dick, Jones. Just give me the clothes. You’ve left stuff upstairs.”

Killian slowly pulls his t-shirt off, making it as seductive as possible, but Emma only starts tapping her foot. He laughs and tosses his shirt into the machine before doing the same with his shorts and briefs. Emma does a bland wolf whistle, and Killian adds a small amount of sway to his hips as he walks upstairs to find the clothes she claims he left behind. There’s a pair of joggers in one of her drawers, which he quickly pulls on before going to her bathroom to brush his teeth. She joins him to do her nightly routine that he knows as well as his own now.

Wash face. Moisturize face. Brush teeth. Brush hair. Put lotion on arms and legs. Get in bed.

It’s far more intimate than he’s been with a woman in a long time, since Tink actually, but nothing about it is truly complicated. There’s no wondering if he’s taking her out enough, if he’s being supportive enough, if he’s being emotionally vulnerable enough, if he’s being enough. His arrangement with Emma is simple, even if sometimes little slivers of complicated slip in.

He likes her, likes sleeping with her, and even if he knows this all ends when he returns to his real life in England before October, he’s going to enjoy it for now.

Ruby’s words poke at the back of his mind, but he brushes them away. Again. And again until they disappear, at least for now. He knows they’ll sneak back in because if Emma likes him the way a drunk Ruby thinks, that could be complicated in more ways than he’s willing to think about.

More ways than he can handle without his own head becoming a messy place when this is the first time in a long time it’s been clear.

(But who is he kidding? The messy is already starting to slip in.)

Killian joins Emma in her bed, getting comfortable underneath the covers, and Emma flips over, the strap of her ridiculous floral pajamas falling over. Killian reaches for it and tugs it back up, his thumb running underneath her collarbone. Her skin is always ridiculously soft, which she always claims is from the lotion.

It’s not.

“Today was nice,” he whispers, still running his thumb along her collarbone. He leans in, gently and nudges his nose underneath it, breathing her in. She still smells of chlorine. “Thanks for letting me come along.” Emma hums and runs her hands through his hair, scratching along his scalp. Damn, that feels good. “I couldn’t stop you if I tried…not that I would. I guess you’re allowed to spend time with my friends.”

“Your generosity overflows.” Emma laughs, and Killian continues to work his mouth along her collarbone. “Your laugh is spectacular.” He drags his nose down her chest until he’s pushing aside her shirt and freeing her breast. “This is also spectacular.”

She laughs again, and Emma quickly unbuttons her shirt so Killian can have a better grasp on her breast. She arches her back and pulls down her shorts, and while Killian wasn’t planning on this being anything more than some light teasing, he now knows it isn’t that.

Not that he would ever complain.

His mouth dries when Emma reaches between them and grabs his cock underneath his joggers. It feels damn good, like it always does, and he moves away from Emma’s stomach to help pull down his joggers so Emma can get a better grip. Her hand is warm and soft, and he could let her do this all night.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and Emma smirks. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

“I’m hysterical. Get on your back.”

“You know I like a woman in charge.”

“Alright, don’t get on your back.”

Killian huffs and kisses just above her navel before flipping over onto his back, propping his head up with pillows. Emma moves to straddle his thighs, rubbing herself over him in order to tease, and Killian places his hands on her hips, helping her balance. It’s slow when she guides him into her, and Killian curses at how good it feels, how good she feels. It’s even slower when Emma begins to move her hips, a gentle back and forth that has her hair falling in damp waves over her shoulders. It’s a good view, a good feeling, even when the room is only illuminated by the moonlight shining through the window on the opposite side of the room and the light coming through the hallway door. It makes Emma’s hair glow nearly silver, and he grabs the ends, running it between his fingers.

Emma begins to talk about the party, telling him he missed a rousing rendition of Chicago, courtesy of a drunk Mary Margaret, and Killian doesn’t even want to imagine that. Emma does a pretty good impersonation, however, so he really has no choice other than to think about it.

This is good. It’s nice. For the last couple years, sex has been nothing but scratching the itch. It’s been fast, simple, and maybe only involved a few dates. There was no talking or laughing, and there definitely was not any impersonating drunk friends doing musical numbers.

Emma is so damn closed off most of the time, but there are moments like this, like earlier when she shared a little about her past, that he wonders if she’s becoming a little more open.

He thinks he’d like to get to know her more. At least as a friend since he knows more won’t be possible.

There those thoughts come again, invading his space just like Emma is.

Emma’s movements become a little stunted, the roll of her hips not as smooth, so Killian tightens his grip on her thighs and slowly moves them over. When he slips out of her, he quickly thrusts back in as they settle into their new position. The air is tight in his chest, his release coming faster than he expected, and he whispers so to Emma as his hand reaches down between them while her legs wrap around his ass and her hands trace the muscles in his back.

It’s good.

It’s all so bloody good, and he doesn’t want it to end.

But it does, of course, in several hissed curses and whispered words, and Killian grins into Emma’s collarbone before rolling off her.

“I was not expecting that,” Emma mumbles, patting his stomach, “but it works for me.”

“Glad to be of service,” Killian chuckles.

Emma hums and then gets out of bed to walk to the bathroom while he cleans up around them before grabbing the joggers off the floor and putting them back on. Emma comes out of the bathroom in a pair of shorts and a tank top, a much more Emma-like outfit, and he smiles before getting comfortable in bed. He could go home, go back to the big house with no one around, but he knows Emma will let him stay here until she has to go to work in the morning.

“I’m exhausted,” Emma sighs before getting into bed and yanking the covers up to her neck. “Do you think I could get away with playing hooky tomorrow?”

“On a Sunday morning? At the Blue Dog?”

“Ugh,” she groans, “you’re right. I hate when you’re right.” “So you hate me all the time then?”

Emma rolls her eyes and kicks his shin. “Goodnight, Jones.”

Killian leans over and kisses her cheek. “Goodnight, Swan.”

-/-

The sun is beginning to rise when he wakes, the dark sky being infiltrated by little bursts of orange light, and while Killian tries to bury his face in Emma’s hair and fall back asleep, he can’t. Despite his best efforts, he’s awake, and after spending nearly an hour answering texts and emails from Ariel, Elsa, and Scarlet, he slowly climbs out of bed, making sure not to disturb Emma, and goes downstairs to fix breakfast. His stomach growls with hunger despite how much he ate yesterday, and surprisingly, Emma has food in her fridge. She’s a fan of take-out and leftovers from her places of work, so rarely is there ever food in the fridge.

Killian takes the eggs and milk out, grabbing some fruit too, before he grabs some flour from her cabinets. It’s been years since he used a waffle maker, and despite a disastrous first attempt, he gets the hang of it enough to start making some eggs on the stove. Emma can sleep like the dead, but her alarm should be going off any minute now. Usually, she heads straight for the shower, but Killian knows Emma can’t resist food, especially if it’s something different than what she eats every day.

There’s a creak upstairs, obviously Emma’s footsteps, and then he hears a door open, and Killian flips the waffle over.

“Emma, love, do you want fruit in your waffles? Or maybe some chocolate. I know you must have chocolate around here.”

There’s no answer, at least not from Emma.

“Are you my mom’s friend?”

Killian jumps and turns to see a kid standing in the kitchen. What the hell? Who the hell is that, and what is he doing in Emma’s house?

“Who, uh, who’s your mum?” Killian asks, scratching his ear and hoping Emma comes down the stairs at any moment. Maybe this is a neighbor’s kid who decided to have a little fun today. “Who are you, mate?”

“I think the better question,” an older man holding suitcases says, “is who the hell are you? And what do you think you’re doing in my son’s house?”

-/-

@qualitycoffeethings @marrtinski @klynn-stormz @scarletslippers @elizabeethan @jrob64 @therealstartraveller776 @thejollyroger-writer @galadriel26 @galaxyzxstark @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @teamhook @searchingwardrobes @jamif @shireness-says @ultimiflos @onepunintendid @killianswannn @carpedzem @captainkillianswanjones @mayquita @mariakov81 @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @a-faekindagirl @scientificapricot @xellewoods @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @singersdd @tornadoamy @cluttermind @andiirivera @itsfabianadocarmo @captain-emmajones @ilovemesomekillianjones @taylrsversion @dramioneswan @jonesfandomfanatic @wefoundloveunderthelight @gloriousfemaleworrier @spartanguard @snowbellewells

#I hope we never see october #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan

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