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cameronspecial · 5 months

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Her Protector And His Hubris

Pairing: Bodyguard!Drew Starkey x Reader

Warnings: Being Stalked, SMUT, Mother's Death, Mentions of Attempted School Shooting, and Getting Shot.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 11.4K

Summary: Drew's job is to protect her, but he falls for the brilliance of his client and this turns into a whirlwind romance. What can go wrong?

A/N: Damn, this is so long. Also, this is inspired by the Twisted series by Ana Huang, specifically Twisted Games. I hope you enjoy it!

Masterlist

The sounds of glassware clinking and small talk fill Drew’s ears as he surveys the restaurant. The dim lighting makes him anxious because it impedes his ability to notice any threats. At least, it’s better than when she goes to those ridiculous house parties. Those were not only a safety risk, but irritating to the thirty-year-old man. Her laughter draws his eyes back to her. Ugh, she’s laughing at something he said. Drew doesn’t know what Y/N sees in Sean. This is her third date with him and Drew can easily see that they wouldn’t make it far in the relationship. Sean doesn’t give a tip when they go out to eat. Volunteering in any capacity would be beneath him. And she seemed oblivious to the way he would ogle at her breasts. Drew’s fist tightens as he observes Sean reach over and take Y/N’s hand. Sean brings it up to his lips, kissing up her wrist to her elbow. Drew wants to take Sean’s hands and crush his fingers for the way he touches Y/N. Sean’s touch is consensual with the girl, yet it isn’t welcomed by her bodyguard. Drew knows he shouldn’t be feeling this way about her as her protector. It’s not his place.

Drew is supposed to be a professional. He’s a bodyguard for heaven's sake; one wrong move and she could be in danger. But what is it about the way her eyes sparkle when she eats those incredibly expensive macarons? What is it about the way her hips move in a teasing manner as she walks ahead of him? What is it about the way her nails glide across the table that makes him wish they are scratching down his back? What is it about her that drives him crazy? Y/N Y/L/N has been his client for a year now and it hasn’t been easy. Not because there are constant threats against her, but because she makes him want to throw away any sense of duty to the job and ravage her. At first, he thought it was just his primal sexual needs that attracted him to her. However, over the year of getting to know her, he realizes he genuinely loves and admires her.

He began working for Magnus Y/L/N after one of Magnus’s competitors threatened the CEO’s daughter. Magnus didn’t waste any time in hiring Drew to protect Y/N. Drew thought that Y/N was going to be like all his other clients. Spoiled. Rude. Self-centred. Greedy. She was none, but one of those things. Being spoiled by her father her whole life engraving the trait into the twenty-three-year-old woman. She was spoiled in the sense she could get whatever she wanted, not in the sense that she would demand the riches of the world. He was pleasantly surprised to find she would always use please and thank you with everyone, even those far below her social class. She would volunteer to read to children at the library purely because she enjoyed the company of the kids. She would not hesitate to help her friends out with money for rent if they needed it. So far, Magnus’s rival has yet to act on his threat; nevertheless, Drew would be there to protect her if he does. It is not only his career; it is his life purpose because he has fallen in love with the young socialite he is tasked to protect. He would lay down his life for her.

The bubbles of jealousy in Drew’s stomach start to subside when he sees Y/N’s face fall at something Sean said. Irritation replaces her smile and Drew feels satisfied with this turn of events. He can see she just wants to get away from the man ahead of her and Drew wants nothing more but to take her back home. Y/N calls over the waiter asking for the bill. Drew knows she will pay for the cheque. She is all for taking turns with paying for dates. Sean never pays though and she is too nice to point it out. It’s not like Sean can’t afford it. He works at the most prestigious corporate law firm, which happens to be his father’s. Drew isn’t going to complain if it’s the reason why Y/N no longer wants to be around the man.

As the waiter approaches the table with the chequebook, Drew heads over to the table, ready to escort Y/N out of the restaurant. She pays for the bill, standing up with a glare at Sean. “I wish I could’ve seen what a pig you were before I went on two more dates with you,” she snarls at him. Drew helps her put her coat on and hovers his hands over her lower back to guide her toward the front door. Sean scoffs, “Whatever. You wouldn’t have been that good of a lay anyways.” Y/N doesn’t so much as look over her shoulder at the childish man. She refuses to let him get to her. Drew’s hand turns into a fist and he leans closer to her. “Do you want me to take care of him?” She shakes her head, “No, it’s fine. He doesn’t deserve any more of my brain space. He’s a pig.” The only thing that could stew Drew’s anger is the need to comfort Y/N. They walk towards her car and Drew holds the passenger’s side door open for her. She whispers a thank you as she slips into the seat. “Home?” he asks once he gets behind the wheel. She nods, letting her attention be drawn out the window. His lip tightens at her upset look, “I’m sorry he was a jerk. He doesn’t deserve you.” She keeps the silence going, only returning with a hum in thanks.

When they get back to Y/N’s penthouse, Drew opens the door for her and does a quick visual sweep of the living room to make sure nothing is amiss. He is satisfied with her safety and holds her hands as she takes off her heels. She walks to her bathroom to get rid of her makeup and change into more comfortable clothes, while Drew heads to the kitchen to take out the dulce de leche ice cream from the freezer. He finds her waiting on the couch in sweatpants, an old t-shirt and a claw clip in her hair. She holds out her hand for the ice cream and he hands it to her, joining her on the couch to view whatever show she chooses.

He isn’t surprised to hear the familiar jingle of Bob’s Burgers’ theme song. She has been re-watching the show recently on Disney+. This tradition has been a part of their daily schedule since she made him crack nine months ago. During the first three months of his employment, he would listen to her beg him to join her nightly unwindings. Drew refused, stating it was unprofessional of him to do so. He gave in after three months when he saw she had a hard day and she needed some comfort from someone. She had been late for work because the car wouldn’t start. Her lunch, which she had packed and was looking forward to, was dropped on the floor after an idiot bumped into her. And to top it off, she got into an argument with her father about a charity she wanted to support. Drew knew she needed someone in her corner, so he didn’t even wait for her to ask to sit down beside her on the couch with a pint of ice cream he knew she loved.

They spend the night in comfortable silence, laughing at the Belcher family’s hilarious hijinks. He can speak up and ask her what Sean had said, but he knows all she needs right now is something to get it off of her mind and Drew would give her that. He would do anything for her.

———

Drew hates it when Y/N goes to parties. They are loud, crowded and dark. It makes his job ten times harder. Add the fact that he has to deal with a drunk client and he dreads the times when she announces she is going out for a party. Y/N doesn’t normally get drunk. She rarely drinks more than two drinks at any event because she hates the creeping headache that happens even as she drinks her first one. However, tonight, Drew can see she just needs to let go of everything just for a night. He stays close behind her, towering over everyone in the party, which gives him an advantage in terms of her protection. His eyes are caught by a commotion in the room. It looks like a fight is breaking out in the other corner and Drew wants to get Y/N out of here before it can escalate to harm her. In the split second, he turns away from her, Y/N has managed to get up on the table behind him and is now dancing without her shirt on.

The party people’s cheers draw Drew’s attention back to his charge. His eyes widen at her drunk dance and he tries to ignore the aching strain in his pants. The swell of her breasts is on full display thanks to her lack of a shirt; her skin pressing against the lacey bra that she wearing. He looks around the room to see the arousal of the other men in the room and all he wants to do is punch every single person eyeing her. He needs to get her down from there; if not for her safety, then because he doesn’t want to get in trouble for causing a scene at the party. How is he going to get her down from there safely? “Y/N, Precious. Please, come down from there,” he pleads, holding his hand out for her to take so she can get down. He can hear the boos of the drunk boys around them. He shakes off his annoyance at them and looks back toward her. Her arms cross, “No, I like it up here.” She turns her back to him, continuing her dance for the crowd.

Drew sighs, knowing that was probably the answer he was going to get. If he pulls her down by the arm, he risks dislocating her shoulder or her falling and hitting her head. So he only has one choice. He hops up on the table and sweeps her off her feet. Now carrying her bridal style, Drew gets off of the table and walks toward the front door. The men in the room yell at him for stopping her show; he couldn't care less. He looks as she comes down from the excitement of the party and relaxes in his arms. His heart flutters when she lets out a soft breath, resting her head against his chest with her eyes falling closed. As he heads to the carl, Drew knows Y/N Y/L/N is going to spell out trouble for him.

———

It’s been one week since her drunk performance and everything has been calm in her life. Y/N remembered what had happened the next morning, instantly mortified by her behaviour and thankful Drew was there to stop her from causing even more of a commotion. The party was filled with children of the country’s richest and most powerful people, so she doubted she would be in any scandal tabloids, yet just the thought that she had behaved like that embarrassed her. Y/N knows she shouldn’t look at her bodyguard the way she does. He is there to protect her and he always maintains his work composure, but she can’t help it. He understands her like the back of his hand and can provide her comfort like no one else by doing little things. His contract stipulates he is supposed to cook her breakfast in the morning and he goes one step further by making her favourites. Her father wanted her to have sustenance in the morning because he knew she was one to skip the first meal of her day, so Drew could’ve just made her eggs or microwaved oatmeal, but he didn’t. The breakfast she receives is picture-perfect and tastes just as good.

She gets out of the car, thanking Drew for holding the door open for her. They head to the apartment building’s elevator and wait in silence as they reach her penthouse floor. The note taped to the door is Drew’s first indicator that something is amidst. His hand finds the gun at his side and this pulls Y/N away from her phone. “What’s wrong?” she questions, looking around the room for something she has missed. Her eyes spot the white paper standing out against the dark wood of the floor. He heads ahead of her, checking over his shoulder that there are no threats in the small hallway. No one should have access to this floor. It requires her fingerprint and keycard in the elevator to enter. All mail is vetted before passing on in her mail room and any building updates are left there as well. So there is no regular reason why the paper should be on there.

As their feet reach in front of the door, she is finally able to read the words scattered across it. I saw your little dance, last week, doll. You really should be more careful with showing people what is mine. A picture of the scene in question is printed below. She lets out a terrified gasp, covering her mouth with her hand.

Violated. She feels violated by what she has just read. She may have been okay with the idea of feeling shirtless in front of everyone at the party in her own intoxicated state, but having someone speak about her in that way feels is a violation. Couple that with the fact the speaker had the guts to put the thought on her door and it is an invasion of her privacy. The picture is the cherry on top of the unsettling cake. The person, who dared threaten her, must be someone in her inner circle. Why else would they be at the party? How else could they have gotten into her heavily guarded apartment building?

Drew can see the panic and fear in her eyes. He turns her away from the door, pulling out his phone to call for backup. She can hear him ordering the police to be called and his security company’s tech analysts come down to sweep the whole building. Her mind goes numb with what to do as more and more people arrive to assess the situation. She can only stand there and watch as everyone who comes tears her home apart, looking for anything out of place. When her bedroom needs to be searched, Drew takes the responsibility of looking through it with her cautious eye on him from the doorway. He makes sure to put everything back exactly how he finds it, taking especially care with the notebooks he knows are her journals. He finishes with her room and invites her to sit on her bed while they wait for the rest of the house to be checked. The all-clear is given around eight o’clock and everyone leaves the apartment in search of clues somewhere else, leaving behind a small army of extra security to guard her house. With a new active threat, Drew’s presence alone isn’t enough to keep her safe.

Until they know more about the situation, Drew thought it would be safer to remain in her apartment, where he knew every inch of the building and the security measures in place already. There have been no indications the person, who made the threat, had made it into the actual apartment. Not sure if her cook is the one putting her at risk, Drew takes dinner into his own hands. He isn’t much of a cook, but he finds pasta and a jar of sauce in the pantry. He gets to work, making a note to search up how to make some of her favourite dinner meals like he did when he first got the job and had to make her breakfast.

He finishes the meal and places it in front of Y/N, who sits waiting at the dining room table with a blank stare and her knees to her chest. He sits to her right and pushes the plate toward her to snap her out of her thoughts. “I know it’s scary to be here right now, but we’ve checked the whole house and there is no sign the intruder came into the house. It’s safe. I’m here and I promise I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you,” he whispers. The last part is mostly a silent vow to himself. Her eyes glance upward at him, “I’m not hungry.” The only thing she manages to get out. The unreasonable side of her is telling her the intruder had somehow touched her food. Drew sighs, “Precious, you have to eat something. You haven’t eaten anything since breakfast this morning. I let not eating lunch slide, but I really need you to eat dinner. Do you want me to make you something else?” The care in his voice causes her to pull the plate closer to her; she can feel his eyes on her as she brings the fork to her food and then her mouth. He gives her a smile before digging into his own food.

She follows him into the kitchen after dinner and watches him do the dishes. He doesn’t let her help out, so she leans against the counter. Once he is done with the chore, she heads to her bedroom and listens as his footsteps stay close to hers. She starts going through her nighttime routine, getting her pyjamas and heading to the master bathroom to change. She can feel his eyes on her the whole time and she is comforted by the fact that he is still taking care of her. He should probably leave her alone. They’ve checked the whole apartment. No one is there and his room is down the hall, so an invader would have to go past his room first without his notice to get to her and that is impossible. He doesn’t want to leave though; he wants to make sure she is okay.

The door to the bathroom creaks open and she walks out in light pink sweatpants and an old white t-shirt. He knows she is getting ready to go to sleep. He is about to leave the room when her voice calls out. “Can you stay please?” He turns back to her with knitted brows. She points to her bed, “Can you stay with me in my room?” “Y/N, I don’t think that’s wise,” he advises, leaning against her door frame. She steps closer to him, “Please, I’m scared to be alone. I don’t think I’ll get any sleep if I am.” This hits a nerve in him. Drew is always caring for her well-being. Telling her to eat. Reminding her to go to sleep. Little things like that. Drew lets out a loud breath, nodding his head. “Let me just go change my clothes and I’ll be back,” he notifies her. He leaves her room and she settles herself into her bed. For tonight, she has to stay in this house, but tomorrow, they’ll be able to get their barrings and maybe find somewhere else to stay. Her skin crawls at the idea someone thinks she is their property and they went through so much trouble to let her know.

He returns in a Western Carolina University t-shirt and gray sweatpants. The sweatpants may be a little baggy on him, yet it doesn’t leave anything to her imagination and she feels her thighs clench together. She shouldn’t be imagining how good it would feel to be stretched out by him. He’s her bodyguard. He must have a partner of some kind. A girlfriend. A boyfriend. A spouse. He’s too good-looking and sweet not to. She may have been living with him for a year now, but she knows nothing about him. He doesn’t really talk about his personal life. She’s only been able to pick up a few things about him over the year. His favourite book is East of Eden; she’s seen him read it about three times since he moved in. When he misses home, he goes to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for his mom’s chicken casserole. And now, she knows him or someone he knows went to Western Carolina University.

He sees her on the bed and his footsteps bring him near her. She swears it’s like there are rocks in his feet because his steps are heavy and slow. He hesitates as he pulls the sheets back and causes the bed to dip as he lies down. The covers are pulled against his chest when Y/N turns to him to place her head on his chest. He doesn’t say anything. They can both feel they need this physical contact to be soothed. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he is a little shaken up by the whole ordeal like Y/N. What would have happened if they had been home? What would have happened if they got home earlier and had run into the intruder? It doesn’t sit right in him as he listens to her breaths fall shallow and sleep comes over her. Drew is not lucky enough to fall into the same state as her. His insomnia and need to protect her will keep him up for most of the night.

———

Drew is surprised when he wakes up from a five-hour sleep. Normally, he sleeps no more than two hours a night and that is if he is lucky to get any sleep at all. Something about having her in his arms while he lies in bed must bring peace to his insomnia. He looks at her with a sleepy smile. His eyes fall on the clock and he should probably get up to make breakfast so they can get their day started. He needs to come up with a new protection plan and assess if she is still safe in her apartment. His limbs untangle from hers; he does his best to not wake her up as he gets out of bed. He’ll get hot while cooking, so he slips off his shirt and leaves it on his bed before going to the kitchen. He pulls the door closed but not completely, leaving a little sliver open for him to be able to come to check in on her.

She wakes to an empty bed and she wishes it isn’t. Panic fills her, thinking something has happened to Drew. The sounds of pans hitting each other fill her in on where he is. Her heart swells at the thought that he is still making her breakfast after last night’s scare. She is about to leave the warmth of her bed when her eyes fall on something on her bed. The gray shirt once on Drew’s chest now rests on her blankets. He was so gracious to her last night and took care of her. He didn’t have to stay with her the whole night; he could’ve sneaked out of her room as soon as she fell asleep, but he didn’t. Solely the thought of him brews something between her legs that needs to be fixed before she goes down to eat. She should have enough time while he is cooking.

Her hand reaches out for the shirt to bring it to her nose. The smell of his Versace cologne and the smoke from the cigarettes he sneaks fill her senses. He has been hiding that he smokes ever since he found out she isn’t a fan of the tobacco-filled sticks. She shouldn’t like the smell of the cigarettes, but she can’t help that it reminds her of him. The shirt falls to the side of her head; she uses her hands to pull down her pants and underwear, leaving her shirt on for some warmth. One hand goes up underneath her shirt and the other goes up to her mouth. She puts her fingers in her mouth before bringing it down to her weeping pussy. A wet finger plunges into her hole, causing her to cry out in pleasure. She had failed to see her bedroom door was not completely closed.

Drew stops his movement as soon as he hears her scream. He shuts the stove off, moving the pan off of the hot burner. He runs upstairs to her room. He stops just short of the doorframe when he hears her pants. It is obvious what she is doing by how breathy they are. It’s wrong to keep listening, but he hopes he can get a hint as to who she fantasizes about while she satisfies herself. It takes every bit of self-restraint he has not to pull his penis out of his pants and jerk himself off to the sweet sounds coming out of her mouth. “Drew.” His name falls off of her lips; this has to be a dream. There is no way the woman he loves, his client, is masturbating to the thought of him. He peeks his head through the door and suddenly his dick starts pressing against the fabric of his pants. While her hands are placed on her vagina and breast, her face is to the side, burying itself into a gray piece of fabric. He recognizes it as the shirt he left here before he went downstairs to make their breakfast. What he is about to do is inappropriate; nevertheless, he needs to be the one drawing those sounds from her.

“You made me think you were in danger, Precious. Instead, I find you touching what should be mine,” he snarls, taking a step into the room. The use of the word mine should cause turmoil in her stomach; however, she knows he isn’t using it in the same sense as the note. Drew uses mine to mean an exchange. Whereas, the note made her a possession of her writer and that doesn’t sit well with her. If Y/N gives Drew a piece of herself, then he will give her one right back. She would be an object to whoever wrote the note. He stalks closer to the bed, getting a better look at her soaked pussy. She feels the bed drop under the weight of his upper body; he stays kneeling at the foot of the bed. His hand wraps around her ankle and she yips as he pulls her closer to him.

He takes a chance to glimpse up at her face, which is staring down at him with want. She gives him a minuscule nod and tries pushing his head toward her aching heat. His neck resists her force, chuckling at her actions. “Aren’t you eager, Precious?” he teases, smothering his head between her legs. He laps at her folds like a man who hasn’t drank water in years. Her hands grip the sheets beneath her, creating waves in them. Drew’s eyes narrow at her hands and he brings them to his hair. Her nails graze his scalp as she throws her head back with a moan. He pauses for a second, wanting to appreciate the look of bliss on her face and the symphony coming out of her mouth. His mouth continues to work against her, making her feel incredible in ways no man has before. “Drew, please. Keep going,” she begs. Her fingers bring his head closer to her, clenching around his tongue. He pulls back with a smirk, “You like this, huh? Do you like being eaten out by your bodyguard?” Her head bobs, wrapping her legs around his head. She grinds her hip into his face.

His tongue darts into her vagina bringing her to her climax. “Hmmm. I love the sounds you are making for me, Precious. It’s my favourite sound in the world,” he mumbles, cleaning her up. He stands up and admires her body twisting to the side in contentment. She sits up, eyeing the way his pants aren’t hiding anything at all. She scoots to the edge of her bed and brings him in between her spread-opened legs. Her hands meet the skin of his bare chest. She points a finger against him, tracing down the middle line of his abs. She reaches his lower abdomen and slips her hand inside of his pants. “Now, it’s my turn to hear the pretty noises you can make,” she instructs in a sultry voice.

Her hands shove him back a little, so she has enough space to sink to her knees. She grips his dick with her hand, rubbing up and down. It drags out the most amazing groan out of him. She can the wetness pool in between her thighs again. He spots the way her legs come together and it makes him even harder. “Precious, this feels so good,” he pants out. She needs something to loosen the friction, which means she opens her mouth and brings his length into it. She sucks at the tip. Her tongue swirls around the head of his dick, tasting his precum. “You taste amazing,” she praises before shoving herself further down his cock. He hits the back of her throat and she stays there for a second until she needs to pull back for air. She lets the air into her lungs before taking him into her mouth. Her head moves on his shaft and she continues to repeat the routine for a few minutes. He starts to feel a tug at the pit of his stomach, causing him to twitch in her mouth. His hips start to move back to meet her in the middle and unleash the tightening in his belly. She eagerly swallows everything he gives her.

He pries her head off of him, gazing at the way a string of his cum connects his tip to her lips. “Get on the bed,” he orders. She climbs onto the bed and looks at him through her eyelashes. Her lustful stare hardens him again. She removes her shirt while he takes care of his pants. He dives into bed beside her and twists them both to their sides so her back is pressed against his chest. Mimicking the positions of her hands when he caught her, his fingers play with two of her buds. She can feel his hot breath on the back of her neck as he twirls her nipples to arouse her. He is satisfied by the dampness between her legs and grabs his dick instead to guide it into her pussy.

His thrust brings her hand to his bicep over her shoulder and she digs her nails into the skin. The slight pain it brings is worth it if it tells him how well he is doing to make her feel good. “You are clinging to my cock so beautifully. I think I might cum right now, but lucky for you, I have better stamina than that,” he groans, continuing the bring his hips against her ass. His hand on her breast goes to her hip to help keep her in place. He finds her G-spot, making her curl in on herself a little. His back follows her shift forward and his lips find her neck. She feels his teeth squeeze her skin between them, throwing her head back to give him more access. The grip on her hip is so strong that she is sure there will be a bruise later on. Eventually, she starts needing more out of his pace, so she propels backward to meet him. With both of them now working together, a knot starts to build in her lower abdomen. “Drew, I’m about to come,” she cries out, tensing her hand around his bicep. As her walls start to clutch around him, her face falls forward and he can no longer see her face. He focuses on aiding her in her climax.

The hold she has on his penis hinders his ability to drive forward, yet it doesn’t stop him from hitting the spot inside of her that helps uncoil the formed tangle. He works her through her high, yanking himself out once she is loose enough. She rotates onto her back and smiles at the sight of him. He shifts to be hovering over her on his elbows. His lips connect to hers, separating so they are barely touching, “That orgasm was for you, but do you think you can have another one? This one is for me. I want to see your face while I unravel you.” He places his stiff dick between her legs and looks at her for permission to continue. She feels a little sensitive, except she wants to give him another release like he just gave her. Her skull jerks up and down.

He grins down at her, kissing her as he enters her again. Her slick from her recent orgasm helps him do it with ease. She lets out a whimper because of her delicate state; head dropping to the pillow. In this second round, he is much slower, wanting to take his time with her. There is no guarantee he will ever get to be in this position again, no matter how much he prays to be. He brings her into her arms and buries his head into her neck, leaving prints along it with his mouth. The feeling of her wrapped around him tugs a moan out of him. It encourages him to persist, wanting to be in her vice once more. Another petit mort constructs within him. He desires to hold off a little longer; this must last longer. He can think of one way to be in this intimate moment forever. “I love you,” he rushes out. She looks away with disbelief in her eyes, “You don’t have to say that just because we are having sex.” He freezes, pulling back to see her eyes. His hand cups her cheek; his thumb ghosts her lips. “I’m not saying it because we are having sex. I’m saying it during sex,” he clarifies, searching to see if she understands. Her shoulder shrugs, “What’s the difference?”

“The difference is it means I truly mean the words. I’ve felt it for a long time. There was never a right time to say it,” he spells out. “I love how you ask the cook to buy me uncrustables and leave them in the freezer. I love how you always bring water to your drunk friends on a night out. I love how the universe gave you everything and you still give everyone all you have.” Her heart must’ve beaten out of her chest and jumped into his mouth to his chest because he had her heart entirely. “I love you too,” she confesses, the truth in her eyes. The joy he feels at her words combined with the gripping of her vagina brings him to an early climax. Thick ropes of semen come out of him as he presses forward with his hips again to ride it out.

She follows soon after, pressing his body against hers by wrapping a leg around his hip. Their heaves overcome the room, a reminder of the line they crossed and never want to reverse. He slips out of her, now soft after the exercise they just went through. His body collapses to her side, exhaustion taking over him. She nudges her skull upon his arm, letting him sling it around her shoulder. “Can you carry me to the bathroom, Drew? Please,” she inquiries. He looks down at her with a grin, “Of course, Precious.” His feet plant on the floor, rising to the side of the bed. She gazes at his naked glory ahead of her. He kisses her forehead and assists her in sitting up. Her arms and legs enclose around him, bringing them chest to chest. His hands support the bottom of her thighs as he walks to her adjoining bathroom. He flips the light on and opens the toilet lid to allow her to sit on it. Before removing her from the toilet, she hears water dripping from the shower head. Steam fills the room and he transports her to the shower. Since she doesn’t like baths, she went all with the design of her shower. A room-size stall. Waterfall showerhead. Side jets. A little alcove to sit on. The whole nine yards.

He sets her down on the seat, going to get the shampoo. He returns and starts working the soap into her hair. “Did you really mean it?” she mutters, barely louder than the water. His arms wrap around her shoulders, “Every single word.”

———

They didn’t have a label for what their relationship had blossomed into and they didn’t feel they needed one. She is his and he is hers; that’s what matters. It’s been a month since the stalker incident and there hasn’t been another. Y/N thought she would need a break every so often from seeing the man she loves every single second of the day, except it isn’t the case. It’s Drew’s monthly day off and she craves his company more than anything. He didn’t want to leave her side either, especially with the stalker at large, but it would’ve been suspicious if he had stayed. What they have between them is meant only for their knowledge. Throughout the day, they both found themselves peeking at the clock for a sense of how long until they could be together again. Y/N’s knees would bounce at her desk at work and Drew would wander the streets of New York City, buying anything that made him think of her. As he walks through the front door of her apartment, it’s a real struggle for him to hide his grin from James. James Notting works for the same security agency as Drew and replaces Drew on his days off. James spots his counterpart and his eyebrows connect. Drew is back earlier than normal.

“You can go now. I’m back on duty,” Drew informs, placing the shopping bags on the table. James shakes his head, “Are you sure? You still have two hours left.” “Yeah, I ran out of things to do,” he states.

“Cool. Thanks.”

“Where is she?”

“The kitchen.”

As if on queue, the sound of a pan dropping on the floor reverberates around the apartment. “I’m okay.” They hear her yell from the other room. Drew looks at James in confusion. They both know she can’t cook. “Don’t ask me. She’s been in the kitchen for about an hour and ordered me not to enter,” James explains, grabbing his stuff to leave. Drew locks the door after James exists and enters the kitchen to figure out what his precious is doing. “Precious, what are you up to?” he interrogates. Y/N jumps at the sound of his voice, hiding something behind her back. “What are you doing back home so early?” He chuckles and steps toward her, caging her against the counter and between his arms. Neither of them answers the other’s question. She grins up at him and kisses him quickly as a distraction. His tall stature makes her attempts futile. He glances over her shoulder to see slightly burnt roasted potatoes on a pan. The scent of herbed chicken hits his nose and he scans for the source, finding it on the counter beside them. “Are you trying to make dinner?” Her attention shies away from him, which he returns with a finger under her chin. He can feel the warmth growing on her cheeks.

“Yes, but it didn’t go as well as I thought it would. I thought it would be easier. You don’t have to eat it.”

“Non-sense. It looks delicious.”

Excitement blooms in her and she gets serving dishes out of the pantry. He helps her set the table in warm silence. Everything is in place and they seat themselves at the table. She happily serves him food, waiting for him to take a bite. The first thing he tastes as the potatoes make contact with his tongue is a bitter undertone that overpowers everything. He resists the urge to crumple his face like paper. Her eyes are trained on him, anticipating the review of her cooking. He can’t dim the hope in her eyes, so he has no choice but to lie. She put so much effort into this dinner for them. “This tastes wonderful, Precious. I didn’t know I was protecting such a good cook this whole time. You should help me make breakfast,” he applauds. “Here, let me serve you some so you can try.” He selects the unburnt potatoes and cuts her the chicken thigh before handing her back the plate. It’s not like the meal is horrible, the potatoes are just a little burnt and Drew wants to keep the secret to himself.

She thanks him in a whisper. She digs into her meal and he can see she is enjoying it. He lets out a small satisfied sigh and gets back to eating. Y/N is a slow eater, so it’s not a surprise Drew finishes eating first. His head rests on his chin and he resorts to gawking at her. She can feel his stare on her.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m the most beautiful girl in the world.”

“Because you are. And I would kill anyone who would dare to hurt you. Your heart belongs to me.”

“And yours belongs to me,” she repeats, leaning over to give him a kiss. She doesn’t have to worry about being safe. As long as Drew is around, she has nothing to worry about.

———

The weekend means they can spend all day in her apartment. Her work week was left behind for forty-eight heavenly hours of the two of them together. While cuddling on her couch with the TV on, he realized they hadn’t checked the mail since Friday, so he went down to get it. He listens to the whine of the metal door opening as he reaches in to take the mail out. He looks through the different envelopes and finds one with his name written across the front. The writing is vaguely familiar. His hand tears open the paper and pulls out the letter. You don’t deserve her. She is mine. Under the writing is a picture of his longing glances at her. It is clear to anyone the feelings held within him. He folds the paper and puts it into his pocket. He should probably send it to the lab for analysis, but it would bring suspicion to his relationship with Y/N. He doesn’t need anyone’s help. He could keep her safe by himself; nothing would happen to her with him by her side. Plus, this is more of a threat to him and he isn’t scared by some loser's threats.

He enters the apartment to find the couch now empty. He can hear the shower running and his mouth turns into a curve. She has been putting off showering while he is around because it always ends up with them having sex. He decides to give her a break and rests on the couch. Something on the coffee table piques his interest.

It’s a thick rectangle wrapped in purple paper and pulled together by a red ribbon. There is no note that he can see. He rips open the gift and finds a special edition of East of Eden. It’s a stunning hardcover copy with golden sprayed edges. He thumbs through the pages and lands on the title page. She had written on it. I hope you like this special edition of the book. It’s just a little gift to show my appreciation for everything you do for me. I love you so much. -Y/N <3. His heart is touched by her actions and tears form in his eyes. The distant sound of water hitting the shower tiles is replaced by her footsteps approaching her living room. Her hair is being held up by a green towel and a white one is wrapped around her breasts to cover her. “You’re back! And you found my gift. Do you like it?” she inquires, joining him on the couch again. He brings her onto his lap; his hand resting on her bare thigh. “I did find it and I love it. Thank you, Precious.” His lips kiss her neck and his hand makes his way to the front of her body. “After I’m done thanking you for the gift, I’m also going to have to punish you for taking a shower without me,” he growls against her skin, plunging into her now-drenched hole.

———

Drew sits across from her at the cocktail bar, enjoying the way she laughs at the stupid joke he made. It is inappropriate for him to be sitting with her in public. No one is around to object to it though. The patrons of the dive bar could care less about who the couple are to each other. This isn’t the type of establishment Y/N could often be found at, except she has a point to prove.

They had been trying to figure out what to eat for dinner when Drew made a teasing remark. “What should we get for dinner? We can order Fortunas, Petite Coquette, or… Why are you looking at me like that?” she grumbled. He shrugged, “Everything you eat is so fancy. Have you ever eaten food that you don’t eat with a fork and knife?” She gently slaps his biceps. “I eat sushi,” she argued. His brows raised, “You use chopsticks for those. Let me reword my questions. Do you ever use your hands to eat something?” “Yes! I use my hands to eat oysters,” she pointed out, continuing to scroll through their food options. “You are still proving my point, Precious,” he teased. Y/N got up from the dining room table and headed to her room. “Where are you going?” “I’m going to get ready. You should too. I’m going to prove you wrong,” she told him.

This is how they find themselves in a dive bar in Brooklyn. The waitress arrives with their food and places it in between them. They both thank her as she walks off. Drew studies the wings on the plate and his eyes fall on her again. “Are you really going to eat those with your hands?” She flicks her head up and down, reaching over to grab a wing. He delights in the way the sauce smears across her fingers. She bites into the meat, humming at the taste. “See, I’m using my fingers,” she demonstrates. Her stained hands are held up to his face. He takes it into his hold and licks a little bit of sauce off of it, “Hmm, you did. You picked a good sauce. I like it.” He picks up his own wing to devour. “How are your siblings?” she asks. He gives her a surprised look, “You remember I have siblings?” “Of course, it’s one of the only things I know about you. I just realized we know so little about each other,” she notes, wiping her hands with a napkin.

“My siblings are good. One of my sisters just had a baby girl. What else do you want to know?”

“Aww, I love babies. You’ll have to tell me more about the baby later. As for what else I want to know… hmmm… When we first had sex, you were wearing a Western North Carolina t-shirt. Did you go to school there?”

“I did. I double majored in English, and Screen and Television.”

“Really? I can see why you did English because you are always reading when we are home, but Screen and Television? If you majored in those, then why become a bodyguard?”

His shoulders shrug and his vision drops to the food. “Yes, screen and television. I’ve always wanted to be an actor, but once I graduated, I realized it wasn’t practical. So I enlisted right after I graduated and after six years in the service, I decided not to renew my contract. It got too much for me,” he recounts. She can see how his tone has mellowed out and she reaches across the table to hold his hand. “It must have been a hard few years. Thank you for protecting our country. In a way, we can technically say you were protecting me that whole time too. How did you get into the security business?” His thumb circles the skin on the back of her hand, “You’re welcome. And I guess you could say I was made to protect you. After I left the army, it just made sense to become a bodyguard. The skills I learnt in the army transferred over quite nicely.” “Makes sense. You are very good at your job. I always feel very secure when you are around. How long have you been a bodyguard?” she continues the conversation. “I’m coming up on two years on Sunday, actually. I did one year as protection detail for a bunch of different clients and the almost one year I have with you.” She takes this information in and files it away for when they get home.

The waitress returns with another plate of wings and this time, there are carrots and celery on the side. Y/N’s face scrunches at the sight of the celery. “Yuck, you can eat all of the celery. I don’t like it,” she imitates like a child. She picks up a green stick and waves it at his mouth. He tilts his head to the side, “How can you not like celery? Have you tried it?” Her head shifts from side to side, “No, but my mom didn’t like it.” The conversation pauses at the mention of Katrina Y/L/N. Drew knows the story of Y/N’s mother.

Katrina Y/L/N was a guidance counsellor for a public high school in an underdeveloped part of New York. She didn’t work for the money. She worked to truly make a difference in the lives of children who needed her. Unfortunately, it was what brought her life to an end. One of her students had been expelled and he had returned to the school for his revenge on everyone, who he blamed for his expulsion. Katrina had been able to stop him before anyone could get hurt, except when the police arrived, they didn’t know. One wrong misinterpretation resulted in Katrina falling to the floor and she was bleeding to death. Y/N’s father wanted to sue the police department for all it was worth and obliterate the officer, who had accidentally shot his wife. Y/N talked Magnus down from his vengeance. They had all the money they needed and nothing could bring Katrina back. Katrina had chosen to save the young boy from the bullet and twelve-year-old Y/N had a much better idea of how she could honour her mother. With her father’s help, she designed outfits for a fashion show. Tickets were charged to some of the biggest names in the business and all proceeds went to an organization that helped renovate public schools.

Drew had learnt all of this when he was doing research on Y/N after getting his job. He remembers going through the pictures of Y/N waiting outside of the school for her mom to come back. He remembers the pain on her face when the coroner wheeled her mother out on a gurney. He wished he could’ve been there to keep Katrina safe for Y/N, but nineteen-year-old him wouldn’t have had any idea what to do.

“Well, you aren’t your mother. So you should try it,” he suggests, wanting to ease her discomfort from the thought of her mom. She considers his order and takes a bite out of the stringy vegetable. Her face shows her discomfort at the taste in her mouth. Drew chortles at her expression, taking the stalk out of her hand. “Okay, so maybe celery isn’t your thing. At least, you have me to eat all the mean celery,” he jokes and finishes the rest of the disliked marshland plant. Y/N’s lips don’t rise at his joke, “My mom always used to say I would make an amazing fashion designer one day. She would let me style her outfits for different events with my dad. Could you imagine? Eight-year-old me going through my mom’s closet and picking out whatever I wanted her to wear. I look back at some of her old event pictures and think she really must have loved me to have worn some of the things I chose.” He smiles at the imagery of the girl he loves playing dress up with her mom. “She did love you. You know that right?” he confirms. The corner of her mouth softly raises, “I know. She told me it every second she could. I just wish I could know if she is proud of me. She may have said I would be a good fashion designer, but I want to know if she is proud of my choice to actually pursue it. I’m not doing anything noble like her.”

He can sense the comfort she needs from him and he gets up to head behind her chair. His arms wrap around her shoulder, pulling her into an embrace. His lips meet the skin of her cheek and then the shell of her ear. “She would be so proud of you. Precious, what you are doing is noble. You took what you love and you used it to give back to the community. That is noble,” he reassures. He can feel her breath hitch at such physical touch from him in public. They’ve never been this close to each other in proximity to other people and she is thanking the fact no one in this bar would care about the daughter of a big CEO. Her arms reach out behind her to bring him in closer, “Thank you. You made me feel better. Do you think I can talk to you more about my mom? My dad rarely likes to talk about her.”

“I will always be here to talk about your mom if you want, Precious.”

———

All week Y/N would return home from work and immediately shut herself in her home office, ordering Drew to stay out of the room. He doesn’t know what she is up to. Maybe she just needs some space from him. He starts suspecting that isn’t the logic behind her motives once she demands Drew stay in his bedroom until she comes to get him. He hasn’t stayed more than ten minutes in what used to be his old room following them getting together. Her room has practically become his. He could cheat and look at the security cameras in her living room, but he doesn’t want to spoil whatever surprise she has for him. The sound of the front door opening causes nerves to grow in him, except he trusts she wouldn’t do anything to put herself in danger. He busies himself with reading the copy of The Son by Philipp Meyer Y/N bought him.

About an hour later, a quiet knock on the door captures his attention. “You can come out now,” she announces and opens the door for him. The open door reveals her wearing the pink sundress he loves so much on her. She beckons him to follow with a massive grin. Their feet slap against the hardwood floor and as they round into the living room, he finds a space full of people. He examines the faces of everyone. He recognizes every single one. Her father. James and their co-workers. His friends. Some of his army buddies. And lastly, his family. Hung across the fireplace is a banner that says Happy Two Years As A Bodyguard, Drew! Everyone cheers at his arrival and he searches for Y/N for answers. She sees his face, “It’s a party to celebrate two years of being a bodyguard.” He wants to hug her, except it would be inappropriate in the opinion of the party guests. To them, Drew and Y/N are just a bodyguard and his clients. The only argument as to why Y/N throws a party for him is her personality. She loves commemorating other people’s accomplishments.

“This is fantastic, Y/N. Thank you,” he acknowledges, wishing he could give her a kiss. She casts her sights downward and swings her arms behind her back, “It was nothing. I had fun planning it and making the decorations. It kept me busy.” Drew starts to examine the decorations with a newfound appreciation upon learning she crafted them by hand. “You did all of these. Y/N, these are incredible,” he acclaims. He is impressed by her craftiness.

He recognizes the smell of his mom’s chicken casserole and his stomach grumbles for a taste. The swarming of his loved ones to congratulate him stops him from being able to do it. Drew is catching up with an old army friend when Y/N presents him with a plate of his favourite foods. “Sorry to interrupt. Drew hasn’t eaten all day. I want to make sure he does at some point today,” she explicates in advance of her walking away to chat with Magnus. His world starts to spin on its own axis. One where she is the axis at the center of his earth. Her effort to concern herself with his well-being and to plan a party for him shows her adoration for him. He couldn’t ask for a better girlfriend and he thinks it is time to officially label who they are to each other. Not to the world. Merely for them to know what they mean to each other.

———

The guests left a few hours ago after helping with the clean-up, leaving Y/N and Drew to relax on her couch. The words on the page aren’t being processed with Y/N’s head on his lap. She flips through the pages of her magazine. He perceives the way she halts between articles to write down some notes. His digits drag through her hair in admiration. This moment is perfect to legitimize their relationship. “So,” he begins to fixate her view of him. She drops the magazine to her chest. “I was thinking that maybe I could start calling you my girlfriend. Obviously, I won’t be telling other people, but I just think it could be something for us. To prove our devotion to each other.” She beams at him and sits up. Her lips smack on his. “I would be happy to be your girlfriend,” she confides to him. The pressure in his heart diminishes and beats at a steady pace. He feels like the world is in his hands because she quite literally is.

———

Drew acknowledges it isn’t logical to keep Y/N from the outside world. She can’t stay in the comfort of their home forever. Besides, he treasures the way her hair is a wave in the wind and her eyes are stars in the sunlight. Freshly cut grass nauseates him and he fights through the feeling to keep doing his job. She wishes he could sit with her during her picnic, yet she comprehends his need to stay vigilant. The wine glass in her hand meets her lips and she gulps down the aromatic alcohol. She takes a bite of the brie from the charcuterie board. The breeze from the wind almost carries her magazine into the air. He has to hold in his enjoyment of her chasing after the booklet. She approaches him, finally catching it in front of him. She straightens up with a sense of accomplishment; however, her expression plunges alongside her widening eyes.

He can’t ask her what is wrong. Her body shoots around him so their backs are facing each other and then he hears it. The one piercing crack that is so familiar to him. His certainty of what the sound was is confirmed when more booms don’t follow. It’s not fireworks. Her body stumbles into his as he wrenches in her direction. She collapses in his arms.

It shocks her that she couldn’t really feel anything at first. The pressure on her shoulder reminds her of when she got her ears pierced. The bullet breaks through her skin like the puncture of a needle. The next thing she feels is nothing, probably because of the adrenaline going through her body. A crimson stain flowers on her shirt, resembling a rose. As it spreads, the numbness switches to a burn. She starts to think she is being felted into a small wool animal. The whip of another gunshot causes panic to grow in her. What if Drew was hurt? The voices around her start to blur together, becoming one big mush of noise to her. Her eyelids droop like an unsupported bridge, slinging between open and closed until she is kept in a state of unconsciousness. Is this how her mom felt that day, eleven years ago? Is this the day she gets to be reunited with her mother again?

———

Their environment should’ve been under constant scrutiny from him. He shouldn’t have let himself be distracted by her. If he hadn’t, she wouldn’t be in surgery right now. She wouldn’t have had to save him from that bullet. His hands and shirt are covered with her blood thanks to the disconnect of her right axillary artery. He doesn’t want to chance missing an update from the doctor if he gets cleaned up. The doctors are uncertain about her fate, but they are doing everything they can to help her. He wishes he could say the same about himself.

Drew is aware of his appearance because of the hush that comes over the room. Hospitals are already quiet, but this is different. The silence has a hollowness to it. “Where is my daughter?” Magnus roars as he storms toward Drew. Drew's hunched posture adjusts at the entrance of his boss. He rises to his feet, trying to hide his tears. “She’s in surgery,” he manages to croak out. Magnus’ heart tumbles into his belly, “What do you mean she is in surgery? What happened?” “W- She was having a picnic, sir,” he stutters out. “She was standing in front of me and then all of a sudden she saw something that caused her to put herself behind me. She took the bullet for me.” Magnus’ eyes narrow and his eyebrows form a v, “You were supposed to be her protector. That’s what I hired you for. So how come I’m finding out that my daughter is in a life-or-death situation because of you?”

“It’s my fault, sir. I was distracted and my guard was down. This is all my fault.”

“Of course, it is! I hope you know that you are fired immediately. You failed to keep my daughter safe. Now, tell me you at least caught the asshole, who hurt her.”

“I understand your decision, sir. And I managed to fire a shot to incapacity the assailant. He is in police custody.”

Magnus nods in satisfaction, “At least, you can do that right. Do you know who he is? Do you think he was hired by Demitri to hurt her?” “I do know, who he is. No, I don’t think Demitri hired him. I think he is connected to the note Y/N received a few months ago. I’ve identified him as Sean Cox. Y/N and he went on a few dates. She ended it after the third date and he said crass things to her,” Drew relays to Magnus. Magnus snaps his fingers and his own bodyguard rushes to his side. “I want you to find out everything you can about this Sean Cox guy. Now!” he orders, returning his anger back to Drew. “I want you out of her apartment by the end of the week. You are dismissed.”

———

The doctors were able to stabilize her in surgery and she’s been in a coma for a week. James has been updating Drew on her condition now that his co-worker is her full-time bodyguard. Per his contract with the company, he gets to take a full month off in between contracts that require him to live with the client and if the month is going to be anything like this week, Drew is going to fall apart. His insomnia keeps him awake to ruminate on the possible ways he could’ve saved her. And he keeps coming back to one conclusion. If he wasn’t smitten with her, then she would’ve been unharmed. Not only because he wouldn’t have been preoccupied by her vision, but because Sean wouldn’t have grown jealous enough to want to hurt Drew. His thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

James’ name flashes across the screen and Drew scrabbles to pick it up. “Is she okay?” he worries through the phone. James stops him before he can rant, “She’s fine. She is awake. She actually woke up from the coma two hours ago. I haven’t called yet because I figured you didn’t want to come while Magnus was here. She’s been asking for you.” “She’s awake? I’ll be there soon,” he states, hanging up his phone and getting out of bed.

———

Drew greets James with his head as he walks through the doors of Y/N’s hospital room. He finds an exhausted-looking Y/N, lying in the bed. A smile paints across her face as soon as he sees her and he is pained by the notion as to why she is here. “Hi,” she rasps out. He joins her at her side, “Hey, how are you feeling?” “As good as you’d expect after being shot. The doctors say I should make a full recovery,” she retells. “I was thinking since my dad knows about us now, that once I’m discharged, we can go on a trip somewhere. Maybe Bali or Italy.” He wants nothing more than to agree. To tell her that he’ll go anywhere with her. Apart from the fact that he came here for another purpose. He doesn’t return her grin and she hunts for it. She yarns for him to return the excitement. “Drew, what’s wrong?” she interrogates, reaching out for a hand he can’t bring himself to give. He knows it will be too hard to let go of.

“Your dad fired me.”

“I know. I’m not dating you because you work for my dad. I’m dating you because I love you.”

“I was fired because I couldn’t protect you.”

“Drew, it wasn’t your fault. Sean was the one with the gun. He was the one who fired it.”

The chair scrapes against the floor and Drew rushes to the window. His hands slamming against the sill startles her. “You don’t get it,” he yells. “I can’t be with you. You almost died because of me!” Y/N wants to rush to his side, except the stabbing pain in her shoulder stops her. Drew hears her wince and hurries to her side. “What are you saying, Drew? Are you breaking up with me?” she cries, tears pooling in her eyes. He steps away from her, back facing her. He can’t do what he needs to do if she is looking at him. “Yes.” No more words can escape his mouth; he needs to keep his composure.

“But my heart is yours,” she sobs, trying to hold his hand. Drew needs to get away from her, “Well, you can have it back. I don’t want it anymore.” He hates being cruel, yet it’s the only way this will go faster. “Drew, please. It’s not your fault. Please,” she argues.

Drew doesn’t have anything left to say and he doesn’t want to force her to be in his presence anymore, so he leaves her behind even though it kills him. It kills him to listen to her weep and not do anything about it. He craves to bring her into his hold and kiss her tears away. She may not believe this is all his fault but it is. It was his flaw that sent her to the hospital. His fatal flaw was thinking he was the only protector she needed. It was his hubris.

Taglist: @loves0phelia, @f4ll-for-you, @mellillasstuff, @jjsmarijuana

#drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey smut #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey fanfiction #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey fic #bodyguard!drew #bodyguard!drew starkey #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x y/n

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mpileons · 2 months

Text

i can see you | leah williamson x reader

Summary: based on this request

Word Count: 3.3K

Warnings: alludes to smut but no actual smut

> also my requests are open :))

The air cackles with anticipation as I make my way through the familiar corridors of the Emirates. The red and white stadium quickly became my home ever since I got hired as a sports photographer for the Arsenal Women’s team a few years ago.

Match days, like today, have always been a forefront centre for a whirlwind of excitement and nerves, this energy buzzing in the air quickly reminding me of how much I adore my job.

You brush past me in the hallway, and you don't think I can see ya, do ya? I've been watchin' you for ages and I spend my time tryin' not to feel it

As I round a corner, my heart skips a beat in anticipation of the person I see, Leah Williamson. Her presence, I have noticed, commands attention at all times without any perceivable effort. She quickly brushes past me in the hallway, repeating one of our many fleeting interactions that never fails to send a jolt of electricity through my veins.

I pretend not to notice, and instead focus on adjusting my camera settings, playing around with the aperture and such while waiting for the rest of the players to file in. However, I cannot deny how my eyes always seem to catch hers. How her hair always looks impossibly soft, her eyes incredibly inviting to anyone lucky enough to catch a glimpse into them.

There's something incredibly magnetic about her that I, for the life of me, cannot explain. Something that draws me in like a moth to a flame. And yet, all my best efforts and countless hours have been spent trying to ignore the pull, burying my feelings beneath layers of professionalism.

But what would you do if I went to touch you now? What would you do if they never found us out? What would you do if we never made a sound?

But today, as she glides past me, the mere touch sending shivers down my spine, I can't help but wonder—what would she do if she knew? What would she do if I reached out and touched her now, if I confessed the longing that I have spent months burying?

But for now, I keep my gaze steady, my expression neutral, as I try to navigate the maze of emotions swirling within me. But match day is speeding up, and there's an enormous amount of work to be done and no time left for day dreaming.

'Cause I can see you waitin' down the hall from me and I could see you up against the wall with me and what would you do, baby, if you only knew? That I can see you.

I finish taking the team’s matchday pictures and begin packing up all my camera equipment. In the corner of my eye, I see the girls beginning to leave the stadium.

With a subtle tilt of my head, I gesture toward a secluded alcove just around the corner from the entrance to the pitch. It's a risky move, but this forbidden tension is too good to resist. I see the flicker of uncertainty in Leah's eyes, mingled with a spark of curiosity. Does she sense the same magnetic pull that draws me toward her?

Without a word, she follows my lead, her steps measured yet purposeful. The corridor narrows as we approach the alcove, the walls closing in around us like a cocoon of secrecy. My heart pounding in my chest as I wait for her to join me.

And then she's there, mere inches away, her presence overwhelming in its intensity. I can feel the heat radiating from her body. Our eyes lock in a silent exchange, a silent conversation filled with unspoken anticipation.

In that moment, with her pressed against the wall, time seems to stand still, the world seemingly fading into the background. I reach out carefully, my fingertips grazing her jawline with feather-light caresses. The touch of her skin sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through me.

With a shaky breath, I close the distance between us, my lips capturing hers in a passionate kiss. It's an impulsive and fleeting moment, yet it doesn't fail to ignite a fire between us. Our bodies press against each other, consumed by a hunger that I didn't know was reciprocated. I snake my hands further down her waist in an attempt to pull her closer, yet she pulls away and whispers “Same time next week?” with a smirk as she pushes off the wall and runs off back to the team, leaving me completely and utterly dumbfounded.

And we kept everything professional. But something's changed, it's somethin' I, I like.

A few days have passed since our reckless and rushed initial kiss. To say that that moment has replayed in my head a million times a day is an understatement. It has truly taken over my brain, thoughts of her, her perfect face and her perfectly filled lips consume me day in and day out.

Yet, amidst my racing thoughts, I can sense that something has shifted between Leah and I, an unspoken understanding that exceeds the boundaries of professionalism. It's subtle, but it's there.

The sound of Sarina’s voice pulls me out of the mini day dream I was in, reminding me that I needed to get my gear ready since kickoff was about to start.

As I go to take my position and set up my tripod, I suddenly sense someone's presence nearby, a warmth enveloping me, sending a jolt of anticipation through my veins.

Turning slightly, I find Leah standing just a few feet away, her gaze intense and unwavering.

"Enjoying the view?" Leah's voice breaks through the silence, her lips quirking up into a playful smile.

I chuckle nervously, trying to regain my composure. "Just admiring the architecture of the stadium," I reply, gesturing vaguely at the surroundings and trying to act uninterested.

Leah raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Right," she says, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Because who wouldn't want to stare at concrete walls when they could be watching the best football team play?"

I roll my eyes, unable to suppress a smile despite my best efforts. "Okay, maybe I was enjoying the view a little too much," I admit, feeling a rush of warmth spread through me at her unexpected teasing banter.

Leah laughs, a sound that sends a flutter of butterflies swirling in my stomach. "Well, I can't blame you," she says, stepping closer until there's barely any space between us. "After all, I am pretty easy on the eyes."

I bite my lip, "You're not wrong," I say, my voice barely above a whisper as I meet her gaze, feeling the unspoken tension crackling between us like electricity.

They keep watchful eyes on us. So it's best that we move fast and keep quiet.

After that particularly intense match, Leah and I find ourselves alone in the locker room, the echoes of victory still ringing in the air. The atmosphere is charged with tension, our bodies humming with the thrill of the game and built up yet unspent energy.

Leah's gaze meets mine, her eyes smouldering with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. Without a word, she closes the distance between us, her movements swift and purposeful. I can feel the heat radiating off her body as her hand circles around my waist while her other hand snakes up and grasps my neck, our breath mingling in the close confines of the locker room.

Leah's warm breath brushes against my lips, her voice a soft whisper that stirs the air between us. "They could be watching," she murmurs, her words laden with a sense of urgency and caution. The weight of her words hang heavily in the air, yet her words remain discarded as I catch her lips in another heated kiss. With the shared understanding of the risk, we move closer, our bodies drawn together by an irresistible force as I bite her bottom lips in an attempt to fuse her further to me. My fingers weave through her hair, pulling her closer as our bodies press together, each touch sending sparks flying between us.

With each caress, the heat between us intensifies. Her hands roam freely, exploring every curve and contour of my body as her hands start to go dangerously low with a frantic touch, as if she is trying to memorise every inch of my skin.

As our movements become more urgent, the sound of footsteps echoes in the distance, jolting us back to reality. With a shared look of panic, we quickly break apart, my heart racing as I scramble to compose myself.

Leah's eyes meet mine, a silent plea for reassurance as we both struggle to catch our breath. Despite the close call, there's an undeniable sense of exhilaration coursing through us. With a shaky laugh, Leah reaches out to straighten my disheveled clothes, her touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "We should probably get going," she says, her voice husky with desire as her eyes continue roaming my body, her actions opposing the words coming out of her mouth.

I nod in agreement, my lips betraying me as my mind is still reeling from the intensity of our kiss.

You won't believe half the things I see inside my head. Wait 'til you see half the things that haven't happened yet

Leah and I lay entwined in each other's embrace as our breaths dance in harmony, a silent symphony of contentment and desire, both of us lost in our own thoughts until Leah breaks the silence.

"You ever think about where we could go from here?" Leah murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare skin.

I turn to her with a mischievous glint in my eyes. "Well, after that performance you put on, we might need to consider joining witness protection," I tease her, a playful smirk dancing on my lips.

Leah laughs, the low and husky sound reigniting my desire as I cuddle closer to her. "I think we might have set off a few alarms," she replies, "But hey, at least I went easy on you"

I chuckle, the tension easing as we batter back and forth. "Lee, I think the marks on my neck and back tell a different story" I quip.

Leah's laughter fills the room, warm and infectious. "I mean, you know what they say, it's not a real victory until you've left a mark” She replies as her fingers trace circles on the marks decorating my neck.

I could see you in your suit and your necktie, passed me a note saying, "Meet me tonight" Then we kiss, and you know I won't ever tell.

As I navigate through the crowd, I keep catching glimpses of Leah across the room, more specifically trying to steal glances of her suit that fits her like a second skin, tailored to perfection to accentuate every curve and contour of her body. The sleek lines of the jacket frame her figure with elegance, while the crisp white shirt beneath hints at the curve of her neckline. Paired with her necktie, expertly knotted, that adds a touch of refinement to the ensemble, the deep hue contrasting beautifully against the backdrop of her shirt.

But it's not just the attire that gets me—it's the way Leah wears it. There's an effortless confidence in her demeanour, a self-assurance that radiates from her every pore that makes it hard for me to tear my glance away from her.

Then, unexpectedly, Leah discreetly passes me a note, her eyes twinkling with mischief and a slight warning of what's to come. The note reads, "Meet me tonight," accompanied by a playful wink as she runs off to join her teammates.

As the event comes to a close, I make my way to the meeting spot on the note, I find Leah already waiting, a coy smile playing on her lips, the air crackles with tension and desire.

Not wasting any time, I grab onto Leah’s tie to close the distance between us as my fingers move to trail along the lapel of her suit jacket, sending a shiver of anticipation down Leah’s spine. With a playful glint in her eyes, Leah leans in closer, her breath warm against my skin.

Our lips meet in a feverish kiss, hungry and urgent, as months of pent-up desire spill over in a rush of passion. Leah's hands roam over my body, fingers tracing the contours of my form with a reverence that borders on worship. With a sense of urgency born of longing, Leah begins to shed my clothes, each garment falling to the ground in a hasty pile.

Leah's eyes darken with hunger as she pulls back to take a proper look at me, her gaze roving hungrily over every inch of my exposed skin. "I've imagined this moment more times than I can count." she murmurs, her voice husky with desire as her hands find their way back to me, trailing along the curves of my body with a possessiveness that sends a shiver down my spine. With practised precision, she directs her mouth to form more marks on my neck, continuing to tease me with featherlight touches. As her mouth continues to suck on the pulsepoint of my neck, her hands creep up under my bra, lightly kneeling the flesh, continuing to tease while whispers of moans involuntary leave my mouth. “Please lee, I need more please” I gasp as my eyes squeeze shut and her lips find mine once more, a fervent kiss that leaves us both dizzy with need.

Leah's fingers return to my jawline to trace a slow path along it, her touch sending shivers down my spine. "Believe me," she whispers, her breath hot against my ear, "we're just getting started."

And I could see you being my addiction, you can see me as a secret mission, hide away and I will start behaving myself

It had become something of a routine for Leah and I to steal moments together whenever we could – at training sessions, during events, and even in the corners of the stadium. But lately, Leah had clearly made it her personal mission to keep me on my toes at all times, to see just how flustered she could make me.

During a particularly mundane team meeting regarding an upcoming match, I could clearly see Leah growing restless and fidgety, her eyes glimmering with mischief, very obviously up to no good. As the coach droned on about tactics and strategy, Leah's foot found its way to mine under the table, tracing teasing circles along her calf as her hands found their home on my thigh, rubbing in an upward motion. I could feel my cheeks flushing crimson as I struggled to maintain my fragile composure, trying to shoot Leah a warning glance that only seemed to fuel her amusement even more.

Later, at a team event, Leah made it her mission to keep me within arm's reach at all times. She would brush past me casually, her fingers lingering just a little too long against my arm or back. Each subtle touch reminding me of what her fingers could do, how she could turn me into an incoherent mess with just a few touches, my heart began to race with the thrill of our newly founded secret game.

But it wasn't just physical contact that Leah used to rile me up. She had a not so hidden talent for dropping suggestive comments and innuendos into our conversations, alone and or with other arsenal players and stuff, her comments always leaving me visibly flustered and breathless. And though I tried my best to play it cool, I knew Leah could see the effect she was having on me, the way her eyes would darken with desire whenever our gazes met.

Leah let out a contented sigh as we once again found ourselves alone in the locker room. The exhaustion of the day evident in every line of her body. With practiced ease, she began to peel off her sweat-soaked kit, the fabric clinging to her skin as she moved.

I simply couldn't tear my gaze away as Leah's toned muscles flexed beneath the fabric, my eyes shamelessly lingering on the defined curves of her abs. In my defence, it was impossible not to be captivated by the sight of Leah, especially after a match.

Leah obviously catching onto my not very discreet ogling of her body, she slowly moves closer to me with a devilish glint in her eye, her breath warm against my ear as she whispers "You know, Y/N," Leah began, her voice low and slightly seductive, "I love the way you react when I tease you like this. The way your cheeks flush and your breath hitches... it's addicting."

Leah's hand brushed lightly against my arm, "You drive me crazy, you know that?" Leah continued, her voice husky with desire. "I can't get enough of you, Y/N. And I won't stop until I've completely ruined you for everyone else. Till you are mine only"

Despite my very best efforts to play it cool, my body was betraying me with every word that left Leah's mouth. I could feel the heat quickly rising in my cheeks while my knees struggled to support my body. However, I didn't have to worry about that as Leah pushed me against the locker, her hand quickly residing on my waist, while the other hand was sneaking around the waistband of my sweatpants.

My breath was very quickly caught in my throat as I felt Leah's lips brush against my neck, sending shivers down my spine. She continued her ministrations further down my body, getting down on her knees as she placed light kisses all over my torso. I knew I should resist, knew that I should put an end to this game that we were playing. But in that moment, all I could think about was how much I wanted, needed Leah – how much I craved the touch of my skin against hers. How all my thoughts revolve around her.

—

The soft glow of the city lights filtering through the windows as Leah and I settle onto the couch together, her arm splayed over my shoulder as my head finds its home in the crook of her neck. However, there was palpable tension between us, the air thick with unspoken words.

Leah slowly leans in closer, her breath warm against my ear as she traces lazy circles on my thigh. "You ever wonder where this could lead?" she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes searching mine for any sign of hesitation.

I meet her gaze, a small smile playing on my lips as I subconsciously lean into her touch. "All the time," I admit, my voice soft with longing. "But you know I want this to be more, I want to be more for you, and to you.” I whisper, another confession that involuntarily left my lips.

Leah's expression softens, a hint of vulnerability shining through the mask of confidence she usually wears. "I can't promise you an easy road," she says, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "But I am ready for more and I can promise you that I'll be by your side every step of the way, giving you everything that you deserve and more."

I reach out to cup Leah's cheek, my touch gentle and reassuring. "That's all I need to hear," I say, my voice filled with conviction. "As long as we're together, I don’t care about anything else."

Leah leans into my touch, her eyes closing briefly as she savors the warmth of our connection. "Together," she echoes, her voice soft and full of promise.

#woso community #woso x reader #arsenal womens #woso #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson x you #Leah Williamson x y/n #woso fanfics #woso fanfic #woso imagine #woso blurb #woso blurbs #leah williamson imagine #Spotify

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songbirdseung · 2 months

Text

puppy nanny / park sunghoon ☆

synopsis: with his busy life, he hired a dogsitter for his baby gaeul.

pairing: idol!sunghoon × dogsitter!yn

His days blur into a whirlwind of rehearsals, interviews, and performances, leaving little room for the simple joys of companionship. Yet, nestled within the chaos of his existence and career is a precious soul that demands his attention—a spul wrapped in white fur and filled with boundless love. Gaeul, his beloved pet.

Sunghoon knelt beside Gaeul, her soft fur warm against his fingertips as he gazed into her trusting eyes. The exhaustion of another long day lingered in the lines of his face. "I'm sorry," he murmured, " I know, I haven't been there for you as much as I should. It's just that things have been so hectic lately... and I've been pulled in so many directions."

My little baby titled her head as if understanding the weight of his words, her eyes filled with a silent understanding that tugged at his heart. "But I promise, things will be different from now on." Sunghoon continued, his voice tinged with determination. "You deserve to have someone here with you. Someone who can give you the attention and love you need. I'm going to find you a nanny. Someone who will care for you just like I do."

—

Sunghoon sat alone in the dimly lit studio, the hum of silence punctuated only by the soft click of his phone unlocking. With a heavy sigh, he opened his contacts list, fingers hovering over the screen as he contemplated his next move.

"Hey, Sunghoon," Jungwon's voice broke through the quiet, his presence a welcome interruption to the solitude that threatened to consume him. "What are you up to?"

Sunghoon glanced up, a weary smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he motioned for Jungwon to join him. "Just trying to find someone to take care of Gaeul while I'm away," he admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation.

Jungwon nodded in understanding, settling into the seat beside him with an easy familiarity. "Actually, I might have someone in mind," he said, his tone casual yet tinged with excitement. "A friend of mine, Y/N. She's incredible with dogs—trust me, she has taken care of maeumi before."

Sunghoon's interest piqued at the mention of Y/N's name, his curiosity sparked by Jungwon's endorsement. "Really? Tell me more about her," he urged, his gaze fixed on his friend as he awaited further explanation.

Jungwon grinned, reaching for his own phone as he pulled up Y/N's profile with practiced ease. "Here, take a look," he said, passing the device to Sunghoon as he eagerly awaited his reaction.

Sunghoon's eyes scanned the screen, his interest piqued by the image of Y/N smiling brightly amidst a backdrop of lush greenery. As he read through her profile, a sense of warmth spread through his chest, a flicker of hope igniting within him at the prospect of finding the perfect caregiver for Gaeul.

—

Sunghoon stared at his phone, the soft glow of the screen casting shadows across his face as he hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys.

Sunghoon: Hi, this is Sunghoon. I got your contact from Jungwon. He mentioned that you might be able to help me with something important.

For what felt like an eternity, the silence of the room enveloped him, the seconds ticking by with agonizing slowness. And then, just as doubt began to creep in, his phone lit up with a new message, a beacon of hope amidst the darkness.

Y/N: Hi Sunghoon! Nice to meet you. Jungwon told me about Gaeul and how you're looking for someone to take care of her. I'd be happy to help!

Sunghoon's lips curved into a relieved smile at Y/N's response, a sense of gratitude flooding through him at her willingness to lend a hand. With renewed determination, he typed out his reply, his fingers dancing across the screen with newfound purpose.

Sunghoon: Thank you so much, Y/N. Would you be available to meet and discuss the details sometime soon?

As he hit send, Sunghoon felt a flutter of anticipation in his chest, his thoughts consumed by the possibility of finally finding the perfect caregiver for his beloved companion. And as he awaited Y/N's response, he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope amidst the uncertainty that had plagued him for so long.

Y/N: Absolutely! I'd love to meet Gaeul and discuss how I can help. When would be a good time for you?

—

The air hummed with anticipation as Sunghoon stood outside the quaint café, his pulse quickening with each passing moment. He glanced at his watch, the hands ticking closer to the appointed time, his heart racing with a mixture of nervousness and excitement.

And then, as if on cue, he spotted her—a figure approaching from the bustling streets, her presence a beacon of warmth amidst the chaos of the city. Y/N's smile lit up her face as she caught sight of him, her steps quickening with each stride as she closed the distance between them.

"Sunghoon?" she called out, her voice a melodic cadence that sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine.

"Y/N," he breathed, his own smile widening as he stepped forward to greet her, the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders at the sight of her.

Their meeting was a blur of introductions and laughter, the hours slipping away in a haze of easy conversation and shared moments. And as they lingered outside the café, the promise of friendship hanging in the air, Sunghoon couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over him—a feeling that perhaps, amidst the chaos of his busy life, he had found a kindred spirit in Y/N.

But it was when they finally made their way back to Sunghoon's apartment that the true magic began to unfold. As they stepped through the door, Gaeul's excited barks filled the air, her tail wagging furiously as she bounded towards them with unbridled enthusiasm.

Sunghoon's heart swelled with pride as he watched Gaeul greet Y/N with a fervor he had never seen before, her eyes alight with joy as she nuzzled against Y/N's hand with unabashed affection. It was a sight that filled him with wonder—a testament to the special connection that had formed between them in such a short time.

"I can't believe it," Sunghoon murmured, his voice tinged with awe as he watched the scene unfold before him. "She's never warmed up to anyone this quickly before."

Y/N grinned, her eyes sparkling with delight as she reached out to stroke Gaeul's fur, her touch gentle yet filled with an undeniable sense of warmth. "She's a special one, that's for sure," she said, her voice soft with affection. "But I think she knows that she's found a friend in me."

— A month later —

As Sunghoon stepped through the door of his apartment, the familiar scent of home enveloped him in a warm embrace. It had been a long month filled with grueling schedules and endless performances, but as he crossed the threshold into the sanctuary of his own space, a sense of peace settled over him like a comforting blanket.

Yet, it was the sight that greeted him in the living room that truly took his breath away—a scene so tender and intimate that Sunghoon felt as if he were intruding upon something sacred.

There, bathed in the soft glow of the evening light, Y/N sat on the floor with Gaeul nestled in her lap, her fingers gently combing through the dog's fur as she whispered soothing words of comfort. Gaeul's eyes were closed in bliss, her tail wagging lazily against the carpet as she basked in the warmth of Y/N's affection.

Sunghoon's heart swelled with emotion as he watched the scene unfold before him, a rush of tenderness flooding through him at the sight of Y/N's gentle care for Gaeul. In that moment, something shifted within him—a realization so profound that it took his breath away.

For the first time, Sunghoon saw Y/N not just as Gaeul's nanny, but as a kindred spirit—a soul whose compassion and warmth resonated with his own. And as he stood there, silently observing the sweet moment between Y/N and Gaeul, he couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over him—a feeling that perhaps, amidst the chaos of his busy life, he had found something truly precious in the form of Y/N's presence.

"Sunghoon," Y/N's voice broke through the quiet of the room, her eyes meeting his with a warmth that mirrored his own. "I didn't hear you come in. How was your day?"

"It's just... sometimes it feels like I'm drowning," Sunghoon admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation. "Like no matter how hard I try, I can never seem to catch my breath. And I'm scared, Y/N. Scared that if I keep going like this, I'll lose myself completely."

Y/N listened intently, her heart aching for the pain she saw etched in Sunghoon's eyes. She reached out to gently cup his face in her hands, her touch a gesture of comfort and understanding that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

"You're not alone, Sunghoon," she whispered, her voice filled with an unwavering resolve. "I'm here for you, every step of the way."

—

Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are HIGHLY appreciated!! ☆

#enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen au #engene #enha #enhypen x reader #heeseung #jake #sunghoon #jungwon #niki nishimura #riki nishimura x reader #riki #jay #enhypen jay #jongseong #park jongseong imagines #sunghoon fluff

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charmandabear · 3 months

Text

Office Hours - Chapter Three

Summary:

Astarion surprises you by inviting you to his place... for a real date? The evening doesn't go as expected when you uncover the darkness in his past.

Pairing: Astarion/F!Reader Rating: E Word Count: 5.4k Tags/Warnings: mentions of Astarion's past, vampire bites, blood drinking, blow job, p in v sex, fluff with a very small side of angst, Shadowheart being a bit of a manic pixie dream best friend

Since y'all are insistent on encouraging my worst tendencies, here, have the longest single thing I've ever written. I think about Professor Astarion at all waking (and sleeping at this point) hours. I have other things planned, I will eventually write something else, I promise. But also... this one is now becoming a full-fledged multi-chapter fic. I'm half-considering rewriting the first few chapters so it's in third-person? I don't know though, let me know what you think.

H1ghVoltage and Zaria were both invaluable betas for this one, I appreciate you both so much. And Zaria for always providing the most perfect screenshots at the drop of a hat. This literally would not exist without you.

Read on AO3 ~ Masterlist

“Excuse me? The one you’re always going on about?” Shadowheart’s eyebrows disappear into her platinum bangs as she tucks her feet underneath her, holding up her wine glass so it doesn’t spill. The two of you met while moving into adjacent apartments a few years prior; it turned out you had both just been hired at the university, her at the Divinity School and you at the College of Arts and Sciences. Since then you’ve become fast friends, and you’re finally filling her in on all of the details of the whirlwind that has been the past few days. You hide your chagrin behind a sip of wine.

“Okay, listen, yes, but hear me out. He looks like this.” You hold out your phone and show her the English department faculty page.

“Oh. Oh,” she says in a low tone as her eyes study the screen. “Okay, you didn’t tell me that.”

“I think I was in denial,” you whine as you drop your head onto the couch cushion. “I focused on how much of an asshole he is to distract me from how hot he is.”

“And now? Will you see him again?” She tosses your phone at your feet and you lift your gaze.

“I don’t know? He made a joke about having sex in my office but I don’t think he actually meant it.” You cast a sidelong glance at Shadowheart, trying to gauge her expression.

“Scandalous,” she smiles into the rim of her glass before taking a long sip. You pick up your phone, looking at his portrait. It looks like a candid photo but it’s very clearly composed. He’s sitting pitched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He’s looking off to the side and his brow is furrowed like he’s engaged in vigorous academic debate. It’s wildly pretentious.

You drop your phone again and angrily sip at your wine, letting the dry red flood over your tongue and coat the inside of your mouth. You notice Shadowheart eyeing you suspiciously.

“Do you want to?” she asks, and you put your glass onto the coffee table and curl your knees into your chest further.

“I… I don’t know? Like obviously the sex is good. Really good,” you add under your breath, and Shadowheart looks at you salaciously as your cheeks flush. “But whenever he says more than five words I want to gouge my eyes out.”

“Is that really how you feel, or have you just convinced yourself to feel that way?” she carefully asks. You glare at her, but you can't bring yourself to disagree. You drop your less-than-menacing expression and cover your face in your hands. You let out an exasperated sigh before suddenly gasping and looking up at her with wide eyes.

“Nine hells, did I tell you what else happened? At least one student knows. I saw her coming out of his office and she made some comment about ‘We all see how you look at him.’” You flop onto your side, burying your face in the couch cushion once again.

“Well, I suppose that answers your question, at least,” Shadowheart says reassuringly, and you narrow your eyes at her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean if you like him enough that your students are noticing, then you have to pursue him. The worst that’ll happen is you’ll break up and you can go back to hating him.” She’s awfully nonchalant about having just described a literal nightmare.

“Excuse me, how is that possibly meant to make me feel better?” you gape at her.

“At least you get a good shagging out of the deal, right?” she grins at you, and her teeth are tinged purple from the wine. You kick your foot out at her.

“Man, we need to get you laid, don’t we?” you tease and she groans.

“Listen, you just told me that you got railed twice in three days, it’s not that good out here for most of us.” Now it’s her turn to cover her face and you laugh. You pick up your wine and stretch your legs out to nudge Shadowheart’s calf.

“Who knows, maybe there’s some hot chick in the English department that he can hook you up with.” She pushes your leg back and rolls her eyes.

“Absolutely not, English academics are the worst.”

***

You have no idea what to expect when you inevitably run into Astarion the next day. You're tempted to just work from home since you don’t have any classes, but you have another damn season selection committee meeting that you can't miss, and you'd rather be around for students to drop in if they need to.

You're on your way to the bathroom at the end of the day when you finally see him. You almost don't, at first, since you're looking down at your phone and you stop short of barrelling into him. You lock eyes and smile politely, then step to your left just as he steps to his right. You two share an awkward laugh just as it happens again in the opposite direction. After another few seconds of uncomfortable shuffling, he takes you by your shoulders and moves you to the side. You give him a thankful grin and quickly move past, trying to ignore the burning in your cheeks and the way your arms tingle where he touched you.

You get to the bathroom and close the door behind you, leaning against it to brace yourself. Your stomach is roiling, though whether it was from the embarrassment, the insatiable lust, or something else entirely, you can't quite tell. You turn on the faucet and splash your face with cool water. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, trying to will yourself into stoicism. It's a losing battle as the image of him having you bent over the sink pops into your mind. You shake your head, trying to think of something else, but that only makes it worse.

He’s pressed you up against the bathroom door and he's got your wrists pinned together above your head.

No, stop, you scold yourself. But the second you banish that image another one comes flooding in, your leg draped over his shoulder as he’s lightly sucking your clit with his fingers curled inside you.

You're dizzy with the mental image and you try to wrest it from your mind. You focus on the visual stimuli around you, the white tile, the fluorescent lights, the small blue stain beneath the soap dispenser. Eventually you find yourself back in your body and you massage your temples, trying to focus.

Your head is still reeling slightly as you make your way back to your office. You unlock the door, completely unaware of his presence behind you until you catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye. You yelp and in an instant he’s towering over you with your back up against the wall.

“Almighty gods, Astarion,” you swear breathlessly, your heart pounding more from the scare than the proximity for once. The proximity doesn’t help, however, when he tilts your chin with his knuckle and smiles devilishly.

“Come to my place, let me cook you dinner,” he purrs, and your breath quickens. But when his words finally break through the seductive tone, something in your brain stops.

“Wait, cook? Can you- do you even- how-” You still haven’t fully recovered and your mouth struggles to form words. His smile widens and you know he’s enjoying watching you splutter.

“What, do you think in all of my 350 years I've never bedded a mortal? Besides,” he trails his hand down your neck and strokes it gently with his thumb, sending a shiver down your spine, “I have other ways of getting my fill.”

You instinctively tilt your head for him, almost like you’re inviting him to bite right here and now. You manage to recoup your senses just enough to quip, “I’m sure you have plenty of experience luring cute mortals back to your place.”

You think you see his jaw tighten for a fraction of a second, but it’s gone before you can be sure.

“I’ll take it as a yes, then?” He pulls away and adjusts his glasses, his fingers sliding into his hair. You nod, not trusting the words to come out of your mouth. He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and tucks it into the neckline of your shirt, a move that would have been unbearably corny coming from anyone else.

“See you then… lover.” He winks and glides out of the room as silently as he came in. You take a breath to steady yourself, a voice in the back of your head grumbling because of how much he has you wrapped around his finger. But admittedly, he seemed equally flustered when you almost plowed into him a few minutes ago.

Maybe not the best choice of words.

You pull the piece of paper out to see an address, date, and time. Tomorrow at 7.

Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool.

Now you just need to occupy yourself for the next 26 hours and not completely lose your nerve.

***

Occupying yourself isn’t terribly difficult with Shadowheart around. She keeps you busy all day with various errands, shopping, anything to keep you from spiraling.

Nevertheless, when it’s finally time to get dressed, you find yourself overthinking every tiny element. You stand frozen in front of your open underwear drawer trying to decide between the black lace or the pink satin.

“Shadowheeeaaaarrrrrtttt,” you call out to her in the other room. She pops her head in and gives you a pitying smile as she sees your anxiety-ridden face.

“Alright, sit, let me help,” she clinks her glass down on your dresser and nudges you until you’re sitting on your bed, fidgeting with the belt of your robe.

“Black lace, it’s sexier,” she says sagely, tossing the panties at you and you slide them on under your robe. She pulls the plaid skirt out of the shopping bag and flings it onto the bed.

“Put that on because we both agreed it’s adorable. It might be warm enough to go without tights?” she muses, then glances at you mischievously. “And since he has a track record of destroying those, maybe go with these instead.” She throws a pair of thigh highs at you and they hit you in the face. You wrinkle your nose.

“Careful,” you warn, but she ignores you. She floats over to your closet and sifts through the hangers. She pulls out a top, shifts her gaze between you and the garment a few times, then drops it on the floor. After another moment of searching, she pulls out a blousy cardigan, throwing it on the bed next to you.

“Don’t put that on yet, I’ll be right back.” She disappears before you can say anything. You’re left sitting on your bed in just your bra and skirt, and you rub your feet together with a restless energy.

Shadowheart returns just a few minutes later holding a lacy top that reads more as lingerie than an actual shirt. She returns your skeptical frown with a giant grin.

“Shade, I'm not wearing that,” you gripe, and she throws it in your face.

“Put it on before you judge,” she chides in response, and you roll your eyes.

“Fine, but it probably won't fit,” you say as you take off your bra and don the sheer v-neck cami. Other than straining around your chest slightly, the fit is fine. You put on the oversized cardigan over it and look at the full effect in your floor length mirror.

“See, told you,” she says smugly as you admire your reflection. And it's true, the underwear-as-outerwear really does bring the look from glorified schoolgirl cosplay into something a bit more refined. You give her a disgruntled sidelong glance but otherwise say nothing.

“Alright, get going. Go put your shoes on and chase that Ph D.” She pushes you out of your bedroom and towards the front door of your apartment. “Don't worry about me, I'll be here drinking your wine and masturbating all by myself while you get fucked through the end of the tenday.”

You slip on your black suede ankle boots and pleadingly look at Shadowheart one more time. You're still not convinced that this whole thing isn’t just a trip into the lion’s den.

“Go! I look forward to hearing all the gory details,” she says and plants a smooch on your cheek. She then smacks your ass as you head out the door, your yelp earning a satisfied smirk.

Sure enough, when you find yourself outside his apartment door, you can feel your cold feet catching up with you. You're about to take out your phone and text Shadowheart that you're going to leave when his door opens.

“Hello, beautiful,” he croons, and the syrup in his voice makes your mouth go dry. The sleeves of his white button down are rolled up and the first few buttons are undone, leaving his collarbone exposed. The black vest tapers in his waist and flows seamlessly into his well-tailored trousers. But the first thing you notice is his glasses.

“Your glasses are different,” you blurt, internally cursing your bluntness. His eyebrows pop up above the thicker plastic frames.

“Is that a problem?” he asks without a hint of malice in his voice. You blush and quickly shake your head.

“No I- I like them. They look good,” you stutter, looking away from the heat of his gaze. He smiles and takes your hand almost like he's leading you in a courtly dance, pulling you inside.

You look around his apartment, noticing the similarities to the hominess of his office. Big overfull bookshelves, warm-lit lamps dotted around the space, papers and other junk littered across every surface. It still surprises you that he doesn’t keep a tidy space, but at the same time you find it oddly charming.

You spot a hairless cat sitting on some mail on a table in the corner, delicately licking its paw.

“Aww, who’s this?” You approach the cat, holding out your hand for it to sniff. It hisses in response and you take a step back.

“That's His Majesty, and you're best to respect his wishes,” Astarion calls from the kitchen.

“You named your cat His Majesty?” you ask, trying to suppress the laugh bubbling in your throat.

“No, he named himself His Majesty,” he replies, returning from the kitchen with a spoonful of risotto. “Taste,” he commands and you obediently open your mouth. The steaming food coats your tongue with a tangy, savory taste. You nod at him, barely trusting yourself to speak. It tastes incredible.

You turn back to His Majesty, and you notice an empty potion of animal speaking tipped on its side near him.

“Well I'll just admire such a handsome creature from a distance, then,” you say and His Majesty preens slightly. You can hear a hum of approval from Astarion as he retreats back into the kitchen.

This man is full of contradictions. Pristine, clean cut outward appearance with a cluttered, disorganized space. Cool and disaffected, but he loves his cat enough to use potions to communicate with him. He doesn't need to eat, but somehow he’s an incredible cook? You frown to yourself; it feels like something doesn't add up.

You start scanning one of the bookshelves, wondering what else you can learn about him. If there was an organizational system, it wasn't clear. 48 Laws of Power, History of Modern Sexuality, On the Genealogy of Morality, Gender Trouble… Ayn Rand sitting next to Octavia Butler?

What the fuck does he like?

“How is my collection of books holding up in your estimation?” Astarion’s sudden presence behind you makes you jump. He presses a wine glass into your hand and ghosts his lips across the crook of your neck, sending a swath of goosebumps down your arms.

“Did I tell you that you look absolutely delicious?” he murmurs into your skin, and you can already feel yourself getting lightheaded.

“You're one to talk,” you say on a dizzied exhale, and the breath from his laugh tickles your shoulder. He puts his hands on your waist, running a finger along the inside of the waistband of your skirt. He gives it a gentle tug and you unconsciously move in the direction he’s pulling.

“Come eat,” he says, guiding you to a table with one place setting. You sit, feeling awkward as he sits across from you, a wine glass in his hand.

“Are you just going to watch me eat?” you laugh nervously. He smiles into the glass, glancing at you above the rectangular frames sliding down his nose.

“Well if you're insistent, I can have my dinner as well.” He's not subtle about leering at your neck, sparking a flicker of heat in your belly. You distract yourself by taking another bite of the risotto, which somehow tastes even better than what he fed you before.

“So what do you experience when you have… food?” you ask, trying to shift his attention off you eating. He looks up as he thinks, and you find your gaze tracing his jawline.

“It’s… sour. Like it’s spoiled. But when something is cooked well, and with high quality ingredients, it’s more bearable.”

You look down at your food, the taste dancing across your palette. It's certainly better than something you could make for yourself. But you know so little about cooking techniques besides the basics that you don’t know what the difference would even be.

“And you're drinking wine. What does that taste like?” You try not to stare at the dark red liquid collecting on his lips, but it’s hard not to when his tongue darts out to lick it up.

“Alcohol has a higher threshold for quality, so it's generally more palatable. It usually means a higher budget for these things, but it's not as though I'm spending much on groceries.” He narrows his eyes at you, but you can't read his expression.

“Well go on,” he continues, and you tilt your head in confusion. “Ask the question that you really want to ask.” Your heart starts beating a little faster and he smirks. Gods, you really hate that he can read you like that. It would be nice to keep at least one emotion private.

“What does blood taste like?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it's clear that he hears you. His smile widens just enough to show off his fangs.

“It depends on the person,” he replies just as casually as if you had asked him about his taste in music. “Some are sweeter, like a nice rich port, while others have a bit of a burn, like whiskey. However, you?” He places his glass on the table and stands, and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. He crosses behind your chair and sweeps your hair to the side, lasciviously inhaling your scent behind your ear, eliciting a shiver.

“Yours is smooth with a hint of spice, like a fine aged brandy. But the finish has an addictive quality, like absinthe.” He nips lightly at the base of your neck without breaking skin.

“Such pretty words,” you exhale on a breathy moan, reaching a hand up behind you and running your fingers through his hair, pulling him toward you ever so slightly.

“Is that what you want?” he breathes into your ear, and you arch your back in your seat, panting. You can barely get out the “yes” before he sweeps you out of the chair and wraps your legs around his waist. He carries you into the kitchen, placing you on the counter and pressing your knees apart with his torso. You whine and the cool tile pressing into your ass reminds you of his touch. He slides one hand behind your head and the other around your waist, and sinks his teeth into your neck.

The initial pain surprises you every time, and your yelp is followed by his satisfied groan. You grip the back of his neck as he drinks, and you can feel the muscles working with each swallow. The feeling of your blood coursing through both of your bodies gets you high, knowing it's your blood that flushes his lips, cheeks, and ears. It's your blood flowing to his cock. The reminder of it makes you clench instinctively.

He pulls away just as you're teetering on the edge of passing out. He’s always panting after he feeds, his glasses slightly askew and a ravenous look in his eye that makes your mouth water. You pull him into a heated kiss, the metallic tang on his lips becoming a sensory reminder of the post-feeding bliss.

You pull him closer with your feet, aching just to feel him pressed against you. Your hands scramble against his back, tugging at his collared shirt. He’s wearing far too many layers and he hasn’t even blessed you with the sight of his gorgeous sculpted chest yet.

You slide a hand into the back of his collar, desperate for his skin, when your fingers brush over thick raised scar tissue. He pulls back faster than you do and your hands immediately go to cover your mouth.

“I'm sorry, I didn’t–” you begin but the pained look in his eye makes you stop short.

“No it's… it's fine. I've had those for a very long time. I… ah…” he stutters, adjusting his glasses uncomfortably, and you've never seen him so flummoxed.

“What are they from?” The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it. You're about to retract, tell him he doesn't need to answer, when he speaks quietly.

“They're from… the man who turned me. He kept me as a slave for 200 years. It’s something written in infernal, but I never found out what it said. And his death ensured I never would.” He speaks while looking down at the floor, his distant gaze indicating that he's somewhere else entirely.

“Astarion…” you breathe, and you cup his face in your hands. He smirks and snakes his arms around your waist; the mask is back on.

“Don’t worry about me, darling,” he says with a composed smile, “it was a very long time ago. I’m more concerned with tonight.” He moves to kiss your neck again but you put your hand against his chest to stop him.

“No- well, I mean yes to tonight, but… let me take care of you,” you say softly, and his careful expression slips again.

“I- well if that’s what you want.” He crinkles his brow, unsure of what to make of your proposal.

“Is it what you want?” You stroke his cheek, and it suddenly feels like this is an entirely different man standing in front of you. Hesitant, vulnerable, his usual swaggering confidence replaced with an uncertain tenderness that makes your heart pound in a way that feels wholly unfamiliar with him.

“I’m not sure,” he says, his voice dropping to just above a whisper.

“We don’t have to,” you offer quickly, “we can just fuck up against a wall or something.” The joke breaks the tension and he lets out a little giggle.

“What do you have in mind?” He looks up at you through heavy-lidded eyes, and you ease off the counter and gently nudge him backwards toward his bedroom. He follows your lead, his doubtful look shifting into something of excitement and mischief. You guide him until the back of his knees hit the bed, and you push him to sit.

You straddle his lap and run your fingers through his silvery curls. You kiss along his jawline and down his neck, placing a particularly tender kiss on his bite scar. He exhales heavily, sliding his hands up your thighs and resting them on your lower back.

You begin carefully unbuttoning his vest, followed by his shirt, untucking the hem from his pants. You slide it down his shoulders and onto the bed behind him, letting your warm hands run over the cool planes of his skin. His eyes follow your movements carefully and you take your time, tracing over every divet, every freckle and mole. You delight in his gasp when your fingers dance over his navel and down to his belt buckle.

You slip off his lap and drop between his legs, your hands continuing their journey along his hips. You plant increasingly hungry kisses above his waistband as you remove his belt and unzip his pants. He leans back on his hands as his breathing quickens, but he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

You’re struck with the irony that the last time you were between Astarion’s legs like this it was to get revenge, to make him feel flustered and speechless the way he always does to you. Now you have him, flustered and speechless, and all you want is to worship him, make him feel warm and safe.

You slide his pants down under his ass, pulling them all the way off so he’s sitting on his bed fully nude. You run your lips along his inner thigh as you palm his growing erection.

“Ah- wait,” he stammers and you immediately look up and pull back.

“Yes?” you ask, frozen by the fear that you’ve gone too far.

“I want to see you,” he whispers, nudging your cardigan off your shoulder. “All of you.”

It’s hard to believe that someone sitting naked in front of you can make you feel so exposed. You shiver as you drop the cardigan off your back, the sudden exposure to cool air making your nipples poke through the lacy top that Shadowheart gave you. You stand and he watches intently as you unzip your skirt, letting it fall to the floor in a pool at your feet. His expression gives little away, but his cock doesn’t. By the time you’ve removed the black panties, thigh highs, and cami, it stands at full attention. His knees squeeze around your legs and his arms pull you in close to him, pressing his nose against your belly. You card your fingers through his hair and down to his chin, tilting his head upwards.

“Better?” you breathe, and he nods, his eyes round and wide. You bend down to kiss him, slow and languid, before dropping to your knees again. When you pull away his mouth stays open, suspended in the shape of your kiss.

You settle between his knees and lightly kiss the head of his dick. You flick your gaze upward, monitoring his expression as you lazily run your fingers along his shaft. His glasses balance on the tip of his nose as he looks down at you, transfixed by your ministrations. You open your lips slightly, not quite taking him into your mouth yet as you softly cup his balls in your hand. You can hear his breath growing ragged, and he rewards you with an almost inaudible moan when your tongue finally wets his cock.

You wrap your lips around his tip, gently working the underside with your tongue. You run your hands up his thighs, squeezing his hips as they buck into you. You take more of him in, the warmth of your mouth contrasting with the cool, sensitive skin. He groans and tangles his fingers in your hair, a gesture that feels closer to petting than pulling.

You pull your mouth off his cock, wrapping your hand around the now slick shaft. You run your thumb along the slit, and his responding shutter makes you smile.

“Ah- enjoying yourself?” he murmurs, unable to keep his voice steady. You look up at him and drag your tongue along his entire length.

“I am, are you?” you hum, taking him back into your mouth and swirling your tongue around the tip. His leg quivers beside you, his toes curling inward.

“Mmph,” he grunts in assent, his hand twisting into your hair a little more. You slip your hands under his thighs and slide your mouth further down, letting him fill you up. His hips jerk, wanting to thrust into you, and you relax your jaw to let him. His little pants and disjointed moans send a jolt of heat down to your core, and you can feel yourself becoming wet with desire for him.

You reach down and slip your middle finger between your slick folds, your groan vibrating into him. He hisses and pulls you off his cock and into a fierce kiss. The two of you tumble backwards onto the bed, your hair encircling you like a curtain. You press your bodies together, the smoldering heat spreading into a raging wildfire. He lines himself up with your entrance as you continue your desperate assault on his lips. He slides in with ease and your cry into his mouth accompanies him bottoming out.

You push yourself up, bracing yourself on his chest as you grind into him. He plants his hands on your hips, thrusting up into you. Your head falls back in ecstasy, your hair cascading down the length of your back. You increase the pace of your rolling hips, each breath growing more voiced as you approach your peak.

“Oh gods, Astarion,” you babble, his name falling out of your mouth like a prayer. He realizes you’re getting close, he sits up and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into him tight. He latches onto your nipple, flicking his tongue and sucking to send your pleasure to staggering heights. You arch your back into him as your arms hook over his shoulders, brushing your hands against those awful scars. Your hands splay across his back as if to say no one will ever hurt you like that again.

You pull his face to yours so that you can taste his lips as you crash over the edge. The kiss is broken up by your cries and you can feel his cock throbbing inside you, his grunts in time with his pulsing seed. You stay still and connected as the waves of pleasure ebb and flow and finally settle. The only noise left in the room is both of your heavy panting, and the telltale sound of just your heart pounding.

His hands slide down your back as you carefully pull yourself off him and you shiver as his now-soft cock falls out of you. You kneel next to him and rest your head on his shoulder, and he reaches over to stroke your jaw.

“Thank you,” he hums softly, and you press another sweet kiss to his neck. His scar.

After a moment you let out a contented sigh, then you say, “Well, I should probably gather my things and go, then.” You begin to stand to dress, but his hand closes around your wrist. You turn to him, unable to hide the surprise on your face.

“Or you could… stay. If you want.” He looks up at you through smudged and sweaty glasses and a smile tugs at your lips.

“What do you want?” you ask, and you watch him shift uncomfortably with a question that he’s not used to answering.

“I want…” he begins, hesitant. “I want to watch last year’s Globe production of Much Ado About Nothing with you. You said you like that one, right?” Your ears grow hot as you realize the extent to which he actually paid attention to you, even before you were sleeping together.

“I do, yeah. One of his best,” you say, your voice cracking slightly as you repeat his words back to him. That interaction feels like it was eons ago, when in fact it was less than a tenday.

He smirks, some of his confident charm seeping back into his demeanor. He scoots back on the bed until he’s resting against the headboard, and then he reaches out to you, inviting you to curl in next to him. You oblige, and he turns on the TV across from the bed, pulling up the pro-shot. You sink in next to him, appreciating how his chest cools your flushed cheek.

A single word gnaws at the back of your mind and you banish it quickly.

No, that’s the oxytocin talking.

It’s just been a long time since you’ve slept with someone more than once.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head and the gnawing grows more insistent.

…

Fuck.

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ghostinacardboardbox-oldblog · 2 years

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Predictably I am once again procrastinating and am asking y’all to send asks about whatever. I have a lot of headcanons if you want em. Request fic. Tell me about your pet cat.

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mosaickiwi · 2 months

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14DWY As a Drama AU

Hey remember when I said I’d post this in February oopsies!! (don’t ask me about demon!ren i will cry)

Open at your own risk this thing is LONG. Tried to give everyone at least a little something! upon putting this in my drafts i realized olivia exists i'll add her at some point uhhh. Also you can tell how much I love Elanor... hehe

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

The cult classic romantic thriller, 14 Days With You, is now a drama! Coming to all your favorite streaming platforms this summer. A whirlwind romance gone right and wrong that you DON’T want to miss.

Cast List

[REDACTED]

🖤 Quiet kid that used the after school theater program to delay returning home. Never wanted to perform, but loved doing costumes, make up, and correcting others (in his mind) on how to portray their roles.

🖤 Spent a little extra time perfecting the costumes of a certain someone who didn't even know they existed. He always traded house chores with his sister so she'd sit in the audience to solely film Tree #2's performance.

🖤 Was an apprentice special effects makeup artist after graduation at first, particularly for horror films, but it didn't exactly pay the bills when they left home.

🖤 Easily rose to the top in their acting career due to his dedication for crafting characters to perfection.

🖤 Dolly Parton/Lady Gaga-esque in their separation of work and life—completely unrecognizable in their regular civilian attire. Paparazzi have never gotten a picture of them in all their years trying.

🖤 Has zero issues getting into character, but does "method acting" on occasion to make sure people leave them alone on set. And also to fuck with directors and producers they don't like. Notoriously difficult to work with because of it + their overall attitude towards others, still gets hired somehow.

🖤 Got offered the role as the main love interest in 14DWY without an audition, thanks to a previous manipulative pink haired character he played in a film that ended up never being released. (2017 Ren because it's funny)

Angel (you!)

💜 Participated in the same after school theater program as [REDACTED] and Leon for a few semesters before you got bored of it. Curiosity for acting resurfaced later in life.

💜 Newbie actor at the recently formed talent agency of your friend. Only starred as non-speaking roles or background characters in small productions until the drama. You moved back to Corland Bay after uni for the better industry prospects.

💜 You initially auditioned for a very small role in the drama as an employee in a seaside shop at first, but somehow you wound up as the lead? (un)lucky you.

💜 Feel free to fill in the blank for any whys and hows you think of to fit your OC/self/sona as you so please <3

Elanor

💖 Normally an actress and casting director, first time as an executive producer for the drama. Dreams of bringing her own romantic screenplays to life. Hasn't quite proven herself the way she wants in the industry to feel confident enough in them.

💖 Catalyst for the drama being made. A "friend" mistakenly recommended the 14DWY book to her. She absolutely loathes all the psychological horror of it but sees the potential it has.

💖 Also the reason [REDACTED] was immediately cast, and you as well once she saw your chemistry with him while reading for a minor role. He hadn't shown a fraction of as much interest when reading lines with other potential candidates, so she decided to take the risk of an untested talent as the headliner.

💖 Refuses to use her family's name to get her stuff made. She wants her works to speak for themselves. Very picky about who she works with due to her family having hands in most of Corland's entertainment industry so she hardly gets a genuine interaction beyond ass-kissing.

💖 Always partial to working with Conan's small studio since he was the only director to give her any sort of criticism in spite of her family, as gentle and polite as it was. She still cried a little in the dressing room though.

💖 Genuine confusion when Conan wants her to act as both a producer and assist with direction. She only intended to bring it to his interest. But how could she say no to someone whose judgment and opinion she respects so much?

Conan

💖 Runs and owns a small scale studio in the Bay that seems to pick and choose its productions at random. It is in fact Alice sneaking into her dad's home office and putting scented stickers on the ones she likes. (She only reads the titles)

💖 Extremely proud of Elanor for getting so far on her own, and would take on one of her dozens of scripts no questions asked if she'd only work up the courage to show him one. So imagine his surprise when she comes to him with a romantic horror instead of one of the fairy tale romances he sees her scribbling notes on during breaks.

💖 While he’s the one with the final say, he does try to let Elanor have as much free reign as possible on the project in the hopes to boost her confidence.

Kiara

💖 A super-star actress and model that got her start in Corland’s local industry, but quickly hit it big.

💖 When she isn’t drowning in work, she’ll swing through town to check in on her sister.

💖 Desperately wants to star in one of Elanor’s productions, but respects her sister’s desire for independence. Though she does like to tease about certain casting decisions on the drama when made aware of them.

the rest of the cast are unfortunately very silly i couldn't resist

Moth

💖 Started a talent agency out of spite for the terrible castings in their favorite media. Got further invested upon realizing they could read the scripts before the movies or show adaptations were even announced.

💖 The one who pushed you to audition for a minor role in the production once the rumor about who was cast as the main love interest reaches them. They've heard all the horror stories about [REDACTED] so wanted the inside scoop. Horrified and fascinated to find out you get the lead role. It’s like watching a train wreck.

Leon

💖 Joined the theater program initially because of you, but got really into it. Moved away to attend a performing arts school until his mother got sick.

💖 Took every wacky infomercial or street performance gig he could find to pay the hospital bills until Teo found out and swooped in.

💖 Eternally grateful for the burden of financial ruin being relieved, so he always accepts the jobs Teo gets for him. He definitely won’t complain since he’s not dressed in an animal costume and shouting nonsensical slogans for cleaning products.

Teo

💖 Met Leon through a shared production and quickly bonded. Attended a different performing arts school and met Jae as a child.

💖 Almost the exact opposite of his game character purely for the funnies. Shy, introverted, can’t flirt to save his life. Still a nepo baby but he can hold his own in acting. Doesn’t like his character much, but is extremely jealous of the confidence he oozes.

💖 Leon and Jae are his only friends in the industry so he uses his sway to get them parts if they haven't already gotten a call back. Gets REALLY nervous on set for certain roles so he needs their support.

Jae

💖 Attended the same school as Teo when they were kids, and is constantly pitching intentionally bad ideas and joking on set to reassure his friend.

💖 A little bit of a thrill seeker, so does all his own small stunts if he thinks he’s capable. Stands there and gawks watching the more extreme stunts, loudest to clap when they go well.

💖 Kept bringing Maple to the shoots cause how could he even think about leaving her at home? She would occasionally break her leash and wander into a scene for head scratches and kisses. The film crew always booed when a PA came to take her off set.

Violet

💖 Completely terrible at caring for plants. Inspired by her role, she starts vlogging about her plant mom journey before shooting even begins. All her advice is completely wrong and terrible. Her personal assistant keeps her in the dark by tending to the plants themselves to fix her mistakes.

💖 Finds out she has a talent for flower arrangement, though. Does thank you vases for the cast and crew on all her future productions that last a lifetime because her PA made sure all the flowers were fake.

Exposition

(silly on set shenanigans)

🎬 Scenes get retaken quite a bit, since you’re still extremely new to it all. Most of the cast and crew expect anger out of [REDACTED] after the 4th call for a re-shoot on the first day’s library scene, but he’s surprisingly cracking jokes about his dye job and reassuring you that you’re doing great. The infamously ill-tempered actor is smiling somehow… even being patient? Not glaring down his co-star for minor slip ups? They cannot recognize this person.

🎬 Violet and [REDACTED] naturally butt heads on set. She respects their acting, not the actor. Zero hesitation to snap back if he’s getting snarky with a PA. You’re the one people have to beg to separate them, and you’re completely baffled that [REDACTED] doesn’t treat others as nicely as he treats you.

🎬 Even though Elanor is a nervous wreck about the first real thing to ultimately make or break her career, she’s scarily efficient on set—as long as no one distracts her. She does get sidetracked once in a while, only because she loves chatting and answering any questions the cast or crew might have. She even brings one of her own cats to set during a slower day to see if they can get along with Maple. Leaves Conan in charge when the horror scenes are being shot. They’re both put off by how vivid they feel, but Conan at least can grin and bear it.

🎬 You and Leon manage to catch up on set while [REDACTED] is otherwise occupied shooting said horror scenes. You tease him about a few infomercials you saw when looking up his actor reel, and Leon teases you back about your unlucky streak of being a tree or a rock in every play the theater program put on when y’all were younger. Laughs even harder once he finds out your most prominent roles until then were “unnamed zombie #5 at the bottom of the pile” and “sleeping train passenger.”

🎬 Try as he might, [REDACTED] doesn’t convince Elanor to change up a few crucial parts of the script for his benefit. His offhand threats of leaving the production fall on deaf ears, as she is all too happy to do re-shoots to make Teo the lead. His innocent hints to you about the shoddy script fly over your head for some reason! You love how it's turning out, what does he mean?

🎬 Super shy Teo prefaces and warns his co-stars before acting in every scene of his character being excessively flirty. Most of the actors have worked with him at some point or another beforehand, so they let him go through his routine without issue. Some crew members love the whiplash of him switching between overly courteous and smarmy, others vastly prefer the flirty character and mourn the loss as production comes to a close.

The Build Up

📺 The higher ups pressure Violet to start a short-lived streaming career to boost interest, since she’s hopeless with plants. She amasses a cult following for her MMO reviews, blind raids on new patches, and her wild ride of a Minecraft playthrough. In the end she winds up preferring to play games off stream, but once in a blue moon she’ll do a first time raid stream so her more dedicated fans can join and watch her alliance get wiped. Creative trolling is highly encouraged.

📺 Teo, Jae, and Leon appear on a late night TV show for promotion. It was meant to be for Teo and [REDACTED] at first. (Where’s the leading lover? [REDACTED] refused all promo appearances or sit downs without you being involved in them.) The host plays a clip that Teo’s particularly embarrassed about, and he hides his face in shame when the crowd hoots and hollers praise about his portrayal.

📺 [REDACTED] comes across as doting and overprotective of you once you’re pushed into the spotlight of celebrity, and shows increasingly concerning behaviors as the premiere looms closer. Depending on your response, they’ll back off to a point or dial it up. Interviewers and consumers mistake it as the eccentric actor’s “method acting” so the red flags just slide right past.

📺 Elanor and Conan guest star in a podcast for off-the-cuff romance enthusiasts. Their strangely cagey and joking comments like “there were so many retakes we couldn’t keep track of what was meant to be the actors messing around or part of the final cuts,” and “we’ve actually sent all the reviewers 1 of 14 versions with completely different endings,” leave listeners all the more curious to see the film.

The Climax

🎉 Reception is huge, in good ways for most. The majority of the cast see a surge in popularity if they didn’t already from the hype.

🎉 Teo bemoans his endless offerings for sarcastic pretty boy jobs, Leon makes enough to get picky about his roles (and pay Teo back), Jae somehow cons a studio into an action film starring Maple—and subsequently adopts every single one of her stunt doubles.

🎉 Moth throws the agency away to start adapting anime and manga themselves. Elanor finally feels validated enough to bring one of her romantic screenplays to the big screen, starring her sister Kiara and a very enthusiastic Violet as the leading couple.

🎉 Conan’s studio is overloaded with scripts, and Alice runs out of scented stickers that much quicker. They are severely backlogged send help.

🎉 One determined conspiracy theorist sets out to prove those missing 13 versions of the ending are real, based on minor cuts and inconsistencies purposefully left in the public release.

The End, Roll Credits

choose your own ending

Bad End 💔 - A Falling Star

💔 If you respond negatively to [REDACTED]’s demeanor during shoots and promo: he plays the waiting game, uses his connections and blackmail to make sure all your roles without his name attached don’t garner nearly as much attention as the ones where you’re co-stars.

💔 Your negotiating power quickly plummets as you fall out of demand and end up begging just for the non-speaking roles you once loathed.

💔 The careers of anyone you got close to on set fall apart much faster than yours, before they’re outright blacklisted in the industry.

💔 You begrudgingly call up your last option. He can’t do much for your friends, but their offer to help you make a comeback is always open.

Neutral End 💌 - Just One More Try

💌 If you respond indifferently to [REDACTED]’s demeanor: the drama leads to you getting more offers, though a handful are for playing opposite of [REDACTED], as the on-screen chemistry was too much for studios to ignore for cash grabs.

💌 Elanor has rid herself of the drama’s subsequent rights, despite positive reception, so a sequel sprouts up in the works at a different studio. One that doesn’t mind catering to the whims of their actors when it comes to script integrity.

💌 You arrive on the set to find that not just one, but all of your cast mates except for them were written to have much smaller parts in the sequel. In fact, you rarely find a scene in the revised script where [REDACTED] isn’t alongside you.

💌 Sadly the contract is air tight, just put up with it until it’s over… What’s this clause about further sequels?

Good End 💍 - Off Into the Sunset

💍 If you respond positively to [REDACTED]’s demeanor: you’ll sadly announce at the post premiere press conference that acting was a one-and-done adventure for you. Retired effective immediately, no farewell interviews.

💍 You’re spotted around town for a few weeks in a mask with a tall, darkly dressed companion at your side before you disappear from the public eye and Corland Bay all together.

💍 A few of your friends at least have an idea of where you are, and they meet up with you whenever you're in a nearby city. None of them can recognize the man glued to your side, though. Not that he'd say anything to clue them in.

💍 After months of near inactivity, [REDACTED] mysteriously deletes their socials without a word, sparking confusion and outrage among hardcore fans still desperately hoping for a sequel.

#14 days with you #14dwy #14dwy au #momo writing #wow look i posted not requested stuff #and it's NOT only emo boy??? wild #<- i am capable of this sometimes #wrote it in like 2 days back in november from brainrot ngl #and now it's here so it can stop haunting me!!!#i do wanna write little drabbles (mostly about angel's audition) but who knows if that'll happen #if u see issues bc of having to remove discord formatting no u didn't #AND if u saw this on discord b4 no u didn't #i wanna add river once he's in da game cause i have many ideas

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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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carmybears · 2 years

Text

Assembly Required

or - The Inherent Eroticism of Swedish Furniture

This started as a joke and quickly spiraled out of hand

pairing: carmy berzatto X female!reader

summary: What's a new apartment without a trip to Ikea? Building Ikea furniture with Carmy and christening a new apartment

word count: 3.8K

warnings: explicit content, 18+; oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (wrap it before you tap it), praise kink, hair pulling, dirty talk, mentions of carmy's gold chain, established relationship

There’s nothing quite as humbling as assembling Ikea furniture.

For such a young man, Carmy had already accomplished a lot more in his life than he ever really expected he would – not just graduating culinary school but excelling in it, working in some of the finest dining establishments in the world, winning a James Beard award, and reopening the family restaurant essentially from the ground up. But god help him if the assembly instructions for this Ingolf dining chair weren’t just going to get the best of him.

Over the course of the past several months, you and Carmy had been in the whirlwind process of moving in together. Deciding to get a place together was one of the easiest decisions he had made since returning to Chicago – he already essentially lived in your apartment, so it only made sense to find a place for the both of you when his lease was up. Apartment hunting had been something of a chore, and he shuddered to think of some of the places you’d seen in listings before stumbling across a shockingly spacious 1 bedroom with a decently renovated kitchen, a surprising amount of natural light, and a relatively easy commute to both the restaurant and your office.

House Hunters, eat your heart out.

As your move-in date came ever closer, every spare moment of your time together had become dedicated to preparing for the move. Many nights, the two of you had shared stories about your own respective days at work over piles of clothes to donate or cardboard boxes lined with packing paper and bubble wrap. Not exactly the sexiest of dates, but he knew that he’d have you all to himself before long.

The day of the actual move went surprisingly well, despite the long hours you’d spent moving boxes from one apartment to the other. Carmy already had very little stuff to actually move, and you’d talked him into hiring professional movers to take the furniture and heavier items to the new place. It left the two of you with plenty of time to methodically move from room to room, unpacking as many boxes as you could before absolutely running out of energy at the end of the day, collapsing on a hastily made bed. It was only at sunrise, when the light began to stream directly into Carmy’s eyes, that you realized you needed to buy curtains.

Well, you needed more than just curtains. In fact, you needed several pieces of furniture and had planned to use Carmy’s second consecutive day off as an opportunity to drive out to the Ikea in Shaumburg and check several items off of your shopping list.

You arrived shortly after opening, and Carmy sipped a gas station coffee lazily from a paper mug as the two of you wandered side by side through the store, occasionally sidetracked by a display featuring items you most certainly did not need. If he hadn’t been with you, he wouldn’t have necessarily enjoyed the shopping process – He had always chosen his furnishings based more on function than form, which he supposed was how he had ended up with a tattered, striped couch that you deemed “fit for a frat basement” and insisted was not allowed in your shared apartment. Still, seeing your eyes light up as you strayed away from his side to pinch the fabric of a throw blanket between your fingers or inspect a set of glassware was surprisingly endearing to him as you leisurely meandered your way through the labyrinthine showroom.

You returned home that afternoon with a bounty of flat packed treasures – four ingolf dining chairs, a Fjallbo coffee table, Hemnes dresser, plus whatever other odds and ends you had thrown into the bright blue and yellow canvas bag. The rest of the day had been spent assembling furniture, a growing mountain of cardboard and Styrofoam amassing along the outskirts of the living room with each item you constructed. The coffee table and dresser had come together with little difficulty, although now Carmy was suspecting that he had met his match as he struggled to comprehend just where exactly he was supposed to be placing a screw in the first of four dining chairs that remained to be assembled.

“You look stumped. Lemme take a look,” you offer, crawling across the new area rug to him.

“Take it,” he relinquishes the instruction sheet to you readily. “I think it’s scrambling my brain just lookin’ at this too long.”

You study the instructions for a moment before pulling the miscellaneous pieces closer to you, brow furrowed in concentration as you pick up the allen wrench and begin the assembly process

He watches in admiration as you work, the chair starting to take form before his very eyes as you hum along to the song playing on the Bluetooth speaker you had set on your newly assembled coffee table. You’re dressed in an Original Beef of Chicagoland t-shirt that you’d stolen from the back office at the restaurant shortly after the grand opening of The Bear, and your crossed legs were bare, save for a black pair of athletic shorts that left very little to the imagination. For a moment, he’s entranced by your thighs, the thought flitting across his mind how he wouldn’t mind being in between them right about now, when he notices a garish mark near your inner thigh.

“Hey, what’s this?” he asks, fingers automatically reaching out to brush across your skin where an angry looking bruise has formed.

“Hmm?” you glance away from your work, down to your lap. “Must just be from moving around all these boxes. It’s no big deal.”

“Sure it doesn’t hurt?” His hand rests on your bare thigh a moment longer and it’s practically Pavlovian the way his mind starts to wander, thinking of all the ways you still have yet to christen the new apartment.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” You’re hardly paying attention to him, your eyes glued once more to the page. “Do you see a screw laying around somewhere?”

His mind is lost in thoughts of you – your skin against his, your breathy moans in his ear – when he sees you looking at him expectantly. “I’m sorry, what?”

“A screw, Carm. Do you see one laying around here somewhere?”

Without waiting for an answer, you rock forward onto your knees, crawling all around the half assembled chair. He starts to look halfheartedly, idly picking up random pages and pieces of cardboard in search of the missing screw, but mostly he’s just eyeing your ass as you crawl around.

A part of him thinks that maybe he should feel just a little bad that he’s not being more helpful in your search – it had been a long weekend after all, and you still had a long way to go before you were fully unpacked and settled in. But on the other hand, he could easily count on one hand how many times the two of you had been intimate in the past two months – busy work schedules, packing lists, and the occasional bickering about what furniture to keep or sell always seemed to get in the way whenever you two had time alone. Or plain exhaustion – can’t forget about that.

Eventually, you give up, sitting back up with your palms pressed to your knees as you let out a groan of frustration. “I can’t believe we’re missing a fucking screw.”

“I think I know where you can get a fucking screw,” Carmy mumbles, not quite sure what devil on his shoulder has clouded his better judgement.

You look at him incredulously, immediately clocking the innuendo. It’s not like you two don’t talk dirty when the occasion calls for it, but damn Carmy can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck as he realizes how crude his thoughts sound when spoken aloud.

“Sorry, I’m as surprised by that as you are,” he apologizes quickly. With fidgeting hands, he starts to rifle through the debris on the floor again, struggling to meet your eye.

When he hears you start to laugh, he steals a look back over at you, noticing that the tension has left your shoulders as you melt into his side, squeezing his bicep reassuringly. He looks down at you and allows an uncertain smile to cross his face as he admires the way your eyes crinkle in laughter as you try to catch your breath.

“That has got to be the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said me,” you wheeze. “Please say more.”

You don’t give him the opportunity to say another word because you place your hands on his cheeks and pull him into a kiss, still giggling when your lips first make contact. As he wraps an arm around your waist to draw you closer, you melt against him, kissing him in earnest now. Something stirs in the pit of his stomach and he wants more – especially when he feels your fingers twist and tangle into the curls at the nape of his neck. He pulls you flush against him and you groan into his mouth, planting your knees on either side of his hips. You’re all warmth and softness in his lap, and he swears the very blood in his veins turns molten as he realizes how badly he wants you underneath him.

With a swift arc of his arm, he clears the miscellaneous debris from the rug before easing your back down to the floor. His lips are working their way along the line of your jaw when you hear the clatter of something small and metallic skittering across the hardwoods. And just like that, the spell is broken.

“Do you think that was the missing screw?”

“Hmm could be,” he mumbles into your skin, pressing his lips into that spot at the base of your neck that usually makes you squirm. Instead, you’re craning your head to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the screw among the small mountain of trash, saying something under your breath about how you should check it out.

He inches away from you as you begin to prop yourself up on your elbows underneath him.

“The chair’s really that important right now?” he asks, just barely leveling the twinge of annoyance in his voice.

“We need someplace to sit, Carmy,” you counter.

He snorts just a little at your reasoning. “I can think of someplace better for you to sit right now.”

His remark earns him an eye roll from you, but you pause for a moment in hesitation. He takes that moment as leverage, gripping your hips tight in his hands and drawing them up to meet his, groaning in the back of his throat as your bodies make contact.

“You feel what you do to me right?” he asks, shamelessly incapable of stopping himself from rocking his hips against yours in a desperate search for friction. A small whine escapes the back of your throat and his gaze softens as he looks down on you. “I’ve been missing you like crazy.”

He strokes your cheek, fingers grazing down your cheekbone and along your neck, where he can feel your pulse fluttering rapidly. He knows you well enough that he swears he can see your thoughts happening in real time as realization washes over your features.

“We’ve just been so busy,” you offer weakly. “It’s been hard to make the time.”

“I know, I know,” he presses his lips to yours briefly. “Just be here with me right now, baby. I’ll build you all the chairs you want after.”

You nod furiously, balling his shirt up into your first as you pull him back down to you in a searing kiss. He slips an arm underneath you, pressing you ever closer as his fingers slip underneath your shirt, gliding against soft skin until you’re breathless underneath him. He feels you clawing at his t-shirt and together you both move in a flurry to discard your clothing onto the ground beside you. He’s planting open mouthed kisses onto every accessible inch of feverish skin until he has you bare underneath him.

Your fingers are fiddling impatiently with the zipper on his jeans, pushing them lower down his hips until he kneels back on his heels to finish the job for you. You sit up too, pulling his shirt over his head in a hurried motion before grabbing his arm and coaxing him over to the couch with you.

“Floor not good enough for you?” he asks, leaving a trail of kisses over your collar bones as he presses you down into the cushions.

“I’m just already sore,” you protest, your fingers tracing idly across his shoulder blades.

“But I haven’t even done anything yet,” he croons into your ear, bringing a hand up to knead at your breast.

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

And he does know – the subtle aches in the back of his legs and in between his shoulders have been present all day after the grueling hours of moving in the day beforehand. That’s not going to stop him now though, not as your legs fall open under his hands. His dick twitches at the sight of your pussy, evidence of your arousal glistening at the apex of your thighs and he’s like a man enchanted.

“This all for me, baby?” he asks you softly, reaching out to stroke your folds, wetness gathering on his calloused fingers as you squirm into his touch.

“Yes,” you gasp, pleading with him as you grasp his wrist in a feeble attempt to guide his fingers where you so desperately want him. “Carmy, please.”

You don’t have to ask him twice as he sinks two fingers into your snug walls. He studies your face as he touches you – the way you bite back a groan as his fingers stretch you out, admiring the way you tilt your head back, baring your neck to him as the pad of his thumb brushes roughly against your clit.

“Fuck,” you groan. “Carmy.”

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this for me, baby.” It’s true, you do. He thinks you’ve never looked prettier than you do in this apartment, with your proudly thrifted couch, half-built Ikea furniture and granite countertops that he could fuck you on every night if you wanted. With his free hand, he palms heavily over the front of his Calvin Kleins and makes a mental note that the kitchen is next in line for christening. But he has something he wants to do first.

You whine when he removes his hand from between your legs, but before you can protest, he’s maneuvering your thighs closer to the edge of the couch and angling your hips toward himself as he sinks to his knees in front of you.

He can feel your thighs trembling already in anticipation around him and you’re swearing under your breath before he’s even had his first taste of you. He starts with a few furtive licks, allowing the smell and taste of you to invade his senses before delving in deeper, lapping at your drenched pussy with languid strokes of his tongue. Wrapping one arm around your thigh, he pulls your leg over his shoulder, causing a shift of your hips that has the tip of his nose nudging against your clit. He steals a look back up at you just in time for you to cry out in pleasure, hands reaching down to tangle in his hair. Increasingly frantic, you tug at the roots, guiding his mouth where you want him, hips grinding senselessly into his nose and wanting mouth.

“Oh my fucking god,” you groan above him as his lips close around your clit, humming softly. He glides two fingers back into you, thrusting them in and out of you in time with the tight circles he’s making around your clit with his tongue.

“Carmen,” you sob his full first name – not Carmy, not baby, not Chef – Carmen. “Don’t fucking stop. JesusfuckingChrist don’t stop.”

He doesn’t stop – wouldn’t dream of it. Even as your thighs clamp together around his head, he’s dizzy with the taste of you, groaning into your pussy as he pushes his tongue into you, big nose pressed into your clit in just the precise way that has you falling apart for him. You’re babbling incoherently as you cum on his face, and he doesn’t hesitate to lap up every wave of pleasure that rolls over you until you’re squirming, oversensitive under his lips.

“Too much, Carm,” you beg. “Please.”

He nuzzles a kiss into your inner thigh, lips pressed right above the bruise he noticed earlier, before crawling back up to you. Your chest is heaving against his as you limply wrap your arms around the back of his neck and he drags his lips along your throat.

“Absolutely insane that we haven’t done this in so long,” you pant, curling your fingers tightly in his hair to angle his mouth back toward yours. He swallows the groan you make when you taste yourself on his tongue and his dick twitches in his underwear at the sensation of your fingernails scratching at his scalp, raking down his back.

“C’mere,” you mumble against his lips, and in an awkward tumble of limbs, you both maneuver so that he’s laying prone on the coach with you sitting at his hips. He can feel the heat of your core so easily through his briefs that he thinks he may go insane. You drive a merciful hand under the waistband of his underwear and grab his aching cock so firmly in your hand that it makes his head spin just a bit as your thumb grazes over the tip. You pump the shaft expertly once, twice and he’s not even quite sure that he’s speaking English anymore.

“Wanna be inside you so bad, baby.”

“Sure you don’t want me to return the favor?” You’re easing his underwear down his thighs, all the while looking him directly in the eyes, your gaze heated. He knows right then and there that he wouldn’t last 5 seconds in your mouth.

“Another time,” he rasps, reaching toward you in a desperate attempt to feel your delicate fingers or the soft curve of your hips – he’ll take any little bit you have to give him. “Just want you now.”

You rock your hips against him, coating the length of him in your wet heat; a low groan in the shape of your name escapes his throat. He wants to chastise you for teasing him, but before he can find the words, you sink down onto him with a soft “Oh.”

There’s a moment of stillness and he drinks in the sight of you, eyes fluttering shut and lips thoroughly kissed and swollen. He can’t help the way the words tumble out of his mouth – “I love you.”

“But I haven’t even done anything yet,” you grin cheekily.

And that’s when you move.

You’re hot and wet around him and he’s absolutely mesmerized by the sight of his cock disappearing into you repeatedly as you move above him.

“Fuck, you ride my dick so well, baby,” he praises, cupping one breast in his hand, kneading the soft flesh there in time to the rhythm of your hips rocking against his.

There’s a slight tug at the base of his neck as the hand you’ve leveraged against his chest catches on his golden chain, your fingers curling around the glistening metal as if to tether yourself to him. Something flips like a switch then and he needs more of you.

He grabs your hips roughly on the next thrust, pulling you back down onto him so that he’s buried to the hilt. You cry out and grasp at the back of the couch for balance but let him continue to guide your hips, doing everything you can to keep up with the rougher pace he’s setting for you.

“You good?” He checks in, praying the answer is yes.

“Fuck, Carm,” you groan, digging your fingers into his arm and he can feel the stinging sensation of little crescent moons pressing into the skin. “s’good.”

He can feel how badly your legs are shaking as you match his every move. Heat pools in the bottom of his stomach and he knows he won’t be long now. Maintaining the pace as best as he can, he slides a hand between your bodies, swirling his fingertips around the swollen bud of your clit in a way that makes you swear out loud.

Your thighs clench hard on either side of him and it’s all he can do not to fall apart immediately. You’ve all but collapsed onto his chest and your breath is hot on his neck as you whine to him that you’re close.

“I gotchu,” he promises, fingertips still working in time with his hips. “Come for me.”

And you do.

The sensation of your pulsing walls around him is all at once too much and not enough as he digs his heels into the couch, thrusting erratically into you several more times, chasing his high. With a throaty groan, he screws his eyes shut as a wave of euphoria washes over him. For just a few brief seconds, it’s as if there’s nothing in his world but you.

Limbs heavy and bodies absolutely spent, you lay facing each other, just barely able to fit laying side by side on the couch. If he had the foggiest idea which box a throw blanket had been packed into, he would have pulled one up and around your shoulders. Instead, he settles for curling himself around you, skin still flushed and heated from moments before as you tangle your fingers idly in his hair, gazing at him through heavily lidded eyes. He kisses the tip of your nose and runs the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone as your eyes flutter shut.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he jostles your shoulder lightly.

“Mmmh,” you harrumph. “I know, I know. We should get cleaned up.”

“No, I was gonna say we have some chairs to build.”

The smack he receives to the chest is well deserved. Nevertheless, you allow him to coax you from the couch to a warm shower. Afterward, as you finish dressing and preparing for bed, he pads back out to the living room, sifting once again through the pile of cardboard until the glimmer of something silver catches his eye.

You step into the room just in time to see him setting the lost screw atop the coffee table.

“A project for tomorrow,” you promise.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, pressing his lips to your forehead.

He thinks of all the tomorrows you have ahead of you – together in your shared apartment, in your shared lives. And he can’t help but be excited for every single one.

#carmy berzatto smut #carmen berzatto smut #carmy x reader smut #carmy berzatto x reader smut #carmen berzatto x reader smut #carmy berzatto x reader #mine #pardon a cheesy ending and the fact that I got lost in the exposition sauce #would you believe the exposition was longer before i made edits?

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