࣪ ˖ 𖦹°⋆ Hello everyone, I write x reader fanfiction. At the moment my fics can be counted on one hand and mostly include Law (and one with Hawkins) because I'm extremely lazy and my interests switch very fast.
( + read on AO3 )
✣ PAIRING: Father Jud Duplenticy x Art historian fem!reader (2nd person POV)
✣ THEMES AND WARNINGS: NSFW, Minors do not interact!!!! Religious themes, slow burn and mutual pining, angst, irresponsible sex (idk how else to call what happens here), fingering, hand job, oral (f and m receiving), grinding, (this is actually softer than the warnings imply).
✣ NOTES: Yeah when I saw that sweet priest on my screen, I just had to drop everything and write this; hope you enjoy! :)
✣ SYNOPSIS: God might be the flawed invention of an anguished humanity, but the moments you share with the priest who keeps challenging you feel like a touch of grace.
“Finding out their homily is boring is possibly a clergyman's second worst fear.”
The nave was silent before those words—caught in the digestive inertia that often follows the hours after Mass—its regular tiles aligned between vast swathes of light, splashing through colored glass.
You look up from your notepad, blinking, lugged from thoughts of a whole other nature.
“Pardon?”
The first thing you notice are his eyes. A vivid, water-branded shade, like a stream running through woods or algae disturbing the low tide, bluish, not quite green, welcoming as a bed of moss.
“I know,” he continues, in this affable, lightly mischievous tone, “paying attention during Mass can prove itself a challenge.”
It's how he says it, utterly divorced of the solemnity that shells others like him, not austere, not scolding, but like he's young enough to remember the occasional Sunday mornings: being pried out of bed, rammed into uncomfortably dapper clothing, just to fall asleep again on shellacked pews before the first psalms are even read.
“You probably aren't the only daydreamer—but it's unusual, to see one honest enough not to pretend.”
From his pulpit, overlooking the assembly, it was difficult to miss. Yours were the only eyes straying away from the altar, from the crucifix, from him. Oblivious to the words, glancing to the windows like a bored student in a stuffy classroom and giving that pen you're still holding a nibble every now and then. As the prologue of a hymn vibrated through the cool air and the congregation united in a broken falsetto, he wondered, what in heaven could you be scribbling about?
An embarrassed smile climbs up your lips.
“I have a confession to make: I didn't come for the liturgy.”
You readily explain, “I'm writing a paper about the stained glass—” and his eyes flare up, outpacing you.
“Oh, you're that researcher,” he remembers, or feigns to remember. “It's a relief. Here I was, ready to accept my sentence as a terrible bore.”
He jests, of course. Holding anyone's attention never seems to be an issue for him—for better and, well, often times for the worst.
His hand extends forward.
“I'm Father Jud.”
His palm feels warm against yours. A little coarse, perhaps, and drier than it should, results of labor, effort, rinsing, and scrubbing. Something else too, under those knobbly knuckles, secrets of a life-lived, tucked beneath his skin.
Per custom, you offer your name back, along with a glib Nice to meet you.
“I wasn't purposely being disrespectful,” you clarify after the introduction. “It's just, the light is perfect now, and the hours coincide with—”
He cuts you off swiftly, waving his fingers as if to cast out any awkwardness.
“You don't have to explain. It really is rather beautiful here,” he concedes, those not-quite-blue irises traveling in the line of your gaze to the golden beams of the morning sun. “I like to sit in the nave when I can, just to watch the reflections on the lancet windows…”
He stops himself, clears his throat.
“I'll leave you to it. If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask.”
He pivots, ready to traverse the lane, carried by a prudent, discreet gait, shoulders just a little stiff. Leaving behind a whiff of clean soap, clinging to the dark curls of his hair.
You can't help but call back to him, just as he's about to cross the fourth row of benches.
“What's the first?”
Stopping in his tracks, he blinks, slightly confused.
“Mmh?”
Your pen clicks against the pad.
“You said being boring was a clergyman's second worst fear. What's the first one?”
His uncertainty melts into a quizzical grin. Boyish, slightly enigmatic, almost elf-like. Whatever is about to come out of his mouth, you think, it might not be the truth. Aren't men of God forbidden to speak lies?
“Catching altar boys drinking the communion wine, probably,” he hums, humorous.
You can't help but smirk in response.
“Happens a lot, I gather?”
His head gives a light shake, a smile drawing dimples in his left cheek. Quite the smile, too. Strongly curved parentheses framing his mouth, warm, oddly familiar. Like an echo of other smiles, of a beloved childhood friend, a nurturing uncle, or a favorite cousin. You can see why parishioners would trust him. It's the kind of grin that teases ease out of people, a desire to confide. Who knows what anyone else would do with such a gift of a smile—perhaps it's a relief this one chose the cassock.
“Good luck with your research,” he amiably wishes, before making his way to the sacristy.
You don't think of the priest again until a few days later.
Timidly knocking on the very same door Father Jud disappeared through upon the first day of meeting him. You're looking to borrow a pen after forgetting or losing yours, that overchewed lucky charm.
The sacristy is a drab room, smelling stale and a little damp, a mixture of unaired textiles, varnished wood, burnt crackers, and, oddly, the faint, acrid afterscent of cigarettes. He's alone in there, answering your knock after a short beat. Eyes a little glassy, possibly preoccupied. He evulses any sign of aloofness as soon as the hinges creak, inviting you in, asking if you'd like some coffee—he just made some. Your eyes wander around while he fusses about. The preparation room is encumbered with heaps of stuff: mismatched teacups and glasses, markers missing their caps, ruffled books in their worn-out covers, and a crumpled altar linen stained a deep burgundy red, awaiting to be salvaged.
He notices the way you examine the surroundings.
“This isn't all my doing, by the way,” he says about the mess. “Nearby clubs and activity groups in the parish meet up here for the time being. It's a little, ugh, modern.”
“I'm not judging.”
He invites you to sit and slides a ballpoint pen in your direction, along with a cup of steaming coffee. You contemplate his knuckles as he moves, just like you did last time. He has beautiful hands.
Fidgeting with the pen, you raise the drink to your lips.
“What is it you study, precisely?” he asks eventually, finally sitting down in turn.
You swallow before you reply, voice croaky from the heat of the beverage. It's awfully bitter.
“Religious iconography.”
The study of images and symbology in Christian art would be the complete phrasing, but that's just too many words. You always mechanically deliver the shortened version, used to people dropping the subject as early as it is socially authorized to do so.
His gaze shifts, head tilting, cooing out a soft “Oh”.
The topic could've ended here. It doesn't.
He understands your language.
It's simple, because it is his as well.
When he inquires about the figures in the colored glass, the ones that hold your academic interest, it's with an awareness that eludes the profane. Scenes of the Life of the Virgin Mary, Saint Catherine with her wheel, Mary Magdalene's river of flaxen hair—he knows them all. Of course he does. He interrogates you on the specimens exhibited in the aisles, details, features he could've missed. The shape of a leaf, a certain hand gesture—all those small things with meaning, locked in time, awaiting to be read, rediscovered. He offers you the same incandescent smile you've already seen him wear on that first day, stating that he'll need to go take a closer look when he can.
When you ask him which artist was commissioned for the crucifix, with an interest translating your admiration, he is struck, briefly, with the sin of pride. Glancing down to his mitts, marked from the woodworking. Even considering not telling you.
While he ponders, you notice the dark ink, its filigree-thin contrast on his skin, peeking out of his collar. A most unexpected attribute for a priest.
After you tease him, calling his silence an unfair act of gatekeeping, he surrenders the secret at last. You ask how he made the heart of the figure shine, this otherworldly glow that struck your pupil last morning.
There's a story behind that Christ sculpture. One he doesn't wish to share, for now.
So he tells you about the theology of light instead. About the ancient belief, constructed centuries ago by another holy man, conjecturing light as a divine messenger, its passage carefully thought and built into the architecture of churches, through refined windows, roses, translucent glass. Light as a means to exalt devotion in the hearts of the congregants. Light reaching through, the open palm of God.
“… Which is why it's so natural, I guess, to sense His presence in places like this,” he gestures to the doors leading back to the heart of the church. “Still, I'll admit, I find God just as perceptible in less consequential things.”
“Such as?”
“Oh. I don't know—” he chews on his cheek, suddenly bashful, “—someone's laughter. Moonshine on a pond. A cat galloping to greet you. I like to think all those have a touch of holiness to them.”
“Finding beauty in the mundane isn't the privilege of believers,” you point out, perniciously prickly.
He doesn't pick up on the drop of hostility straining your tone—if he does, he hides it well, or perhaps it simply doesn't bother him.
“You speak of beauty, while I talk of faith. But I agree with you. Rejoicing in His creation is not entitled to Christians—”
A knock on the door startles you both, pulling you out of the depths of your conversation. He has lost track of time, glancing at the clock with mild fright. A soft voice pushes through the door, calling for the Father. He quickly ushers you out, with a choice of words and manners devoid of rudeness that almost make you feel like the decision to leave was yours all along.
Priests, you soon learn, are even more sought after than doctors.
This priest, at least.
Father Jud knows he can't fix people. He cannot erase what has been done to them, what they have done to others, what they will do to themselves. It's a bittersweet certainty. Neither his hands nor his words are a cure. But they can be a salve, a balm. Soothing, bringing quiet in the noise, and an uncomplicated, unfastidious incarnation of love. His presence besides members of the community is stable, constant. It doesn't ask for anything in return. That's where he finds his purpose.
After a week or so, he grows used to the sight of your hunched posture in various spots of the church, concentration mistreating your spine.
He knows you're not a convert. Has known ever since he spoke to you in the sacristy.
But one day, you stun him a little.
It happens sometimes before noon.
The rustling of your springy step resonates behind him, right after he's accompanied a parishioner back to the entrance of the church, a recent widower, still grief-bound and numb to the roaring of life around him. Father Jud whispers to him, “Call me when you need, I'll always answer,” squeezes his shoulder, watches him leave. The door shuts with a loud clangor.
He turns to look at you, your bag handle slung across your shoulder, a little sleepy-eyed, with ink-spotted hands.
After some meaningless small talk about the weather, you stifle a yawn.
“I've always found a little ironic—” you comment, peering to the doorway, “—how one can speak to a priest and safely expect an answer but not receive the same from God. He's arguably the most important aspect of this religion. Yet the priests are the ones who listen and offer direct guidance.”
You're always so immersed in your task, he never thinks you might be paying attention to anything else, least of all his own endeavors. But you see the people who huddle in church with the hope of speaking to him, presenting him their woes for some, seeking company void of criticism and judgment for others. He contemplates you with a hint of uncertainty, intrigued by what you might be getting at.
“Could it mean some priests are more important than God?”
There it is, expressed in the muttery tone of hypothesis.
Father Jud stands silent. A brief frown, the slightest show of his stupefaction. There's much he could say, to refute your wandering supposition, but there's no time for him to articulate his thoughts.
“Sorry.” Your wince seems sincere, before you add in a quieter inflection, “It's probably blasphemy, to say things like this in a church.”
“We'll hope He was busy listening elsewhere when it happened,” he comments, a friendly attempt to brush the matter off.
You chuckle at the not-so-funny statement, apologetic and amiable again.
From then on, your path crosses his more often. On your breaks, seemingly aspiring for a chattier counterpart to those silent figures occupying the windows and your attention most of the time. Announcing yourself through an excessively formal “Hello, Father”—solely for the impish joy of making him respond with that peculiar smirk, asking you for a little less dignified stiffness. Cordial isn't the word, to define your chats. You seldom take him by surprise now, the way you did that first time, but you enjoy this, throwing small jabs, curious as to how he'll react. He's not interested in fighting you on the subjects you present to him, never losing his temper, never curt or chafed in his speech, even when he disagrees with you.
And Father Jud and you disagree on many things.
But your world touches his nonetheless; you with the factual eye, probing the memory of civilizations past, their beliefs, their stories, and him, tasked with plucking out what matters from it, perpetuating it, weaving peace or hope with fragments of the myths. You open the past to decipher it; he is a vessel of that past and its ageless promise all in one, its safekeeper.
Religion seems archaic to you. Wasteful in this modern age, when solutions can be found elsewhere, easy replacements for the voice in the sky, rendering God obsolete. Therapy in lieu of confession, science supplanting miracles.
Father Jud giggles when you tell him all this, one late evening. You're so used to speaking to him in the safe constraint of the church, you're a little taken aback to find him sitting in the local bar, deep in conversation with the patrons, local parishioners. Basking in this meek, cordial glow you cannot help but envy. There exists a roughness to his features, not quite pugnacious, but an edge, brash, slightly cutting. It's there, always, oddly balanced by the earnestness in his eyes, and that smile he greets you with, his gift, an invitation.
So he laughs upon receiving your theory. Not a mocking laugh, but the modest, resigned snicker of one who has heard this speech before. You're not the first skeptic he meets with such a contemporary stance.
“It's a pragmatic view. But don't you think it reduces faith to a simple tool? Something utilitarian, transactional?”
“You have to admit it's irrational otherwise. Worshipping something—Someone—who isn't really there.”
“Why are you so sure He isn't?”
“How do you know He is?”
He doesn't get defensive about your rebuttals. Doesn't behave like he's arguing with you.
“That's what separates us—” he declares softly, luminously holding your gaze; and though he uses the term separate, it stands more as a request to get closer, a tug at your own mind, asking for permission to mirror it with a different perspective, “—I'm not interested in material proof of God's existence. You're looking to rationalize it, to explain it, but faith demands to be felt, not thought.”
The bar's prattle quiets down around you as the minutes slide by, and you're both still huddled near the counter, entangled in the exchange, slightly tilted towards each other, like conspirators. Father Jud doesn't touch his glass—or barely; it simply sits there like an ornament—and he's talking to you about religion and philosophy, briefly invoking the writings of Pascal, Kierkegaard or Kant, who stated that God could only be touched through faith and not the rational mind. He doesn't sound pretentious; that's the true miracle.
“I had no idea they taught Kant at the seminary,” you notice, sipping on your own drink, trying to forget the chemical warmth creeping up your face, lodged in your limbs.
“I'm absolutely not an expert,” he confesses, emphasis on the not, the tip of his index finger following the rim of the glass. Your eyes fall to that tattoo again, clasping the side of his neck, the tip of an image you can't quite make out. He catches you staring, forcing you to avert your attention. You look down your glass, cheeks flushed. “… But I find it best to come prepared,” he finishes his sentence, with a slant dimple in his cheek, leading you to believe he knows what you were briefly focused on.
“Prepared against who?” you joke, covertly changing the subject. “The hordes of heretics?”
He holds a quaint expression, half-grinning, half-pursing his lips—happens each time he feels you coming at him with some hidden scalpel, ready to poke his mind. He's never met anyone as intent on dissecting him, on rattling what composes his box of thoughts.
“I already know you don't believe in God,” he hums, not in an accusatory tone—he never does that—it's the simple statement of a fact. “What holds your faith then?”
Your fingers drum an imaginary tune on the sticky counter.
“How do I answer that? Like some five-year-old child, that I believe in love and friendship?”
“We all believe in something, don't we? Even the cynical and down-to-earth. Love and friendship aren't such silly concepts to put your faith in… Five-year-olds are wise like that sometimes.”
He simply has an answer for everything.
The next day, back at church, you inquire about his favorite passage from the Bible.
He already knows how critical you are of the good book. Many historians are. The magic evaporates as soon as they walk backstage, armed with the analytic eye, pulling out the magnifying glass to see the seams loosely coming apart. Ideas redacted by ghosts who arranged and rearranged traces of the divine in order to fit dogmas of their antiquated times and corrupted spirits.
The word of God, tainted by the hands of man.
“There's plenty,” he muses. “It's hard to just pick one.”
“Indulge me.”
He has a way of looking at you when you ask him questions like this. Flushed but mellow, like you're a small frog perched on the tip of his shoe that he isn't quite sure how to safely nudge back onto the grass without harming.
He scratches the thin stubble on his cheeks before picking a Bible out of a deranged pile of liturgical texts stacked on a table in the sacristy.
He opens it, taps an underlined paragraph with his thumb.
“Here. It's a nice one.”
He relaxedly pushes the Bible between your hands, digits brushing yours during a fleeting instant.
The volume smells of apricot jam. Ochre, child-like fingerprints color some of its pages. Your eyes scan over the first sentence, shooting a puzzled glance at him next.
“Read it. Trust me.”
On this request, he leans against the wall near the window, hands joined in his back, hips relaxed in a stance that's almost graceful.
With knitted brows, obedient for once, you begin to read aloud.
“Love is patient and kind; it is not jealous or conceited or proud; love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable; love does not keep a record of wrongs…”
He watches your lips move, your voice shaping the verse he has read and reread himself countless times before. Focused on how you might accentuate one word and not another. Rediscovering the text through your own exploration.
“There are gifts of speaking in strange tongues, but they will cease; there is knowledge, but it will pass. For our gifts of knowledge and of inspired messages are only partial; but when what is perfect comes, then what is partial will disappear…”
You briefly look up to him. He seems caught in the flow of the sentences, reflective, as one would listening to a piece of music they grew up with.
“Meanwhile these three remain: faith, hope and love; and the greatest of these is love.”
After a lull, you inhale deeply.
“Are you showing me this because of what I said yesterday?”
The Bible closes shut, pushing towards your nose delicate aromas of the lingering sweet snack some child must've forgotten between the chapters.
When you gesture to give it back, he shakes his head lightly.
“Keep it. Hard to believe, but I've got a few more copies lying around,” he playfully points out.
Before you disappear, through the slim gap of the door, you hurriedly tell him:
“You're right. It is a nice one.”
And so you're gone, too fast to catch satisfaction tinging his cheekbones.
Father Judd awaits your conversations. A brand new habit, casually slipped into his daily schedule. He likes the way you skip up to him, tapping gently on whatever lies nearest each time to announce yourself—he startles easily when you don't, it seems. You're not sure if he realizes how good he is at picking little truths out of people. Effortless and lenient while doing so. The spell works on you more than once, shrouds you in comfort, closeness, understanding, and you fall silent mid-sentence after a while, offering him a quizzical look, admitting, I see what you've done here.
You turn the tables around when you can. Asking him about books he's read, where he lived in New York, how he found his vocation, if he picked up carpentry as a result of it. People often react a certain way, with pinched unease, when he tells them about what happened when he was seventeen, the event that led him down the path of the church. It's something he speaks about with a disarming deliverance. Wearing his heart on his sleeve.
Inevitably, your discussions will turn to God. When it happens, he wonders how you'll attempt to duel him this time. It's a one-sided fight, if anything. Perhaps you perceive this as a joust, a game of chess, most frustrating to you, since your opponent doesn't move any of his pieces, simply describing them instead. In his eyes, this isn't about winning or losing or displaying any sort of mastery in rhetoric. It's simpler, so much simpler. A friction of minds, invigorating him. Galvanizing his faith.
At night, brushing his teeth, reading, or lying in bed, he'll think of those dialogues, replaying them, wondering how he should've said this and not that, could've formulated a conviction more eloquently, afraid of being misunderstood.
You creep up in his prayer one time. Another after that, then a third. Your name blossoms into a recurrent sound on his tongue.
“I didn't know priests went to confession too.”
It's the middle of the afternoon, the ninth hour, and you're both sitting outside, under the skirts of fussing, ominous clouds. He's taking a break from his upcoming homily while you escape the claustrophobic grayness overflowing the transept. A most delightful form of procrastination.
“Of course,” he confirms. “We sin just like everyone else.”
“Sounds superfluous at best,” you grunt. “What could a priest possibly have to atone for…”
The sentence comes out much more noxious and condescending than you'd hoped. It rings through your ears like a shrill heckle, making you shake your head, irritated by your own behavior. It's unbearable; you don't even like people who talk like that, like they know better and aren't interested in rebalancing what they've taken for granted.
“I'm… That sucked. Forgive me.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression hidden from you.
“Don't fret it. I've received meaner punches back in my day.” Spoken like he's verging on his hundredth year of life.
You take advantage of the fact that he can't see you. Gazing at the nape of his neck, where little dark locks gather and swirl, bouncier than apostrophes. You want to reach forward, want to touch them. And his shoulders, how they always seem just slightly hunched, like his body's constantly trying to apologize for taking space, for standing just a little too towering in comparison to others.
“How do you do it?” you ask gently. “Nothing ever seems to bother you.”
He proves you wrong immediately. Swiveling, his eyes shooting to meet yours, brows tense, as if you'd just proclaimed your decision to get baptized.
“Is that what you think?” he asks, incredulous. “That nothing bothers me?”
Just as abruptly, the skies tear open with a rumble.
Pudgy drops crash onto the grass, maculating the stone bench, licking your faces and limbs. He pushes a suspiciously spontaneous curse word into the dampening air, and while you stifle a laugh, you both dishevelledly run back to the church porch.
Petrichor penetrates the breeze, dispersed out of muddy grounds, fresh and nostalgic. From the refuge under the lintel, Father Jud inhales the scent deeply, brushing himself off that water still speckling his hair.
You remember a cluster of words he used your first week here. God's presence in the inconsequential. You wonder, looking at him, if that's what he's doing now, watching God through the lincel of scintillating water, shrubs changed into jewels by drizzling alchemy; all of it hiding an everlasting, mystical love.
“I've thought about what you said last time,” you dare to speak, pulling his attention to you. “When you asked what I believed in, if not God...”
Your hand whips the air softly. Gathering your words or reaching for something otherworldly and transcendental—he isn't quite sure.
“The church is perfect. The sculptures—that Jesus effigy you made. The colored figures in the glass. They're perfect, so we don't have to be.”
Your fingers run over the knotwork mimicking foliage that decorates the door.
“And they're all man-made things. I suppose I believe in that, you know? This… ability, to transcend our own nature. To make things better than what we are. You'll say that it's God, of course; I wouldn't even know how to name it exactly. Maybe it's inspiration. Or hope. It doesn't matter. I believe in it, whatever this is.”
You can see the weather flicker in the millpond of his irises, the brief moment it lingers on you. Father Jud turns away at last, and you both stand without another word, watching the rain, listening to its soft pitter-patter.
He steps closer to you. You almost miss it. This guarded move, one prudent step. The skewed shadow his body casts on the uneven ground blends with yours. Right hand gingerly stealing up to your face, attentive not to startle you. Fingers trembling.
You close your eyes.
The pad of his thumb catches the raindrops lingering on your lashes. Featherlight. Gliding down, he wipes the water off your cheekbone, an imperceptible stroke.
As daintily as they began, his knuckles recede. Hand tugged back to his chest, splayed on his sweater-clad form. Like it's trying to erase itself of what just happened, this surreptitious incident.
“I think—”, he grasps for a proper sentence. “I think—and I mean this with… the utmost regard… It would be best if we didn't speak, for some time. Anymore.”
His stammered words fall with the same staccato as the rain, skittish, disorienting.
You feel lightheaded in a bad way. Your mouth opens, but he stops you with a raised hand, a broken imitation of a Christ-like exposed palm, the gesture of blessing.
“No—don't.”
Those eyes, the same color as rain-battered grasslands, quietly begging you.
“Don't say you don't know what I'm talking about. Please.”
His arm drops back to his side.
“You're welcome to finish your work. But I'd be grateful if you just—” he sucks in a sharp breath, “—stick to that.”
He leaves you there, with your mouth agape, petrified, while he furiously scurries off in the rain. Piercing through the line of trees towards the rectory, paying no attention to the gushing downpour. Miserable and lost and a little in love with you, sparked with that same incomprehensible fondness he keeps for the scent of freshly cut pine wood, the stained glass that has captivated you, or that verse from Corinthians he has committed to memory and heart.
Night falls, and with it comes anger. A small amount of it directed at God.
His fists clench and unclench. He wants to punch something, blame someone, he isn't sure who, maybe himself.
Mostly himself.
How did this happen? Why did this happen? It crept up on him like a vicious cold. Now there's no sweating out the fever.
That following week, though you never found the chance to make the promise, you keep to what he has asked of you.
Your eyes lurk in before you pass the narthex, examining the church pews, ensuring yourself of his absence. You do this every time you enter.
Five more days before you fly home, leaving Chimney Rock for good. It can be done. You can manage.
It's the last stretch of the morning, an indolent, sluggish hour. People are more concerned with what they'll have for lunch than whether they should come to church light a votive candle.
A purposely picked moment.
You're not supposed to run into him. Not while turning the corner to reach the path, nearly sent reeling from the blow of the collision. Maybe it's God's nasty sense of humour. The strong wall of the church's northern flank eats you both in its shadow. Too bad it can't make you disappear.
You both stand, facing each other, like future roadkill trapped in car lights. Not sure which is which.
Father Jud's under eyes bloom a mean purple, an unusually wan complexion stamped beneath his freckles, signs he hasn't slept at all. His pants are crumpled, a pale powder, thinner than dust, smudging the fabric. His sleeves are tucked up to his elbows. There's another tattoo, on his forearm, one you hadn't noticed before.
Taking a harsh breath.
Say something, you try to urge yourself, so you can run off.
“I'm just leav—”
Your shoulders are smashed against the sturdy stones.
He hasn't shaved, his stubble grazes your cheeks when he kisses you. A scattered, almost painful collide of mouths and teeth, stealing what remained of air in your lungs. His clothes smell of the eternal white cotton soap, but his body exhales something arboreal, musky; of timber and metal mixed with sweat. His fingers grip your shoulders, slide up the side of your neck, nails scraping your jaw.
It's too early in the day, to feel this drunk on someone's touch.
The buckle of his belt etches its harsh outline in your waist while your fingers grip his back, exhorting him closer. His tongue pushes yours and against all reason and dignity, you moan into the kiss.
A cool current.
Your bodies separate.
Your lower lip hurts. And that spot on your elbow too, abraded by the stone you're leaned against, hiding your shaky legs.
Father Jud's eyes are still fixed on you. On your lips. His own now crudely reddened, his pupils shot with an impossible shine. Holding one hand slightly lifted, like someone realizing they've just shattered a porcelain vase.
For a split second, in between raspy breaths, it seems he's about to say something to you. Eventually, his eyes flicker to the tufted grass. Only capable of murmuring a flimsy “I'm sorry.”
It rings in your ear like an insult.
You're the one who flees this time. Pissed off and muddled with humiliation, damning the church, its windows, God, but above of all the priest.
Five days, and you'll be going away for good.
Five days later, you've finished scrubbing the tiny cottage you've rented for the duration of your stay. Keys awaiting to be returned, laundry folded, your almost done-and-packed suitcase slumped in the path between the open kitchen and the living room.
Ponderous clouds throng the sky outside your windows, drowning all last remnants of blue. You watch as rain sinks into the sidewalk, splashing the quaint gardens of the neighborhoods, ready to swell into a storm.
There's a quick thumping on your door.
Glancing through the curtains cloaking the doorlight, you regret moving at all once you recognize the willowy silhouette standing on the front steps.
You could, of course, creep back into the home, feign your absence. But he knocks again, and for some reason, pretending you've ceased to exist isn't an option anymore.
The locks turn with a melodious clatter. Door sliding open just a little, enough to frame you in the thin gap, almost like you don't want him to see where you've lived during the past weeks.
“Hello, Father.”
Your tone isn't formal now, nor incorrigible like it used to be, when saluting him. It's just a bundle of neutral words.
“Hi.”
He appears a little sounder than the last time you saw him. Ironed shirt and pants, not sawdust-strewn anymore; the clerical collar shining like some ironic lighthouse in the sea of all black. Father Jud licks his lips, his thumbnail scratching the handle of his umbrella.
“I was hoping to talk. Can I come in?” he inquires.
“I don't think that's a good idea.”
He tries to speak again, but you're quick to cut him off.
“Let me put this in better terms: I'm not interested in being the source of anyone's guilt.”
“That's—” he stammers, “—that's fine, and I respect it. It's just—I biked here, but now it's raining cats and dogs, and I don't think it'll stop until the next—” he looks around, assessing the flooding menace, “—half-hour, or something.”
“A half-hour isn't that long.”
In the murky pond of his eyes, you spot a flotsam of distress. There's something heart wrenchingly winsome about him. Always has been. Especially now, spindly silhouette with shoulders dotted in rainwater, that poor carcass of an umbrella hanging over his head.
Charity seizes you by the scruff.
This is a mistake, whispers the seraphim on your shoulder.
“Fine. One cup of tea.”
“Thank you,” he sighs in relief.
He's standing in the middle of your kitchen. Sheepishly glancing around, unsure what to do with himself. You've refused his help—it's just boiling water; doesn't take four hands and two brains to conjure up.
“Are you leaving?” he asks upon noticing the sulking suitcase, still stuck in its corner.
“Yes.”
He marks a pause.
“You've finished your paper already?”
You hum, meaning no. Clumsily rummaging through the cabinets, wondering where you've left the last box of decent tea bags.
“I don't have the proper documentation here; I'll finish at home.”
Another way of stating you haven't mustered the courage to walk back into the church at all. All this, just to have him directly seek you out at home. You wonder if his scent will linger long in the room, after he leaves. You never thought cotton could smell so heady.
“Please sit down,” you mumble. “You're hovering, it makes me queasy.”
He pulls up a chair to the kitchen table, its feet scraping the linoleum.
“I hope you haven't been avoiding the church because of what happened.”
Discerning, he certainly is. Always so frustratingly discerning. That's a trait the angels weren't stingy on, while bringing it to his crib.
You smack the spoon drawer shut. Leaning against the countertop.
“What did you come here for? You didn't really say.”
“To talk to you. I want to apologize.”
His bony index finger scratches his forehead. When he speaks again, it's in a gentler tone. Meditative.
“Remember when I told you being boring was my second worst fear?” He wasn't serious then. But he is now. “You asked me what my first one is, and—” he shakes his head, waving like none of this matters, “—I don't even recall what I said back then. But, the truth is, I think it's something like this.”
A movement, short and vague, yet so damn eloquent: his index finger, travelling from him to you.
The low hiss of the kettle begins rattling the air. His wrist falls, glare fixed on his fingernails. Speaking feels difficult, each word a little too large as it passes through his gullet.
“You never think those things can happen until they do.” His voice, almost reduced to a dwindling streak. “And when it does…”
He looks up from his bruised knuckles, encasing you in his gaze.
He doesn't realize how long he looks at you like this. The exact same way you do when sitting before the stained glass. Like he does, after dawn, alone in the nave, waiting for the precise moment the sun reveals itself through the windows of the sanctuary.
You pivot to halt the screeching of the kettle. The spell is severed.
“Maybe I should go now.”
“It's still raining.”
He stands regardless.
“Thanks for the tea.”
“You didn't have a drop,” you blankly point out, in a feeble voice.
You precede him in the vestibule nonetheless, a bad taste of deja vu souring your mouth—of his slender silhouette, black and navy blue, disappearing into the deluge.
Your fingers stiffen around the doorknob. A slice of somber weather slithers in through the passage.
His hand covers yours. The door falls back into its frame with a rattle.
“I recognized you. Ever since we first spoke. How is that possible? How do you explain it?”
Recognition, meaning familiarity. An admission of inborn closeness. As he imagines Adam, the first man, would've recognized his missing rib.
“Don't talk about God here,” you warn, sensing where this wind might turn. Your voice shrouds itself in cool admonition, concealing what lies under. “If you want to stay, leave Him at the doorstep.”
“I can't do that.” His voice drops to a whisper. A sweetness lingers on his breath, caressing your face. Syrupy, botanical. You imagine him, nervously chewing on honey drops, the ones shaped like round hives the size of pennies—wishing they'd soothe not just some benign throat pain, but whatever flows further below, nestled in his ribcage.
Gently, ever so gently, his fingers rearrange yours, unclenching them from the knob until they rest in his hand. You can't look up. Your attention remains fixed on his collar—lily-white, perfect, unsullied. Sitting right beneath that black lace of ink, close to his pulse, a patch of skin you're desperate to kiss.
You're incapable of distinguishing who is speaking to you in that moment.
Priest or man. Maybe both.
“I feel closer to Him when I'm with you,” he murmurs.
Not quite a confession. It lacks the weight of remorse.
You frown, eyes trailing up; his gaze catches yours, holds it like a chalice.
“How does that make sense?”
“I don't know. I don't know,” he exhales.
His lips ghost over yours. Breathings merging. He smells so deeply of the rain, loosely doused curls trickling against your forehead.
With great difficulty, you steer him back a little.
“You can still go,” a soft reminder. “I'll understand.”
“At my last confession—” his palm encases the nape of your neck, drawing you back to him, nose brushing the shell of your ear, “—I said that I've been distracted. That I've found myself wanting for what I can't have, what I shouldn't even think to have. Neglected the congregation, people in need... People I want to help, to whom I want to bring Christ's love.”
Your jointed shapes jaggedly step away from the front door. Stumbling down the corridor, still clutching each other. Afraid, nervous. Wanting.
“But I couldn't tell the truth. And I couldn't pray it away. I only made it worse.”
Your absence only made it worse.
“You remind me why I do all this. What it's for. You just do.”
His breathing hastens. Fingers digging into your waist. You feel tipsy, electric, with his thumb mindlessly pulling aside the strap of your top to trace your clavicle. Large hands on your body, reverendly mapping you, like you're made of glass.
The taste of salving candy lingers on his tongue, shared with yours when he kisses you at last. Communion.
You run your fingers through his hair, coaxing him closer. Ankles almost tangling with his while you guide him down the hall, nearly losing balance, gripping the notch of his jacket at the last minute. He removes the jacket, shaking the flimsy sleeves until everything falls to the floor.
The bedroom door slams against the wall when it swings open—you'll need to check later that it hasn't made a dent.
The hems of his shirt hang untucked from his pants. His belt loops onto the ground with a metallic twinkle. Your fingers halt as they're about to unbutton his shirt, and he spots your mild panic, the eyes on his throat. Struck with a certain tenderness for you, once he understands the origin of your hesitance.
He removes the clerical collar himself. Preciously setting it onto the small console table nearby. It doesn't make sense; it shouldn't mean anything to you, but you're holding your breath as you watch him. He turns himself over to you next. Finishing what he started. The tank top is hurled over your head. He does the same with your jeans, fidgeting with the button, undoing the zipper.
Scabbed-over lesions pattern Father Jud's knuckles, like they've ruthlessly been bashed onto a robust surface. You notice this with wrinkled brows, reaching to pull his hands away from the task of undressing you.
“What happened here?”
He improvises.
“Candle holder fell. It's not important.”
He's about to distract you from further questions, but you're bringing his hands to your lips, kissing the abrasions, kissing those hands that can mold wood, that offer drinks or tissues, pat shoulders or other hands, hands that pull out weeds and pick up the phone at three in the morning to pray with tormented insomniacs. Hands that give more than they take.
You lend his fingers back to him with a grin and he collects it, stunned, smitten. Bending down, he frees you of the sheathing denim, pulling the pant legs to slide your knees out of them, one after the other, until you're almost naked, slightly shivering—though not from the cold.
“I can't believe how much stuff you're wearing,” you gently fuss, unveiling the tee-shirt stowed beneath his black shirt. “Do you really get that cold?”
Your rambling makes him wonder.
“Are you nervous or something?”
It's a little unbelievable that he's the one asking this. But it feels impossible to lie to him. The tee-shirt joins the rest of the heaped clothes at the foot of the bed.
“This is probably an intrusive question—” you almost choke on the words from how fast you're pushing them out, thinking the sooner you do, the sooner the embarrassment will subdue, “—but, have you… have you done this before?”
He doesn't seem to understand. When it finally dawns on him, he bites his cheek, swallowing a smile, on the verge of a nervous snicker.
“I wasn't always a member of the clergy, you know. But honestly, it's been a long time since I've—” your fingers nudge him carefully, making him recline on your bed; he props himself up on his elbows, finishing his sentence in a raspy tone, “—since I've done this, yeah.”
You straddle him, hips hovering over his, not quite touching each other.
“Let's take it slow then.”
“Fine by me,” he coos.
He sits up and reaches around you, unclasping your bra, letting it flop down onto his lap. By instinct, you want to shield yourself behind crossed arms, but he's already ahead of you. His knuckles graze the side of your breast, one thumb contemplatively following its curve.
You let him do this almost a whole minute, gulping down whatever it stirs in you, until you can't take anymore and push onto his shoulders to give yourself a breather. His irises consider you curiously while you help him out of his underwear.
“Sorry,” you stutter, upon realizing you've literally just smacked his hand away when he tried to do the same, fingers dipping into the waistband of your panties. “It's just, you're making me really—”
His proximity feels fucking sweltering.
“At any point in this,” you explain, “if you don't want—”
“Hey—” he thrusts himself back up, “I'm here of my own free will.”
His palm cups the side of your face.
“You said we'd go slow,” he reminds you. “Let's go slow.”
He lies back down, tugging you along so you're nestled against him, catching your lips with his in a slow, deliberate kiss. One hand curving around the back of your neck, the other reaching down, rubbing your spine. Making out with you until your body unstiffens, prying you out of your own nest of briars and nerves.
You're astonished he's still here. Letting you touch him, letting him touch you. It all seems like a hazy dream. Your mind stills at last, exiting the fight or flight mode.
Parting from his mouth with a wet sound, you lower yourself a little, your hand slipping over his lean form, flat stomach, coarse black hair climbing up to his navel. Digits bumping his protruding iliac bone, brushing gingerly against his length. When you take him in your hand, your eyes travel back up to him. Exploring his features. Feeling him twitch against your palm and his hips wavering forward, subconsciously begging you. After a bundle of mist-soft kisses peppered down his stomach, your breath hitches atop his erection.
“Can I?”
“Yeah.”
He exhales so quietly, you barely catch the word.
Your tongue follows the trail of a sinuous vein, the fragile texture on this sensitive, conceiled part of him, and his head rolls back, swallowing harshly. Has such a hard time, staying focused on you when it feels like you're scattering stars under his skin, mouth warming his tip, a little further, a little more, your hand gripping him with enough firmness to set ablaze every single nerve in that region.
“You're—” a ragged breath, “—pretty good at this.”
People spurt strange declarations when pleasure heats their core, muddling their reason. All things considered, this isn't too bad.
“You know, I'm never sure whether that's a compliment,” you retort in a light voice.
He laughs. You bite your lip before pressing a soft peck onto his thigh.
Switching between your mouth and your hands, uncertain what he seems to be responding to best, trying out combinations until the melody of his breath changes, wildly losing composure.
You think he's close. It's difficult to tell. Your tongue's too busy anyway to inquire about it. He sits perfectly between your lips, slick with a blend from his own arousal and your mouth. Your face pulls back, searching for air, but your fingers keep building the tension. You want to watch him. His muscles hard and edged with pleasure, his chest rising and falling, that hand of his, the one with the inked forearm, loosely clutching the side of your face.
He whispers your name. Fingers stiffening in your hair.
He pulsates in your palm next. Gravelous moans replacing the rumble of the weather outside, spellbinding. You keep on stroking him, preserving the same pressure that brought him to the verge. His spent lightens your collarbones, trickles down your right breast.
You wait for him to climb down the clouds. Nails grazing his thighs gently. Eventually, his eyelids flutter open. There's a stretched, unhurried silence.
He tries to catch his breath before his eyes travel over to you, rolling back up, not quite back into your realm yet.
“Where's your bathroom?” he croaks after a minute or so.
You're a little taken aback.
“Door over there.”
He vanishes from your touch, and you lie on your back, limbs akimbo, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Shit.
He's going to walk out of there now, you realize, building the upcoming sequence in your head, trying to prepare yourself. He'll say he has to go, pick his clothes up, get dressed, and leave.
You think of the morning he kissed you for the first time, the woeful glance, the desperate “I'm sorry”.
This was always going to happen.
The door squeaks. He reappears, towel in hand. The mattress sinks as he kneels next to you. It startles you when he begins to run the fabric across your skin, your chest, where traces of him still linger. He's dampened the cloth with warm water first, cleaning you now with almost ceremonious heed.
“You don't need to… do this.” You're not sure what else to say.
He lets out a soft puff. You're right, he doesn't need to. But he wants to.
When he finishes, he casts the towel aside, his face lingering above yours. One palm lying flat on your stomach.
“I don't think we're done yet,” he observes. Instilling in you nothing but the purest trust you could ever offer someone.
He drags the elastic band of your underwear down, finishing what you prevented him from doing earlier. Digits slithering down your pelvis, curving to part the petal-soft flesh.
Your fingertips extend towards him, nimbly tracing over the tattoo on his forearm before wrapping around his wrist. Barely guiding him, only giving a soft nudge, a lax pointer, so his fingers press where you like.
“Here?” he whispers.
“Here.”
With focused eyes, he begins working you up. Attentive to the way you squirm and bite your tongue. When a sudden moan breaks through your lips, he repeats what elicited the cry. Quick, small circles. Languid motions, drawing back and forth. Your arousal coats his long fingers, warm and glossy. He knows more about what he's doing than he's let on.
You let go of his wrist to clasp the comforter. His mouth lowers to your chest, tongue teasing your erect nipple. Catching its bud between his lips, giving it the most delicate nibble.
“Oh, f—please do that again,” you whimper.
So he does, indulgent, compliant. His mouth keeps brushing your upper body, reaching lower, lower, lower. Your eyes are closed, but you sense his weight shift around the bed. His bulk settled between your legs, one hand kneading the back of your thigh.
When he eats you out, his speed, the tension, he adjusts, alters, changes with the sounds you make. Quick flickers of his tongue that almost make you cry. Middle finger pumping into you, true to your agreement of keeping things slow—even if it's only to sow frustration in you—until he inserts his ring finger, pushing knuckles deep, curling them slightly to inflict a mind-stilling caress.
You're certain of it now. He knows so much more than he's let on.
A familiar heat spreads from your core. The tapping of rain on the window melts into a hallucination of angelic chatter.
“Jud. I'm gonna—”
It's the first time you verbally slip, sputtering only his first name, disrobing it of prefix and title. He doesn't have any time to focus on that, to ponder on its meaning.
The very next second, something uncoils between your hips.
You come on his tongue, on his fingers, your muscles squeezing tight around him. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, transmuting the initial crash into a wave of pure bliss, and you're sobbing euphoria, all your thoughts scattered, useless.
“Hey,” sluggishly calling to him, once you get your voice back, with slight disbelief, “you're pretty good at this too.”
He shakes his head at your nonsense, amused.
Taking care of you has gotten him hard again. His erection teases your thigh while he climbs back on top of you, his knees poking the back of yours. Your thumb contours his lips, hands framing his face next, absorbing the heat he exudes.
“I don't have protection,” you signal, still panting, hit by the harrowing realization.
He obviously isn't carrying any around either.
“How far's the nearest drugstore?” he leisurely asks, and you burst out laughing.
Some things are simply universally comical, and a catholic priest buying condoms might fit into the list.
He isn't serious, of course, but still. You grab the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Feels like overheat, when you're close like this, sweat gathering between your chests and stomachs.
Your lower body arches up. Trying to meet him. His hand finishes the gesture, pressed on the small of your back, slotting you against his pelvis.
Lewd sounds densen the air of the room. He looks down to where your bodies touch. Tense skin resting on soft flesh. Only touching. A prologue to an act he can't bring himself to finish, the line that he can't breach. It maddens him, how perfectly you shape the side of his length, your hips swirling to meet his in this captivating, hypnotic motion. As enthralling the sight, he can't watch you forever. His resolve would break.
“I want you so much,” you sob.
“I know,” he heaves back.
Planting a love bite on the side of your neck to make up for it. If he doesn't come soon, he knows he'll end up slipping through, joining your bodies for good, raw and utterly careless.
You want to memorize every shape of the muscles in his back, the rolling motion of his shoulder blades beneath your fingers, the steady bumps of his spine.
God, that friction.
Your hand snugly presses him, massaging him between your core and your palm. The pressure on your clit is perfect. Meticulous, almost torturously slow, trying not to push too fast, too far.
“Fuck, this is—” he gasps, struggling to finish the sentence.
He takes over your grasp, his hand stabilizing himself against you.
“Are you close again?” he wonders.
You nod passionately.
“Do you wanna get there together?”
“Yeah.”
He hums his approval. Grinding a little faster against you, bucking his hips forward.
“I'm almost there,” you whimper.
“I'm gonna…” he begins to warn.
“Just a little more. A little more.”
“'Kay,” lips burrowing into your neck, embracing patience, directing himself so he keeps rubbing your clit. “A little more.”
Swept up in ecstasy, time stills when you break apart around each other. Holding with nails, with teeth, almost afraid of being yanked from one another. Flesh puffed and muscles sore from the jittery movement, you're incapable of a single move. The tiny room feels damp, its air congested and scalding.
His body drops on top of yours, relaxed and heavy. Skin slick with sweat, burdened with reddening patches that will prove difficult to explain, should anyone actually come to notice them.
You're not sure how many seconds elapse before he budges again. You've lost all track of time.
“Oh, shit, I'm smothering you,” he mumbles.
“No, no you're not,” you giggle.
Like ivy, his arms encircle you, catching you in a tightening embrace. Tendrils of dark brown hair tickle your chin.
“When are you leaving?” he hums into your collarbone.
“Tonight. ”
“Do you know if you might…”
His voice falls hushed.
“No,” you admit, because there's no point in lying. No point in pretending whatever just happened could ever exist again outside this room, outside this precise moment. “I don't think there's a reason for me to come back someday.”
Another odd silence. Could almost hear an angel stretch its wings.
“You know I can't—” he begins.
“I know. I would never ask that.”
Your fingers pinch a solitary eyelash on his cheekbone, discarding it without making a wish.
“You don't have to stay. I understand if you're needed elsewhere,” you assure.
He should go. But having to and wanting to are very different things.
“I'm not. Unless you want me to leave.”
“No.”
“Mmh. Good.”
“If there's some time, maybe you can tell me about this.”
Your finger grazes his neck tattoo. He scratches it like a mosquito bite, and you feel the rising of his cheekbone when he smiles, poking you.
“I'll tell you. Whatever you want to know. But, let's just—”
He slides himself off you, now flushed against your flank, one leg caressing yours and arm still wrapped around your waist. His nose teases your temple.
“Let's just stay like this. A little while longer.”
You'll never know, whether God sits somewhere in the room, or if He left on His tippy toes a moment ago, bashful yet softened, bringing gossip back to the Heavens about His endearing mess of a son.
If you are to imagine this God, you want to picture Him loving, forgiving, just like the man in your arms: Father Jud and the pond-blue eyes, the tousled hair and fervent heart, his peaceful restlessness, imperfect enthusiasm, and those coarse hands, delectably tender when they're running across your skin.
summary: you and your coworker, eddie, are polar opposites when it comes to aesthetic. but maybe you have more than just a love for music in common deep down...
wc: 7.7k
cw: coworkers to lovers, opposites attract, modern au, jealousy, marking/hickeys, pining eddie, p in v sex (unprotected) oral (f recieving) fingering, dirty talk, pet names (princess, sweetheart, sweet girl dirty/filthy girl), eddie talks a lot during sex, over stimulation, multiple female orgasms, D/s dynamic, dom!eddie, cream pie, after care, fluffy ending, an adorable one eyed cat named ozzy.
love notes: ahhhhhh this has been in the brainstorming stage foreverrrrrr. i hope you guys love it. i really love giving eddie a cat in modern au fics. i just think its so cute. ummmm i really enjoyed the smut in here as well, so hopefully you do too hehe
masterlist | consider buying me ko-fi | join my taglists
"So, over here are the new releases," your coworker's voice sounded vastly uninterested in teaching you literally anything. "Mostly a mix of stuff. That's newly released. Hence the name."
He seemed almost bored with training you. He ran a hand through his long curly brown hair, like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Any other questions, rookie?"
You were new to Melody Records, a tiny record store tucked into a corner of downtown. You'd been looking for a job for a while, something with a little more character than flipping burgers, and you saw a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. Sure, you didn’t look like the usual employee here, but you knew your stuff. The owner, John Melody, had hired you on the spot after you geeked out about finding an original pressing of a Joy Division bootleg.
But Eddie, your new coworker, clearly didn't see it that way.
To him, you were just the new girl. With your pink cardigan and your little bow in your hair, a stark contrast to the black band tees and ripped jeans that seemed to be the store's unofficial uniform.
"Are you always this... 'enthusiastic' when you train new employees?"
He definitely didn't expect the sarcasm that dripped over every word. His head tilted, a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes. A slow, easy grin spread across his face, the kind that made you wonder if it was genuine or just another part of the uniform.
"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Just trying to manage expectations. Most newbies last about a week. Usually after trying to alphabetize 'The' under 'T'. Plus... you don't really look the part, sweetheart."
You grimaced at the name. It was condescending, almost paternalistic. You hated it.
"And what 'part' is that, exactly?"
He gestured vaguely at you, at your pastel outfit and the little floral purse you had tucked behind the counter. "The Melody Records part. John's got a thing for lost causes, I guess."
You straightened up, pulling your shoulders back. The soft cashmere of your cardigan suddenly felt like armor. "Oh that is hilarious."
You let out an actual laugh at that as he stood there, eyebrow quirked and arms crossed. "Yeah? How so?"
"Eddie Munson. King of nonconforming, judging someone on their aesthetic." The words came out sharp, precise, each one a tiny pinprick. "My musical knowledge is just as deep as yours, I guarantee it. The fact that I like skirts doesn't mean I can't tell you the difference between black metal and death metal."
Eddie's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he recovered. He leaned against the counter, the worn wood creaking under his weight, and watched you, a new, more assessing light in his gaze.
"So the princess has bite," he mused, the nickname an experiment. "Alright, then. Go help him."
He nodded over to a man who had just walked in, leather vest creaking as he browsed the punk section. You recognized the patch on his back from a local band, The Flesh Riot. He looked lost.
"I could be wrong," you said, not moving an inch, "but something tells me he's looking for early UK anarcho-punk. I'd start him with a little Crass, maybe some Conflict. If he wants something more American, MDC's a safe bet."
You turned back to Eddie, raising an eyebrow in perfect, challenging symmetry to his earlier gesture. "Or I could just point him to the Taylor Swift section. Since I'm probably only qualified to sell that, right?"
A choked, surprised laugh escaped Eddie's lips. It was rough, unused, but it was real. He looked at the man, then back at you, and for the first time, the condescending amusement was gone, replaced by something grudgingly impressed.
"Let's just get you trained on the register system. It's older than dirt." Eddie sounded almost... subdued.
It had been three weeks. Three weeks of shared shifts, bickering over the correct way to file compilations, and the slow, steady erosion of Eddie's initial assumptions.
You were here together after close, doing your first Sunday night inventory together. The usual music was shut off, and instead some low folk you could both agree on played distantly on your phone.
That's when you heard the sound again. Skittering above you, like something was running across the floor upstairs.
"Oh my god, what is that sound? It's driving me insane." You groaned.
Eddie looked up from his clipboard, pausing for a moment. "There's an apartment upstairs."
"Okay. Who lives there? A bunch of rowdy gnomes?"
He shakes his head and looks back to his list, hiding a smile. "Nah, John used to back in the day before he married Marie and they had kids. Now he rents it out to some lowlife with a cat."
"There's been a random guy living above our workplace that I don't know, and you just... didn't tell me?" You stared at him, aghast. "For three weeks? You let me walk into the store alone for three weeks, knowing there's a stranger upstairs?"
You slapped him on the arm, half-joking, half-serious.
He rubbed the spot where you'd hit him, feigning injury. "Hey! What was that for?"
"For being a terrible coworker! What if he's a creep?"
"Oh he's definitely a creep. The creepiest. Hear he worships Satan and sacrifices bunnies in the upstairs bathroom." He's looking dead at you as he says this, and you don't believe it for a second.
You roll your eyes and go back to tallying the 7-inch singles, but you can't shake the image of some pale, gaunt figure performing a dark ritual in the bathroom while you were stocking shelves downstairs.
An hour or so goes by and you're finally finished. Eddie walks you to the front door but doesn't head out with you.
"Uh, is there more to do? If you're going to stay and take all the extra hours that's kind of ass, Munson. I need money too." You said, half-joking, but still confused.
He just smirked and gestured upstairs. "I'm going up."
"To the devil worshipping, bunny sacrificialist's apartment?"
"Hey, he's also a really good cat owner and guitarist. Don't put people in a box." He says with a wink.
"Wait, you live here?" The question comes out as a choked whisper, a flurry of realizations hitting you all at once.
"Surprise," he says, but there's no malice in it now, just a weird sort of gentleness you haven't heard before. "Told you. Total creep up there."
He doesn't wait for you to process, just gives you a two-fingered salute and shuts the door behind you, locking it from the inside. You watch him head upstairs.
Another month goes by and you're early for your shift. Shivering from the cold, you hold a tray with two hot coffees in one hand, unlocking the door with the other.
You and Eddie have built up a bond of sorts. You talk about music, of course, debating the merits of '80s goth versus '90s grunge until your voices are hoarse. He's learned you have a soft spot for sad, twee indie pop, and you've discovered his surprisingly encyclopedic knowledge of folk singer-songwriters.
The bickering is still there, but it's morphed. It's less barbed, more like a well-rehearsed routine. It's comfortable. Sometimes even bordering on flirting.
"It is like, freezing out there dude." You say to the store, assuming he's already downstairs. "I swear I am not built for the cold."
You set the coffee tray down, shrugging off your pink peacoat and unwrapping your scarf. "Brought you coffee. But, don’t worry, it's black. Because I know you're too good for sugar and cream like a normal person." You're talking to the empty store, the words echoing slightly in the quiet space.
A floorboard by the back creaks and you turn, expecting to see Eddie.
What does greet you is a woman, slightly disheveled in a way that screams 'I just had a very good night'. Her dark hair is a mess, and she's wearing what is unmistakably one of Eddie's sweatshirts over a tight black dress. She pauses, shoes in one hand and she looks just as surprised to see you.
"Oh!" You both say at the same time.
The awkwardness hangs in the air, thick and suffocating.
"Um... Eddie said the exit was down here but... I think I picked the wrong door."
"Yeah, the one on the left... goes out to the alley," you manage, your throat suddenly tight. "Easy mistake."
As if on cue, you hear fast footsteps coming down the stairs, and Eddie appears, pulling on a t-shirt, hair a chaotic mess. He freezes when he sees you, then sees the woman, then looks back at you.
"Shit. Hey. Morning."
"Morning," you parrot back, trying very hard to look anywhere but at them.
This is fine. This is totally fine.
Why do you care what he does? It's his home, technically. He can have whoever he wants over.
But the image of her, in his sweatshirt, flashes in your mind. A hot, acidic feeling bubbles in your stomach.
She's pretty, in a way that is very different to you. Sharp, defined angles, a confident smirk. She's one of the sleek black cats to your fluffy pink kitten.
"So, this is awkward," she says with a small, breathy laugh, breaking the tension.
"Hey, no worries sweetheart, I'll walk you out. Left door, okay?" Eddie says, all charm and confidence. The nickname, the one he'd used on you that first day, now lands differently when directed at someone else. It feels cheap. Transactional.
The girl and Eddie disappear through the back door, her giving you an awkward wave. The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with unspoken things. You busy yourself with getting the register ready, the movements stiff and robotic. The back door opens and the shuts a few minutes later. You don't look up.
"Listen," Eddie's voice is low, careful. "About that."
"Don't," you cut him off, your own voice surprisingly steady. "You don't owe me an explanation. It's your... apartment. Your life."
"Yeah, sure," he starts heading toward you and pulling his hair into a low ponytail. His neck had faint marks you pretended not to notice. "But it's also our workplace. And that was... not my most professional moment. I'm sorry."
You risk a glance at him. He looks genuine, which only makes it worse. You force a smile that feels brittle on your face.
"You're fine. I brought coffee." You point at the tray, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a foghorn.
He looks at the two cups, then at you. He picks up the one you designated as his, his name on it in your bubbly handwriting with a little heart, and takes a long sip. A small, genuine smile touches his lips.
"Thanks, princess," he says, the nickname falling between you, heavy with new, complicated layers. "This might just save my life."
"Speaking of... professional…" You finish counting the money. "I think you should probably stop calling me that."
He pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow. "Princess?"
"Yes. We're coworkers. Equals. It feels... demeaning. Now."
"Now?" A smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. You want to wipe it off with your own hands.
"Yes. Now," you snap, your carefully constructed composure cracking. "Maybe when I started I was your 'rookie', but I've earned my spot here. I'm not your princess."
For a long moment, he just looks at you.
Something flashes on his face that looks a lot like hurt, which is ridiculous. He nods, slowly.
"Okay. Fair enough."
"Good."
"Good."
The morning proceeds in a tense, quiet efficiency. The usual banter is gone, replaced by the sterile sound of tape guns sealing boxes and the rustle of plastic sleeves. You're pointedly not looking at him, and he's pointedly not talking to you.
"I don't, like, have women over every night or something." He says at one point, when there's a lull in customers.
You pause. "I really didn't ask."
"I know, I know. I just... wanted to clarify that I'm not some... man-whore." He looks so awkward saying the words it almost makes you smile.
Almost.
"Your neck says otherwise, Eddie." You retort, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. The instant it leaves your mouth, you regret it. It's none of your business.
"Jesus," he breathes out, running a hand over the faint purple marks. "I'm sorry you had to see that. It was... a one-time thing. She liked my band's set. We had a few drinks. It wasn't anything."
He looks so genuinely distressed, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, that your anger dissolves into a confusing, hollow ache.
"You really don't need to explain," you say, your tone softer now. "Who you bring home is your business. It was just... awkward."
"Yeah, no shit," he agrees, a little of his usual swagger returning. "I'll try not to bring anyone home who doesn't know their left and right from now on. Scout's honor." He holds up three fingers, a mock-promise.
You don't laugh. You just nod and go back to your work, the silence stretching on.
Eddie is fucked.
It's been only a week since the awkward encounter with his one night stand.
One week since you'd asked him to stop calling you princess. One week of being acutely aware of your presence, the scent of your fruity perfume, the gentle click of your heeled boots on the wooden floorboards, the way you'd hum along to whatever was playing on the store's speakers, a soft, off-key counter-melody that he found himself straining to hear over the actual music.
He is, as they say, completely and utterly fucked.
Because you weren't talking to him. Not full silent treatment, but not the easy bickering he'd come to rely on. The silence was a new form of torture.
It all came to a head when he'd been helping a customer find an obscure post-punk record, and when he'd turned to ask you a question about the stockroom inventory, he'd found you with your phone in your hand, a brilliant, genuine smile lighting up your face as you texted someone back.
The hot, possessive surge of jealousy was so potent it almost knocked him backward. He'd wanted to smash the phone.
It hit him like a ton of bricks that maybe he wanted you to be his. His princess. An honorific you’ve recently denied him from using.
"You're being really brooding right now."
Gareth's voice, muffled by his mouthful of fries, pulled Eddie from his thoughts.
"Yeah, man. You're doing more staring at that beer than actually drinking it." Jeff raised an eyebrow.
It was Friday night at the Hideout and Corroded Coffin had just played a gig for a crowd of at least ten drunks.
"I'm not brooding," Eddie grumbled, taking a large swallow of his beer.
He was thinking about the way your nose crinkled when you laughed. He was thinking about how he'd accidentally overheard you on the phone with your mom, your voice soft and sweet as you reassured her you were eating enough.
That. That right there was the problem.
"You're thinking about the new girl, aren't you?" Gareth grinned, a knowing look on his face.
"Her name is not 'the new girl'," Eddie snapped, a little too quickly. "And no, I'm not."
"Liar," Jeff chimed in. "You only get this constipated look when you're thinking about a girl."
Eddie's mind flashed back to that morning. The look on your face. The venom in your tone when you'd said, ‘Your neck says otherwise, Eddie.’ He hadn't been able to get it out of his head.
"She's not even your type, man," Gareth continued, oblivious to the inner turmoil he was stoking. "Isn't she like, all... pink and fluffy?"
"And she asked him to stop calling her 'princess'," Jeff added with a smirk. "That's gotta hurt the ego."
"It does," Eddie mumbled into his beer. "It really, really does."
He just shook his head and signaled the bartender for another round.
"She caught one of my... groupie conquests, trying to escape through the store," Eddie admitted, finally giving in.
Jeff and Gareth's laughter was loud and obnoxious.
"You're an idiot, Munson," Jeff said, clapping him on the back. "An absolute idiot."
"Yeah, well, tell me something I don't know," Eddie grumbled.
"So what's the plan?" Gareth asked, suddenly serious. "Are you going to, you know, talk to her? Like a normal human being?"
"And say what? 'Hey, sorry you saw me with another woman, but I'm actually hopelessly in love with the way you organize the vinyl'?" Eddie scoffed. "Yeah, that'll go over well."
"Just... talk to her, man," Jeff urged. "You guys have a lot in common, despite the... aesthetic differences. You're both nerds about music. Start there."
That night, lying in bed, the sounds of the sleeping city filtering through his window, Eddie couldn't stop thinking about you.
The way you hairbow bounces a little when you danced behind the counter to some obscure power pop song he'd put on.
The way your face lit up when a customer would ask you for a recommendation you were passionate about.
Your perfect pink pout when he annoyed you.
Yeah. He was so fucked.
The next day you walked into the store and the air immediately felt different. Eddie was already behind the counter, furiously scribbling something in a notebook.
It was starting to snow, the weather app on your phone saying it was going to be a bad one, so you were grateful for the warmth of the store. You hung your coat and went to the counter.
"Morning."
He looked up, and for a second, you saw panic flash across his face before he slammed the notebook shut.
"Hey pri-" Eddie caught himself, jaw tightening. "Hey. Morning." The correction landed awkwardly between you, a placeholder for something more familiar.
You simply nod, and the silence stretches, filling the space with a thousand unsaid things.
"I'm surprised we're open. I doubt we're going to get a lot of customers in this blizzard." You said, trying to make small talk, anything to fill the void.
"You could have called out. I could handle it on my own. Not like I have a far commute. Just up the stairs." The tone was casual, but the offer was clear. A peace offering.
"No. I like the snow." You said, looking out the big front window. And it was true. You did. The way it muffled the world, turned everything into a soft, hazy dream. "Makes the whole city quiet."
Eddie watched you for a long moment.
Your nose was a little red from the cold, and you'd tucked your hair behind your ears. You looked so... soft. A stark contrast to the jagged, noisy feeling inside him.
You were right. There was barely any foot traffic all day.
By the time the storm got pretty bad, John called, saying you two could close up early and get home safe. The problem was your car was buried, and Eddie knew even if you tried you wouldn't get far in it.
"You can, uh, wait it out at my place if you want," Eddie said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. "It's better than freezing in your car."
"My knight in shining armor." You deadpanned. "It's fine. I can walk."
"You live across town. You'll be a human popsicle by the time you get to the main road." He said, locking the front door and flipping the open sign to closed. "C’mon. I'll make us some hot cocoa. With tiny marshmallows and everything. And you can meet Ozzy."
The promise of cocoa, with tiny marshmallows, was apparently your undoing. You hesitated for a moment, then nodded, a slow, reluctant bob of your head.
"Ozzy?" You asked, a small smile finally breaking through your defenses.
"My cat. The real ruler of the apartment, Prince of Darkness himself."
You followed him up the narrow, creaking staircase, your heart thumping a strange, uneven rhythm against your ribs.
The idea of being in his space, the space he shared with other women, sent a confusing mix of anticipation and dread through you.
His apartment was exactly what you expected, and nothing like it. It was chaotic, but a lived-in, comfortable chaos.
Guitars hung on the walls, surrounded by posters of bands you both loved and loathed.
A vintage leather couch was covered in mismatched pillows and a black fuzzy blanket.
It was a studio, so the bed was just there, half made and partially hidden behind a privacy screen.
It was messy, but clean. And it smelled like him— incense, old wood, and something warm, like sandalwood and clean laundry.
Then, a sleek black cat with one enormous green eye padded out from behind the couch, the other eye a milky, cloudy white.
It made him look perpetually unimpressed with the world.
"And this is Ozzy," Eddie said, scooping the cat up with practiced ease. Ozzy tolerated the affection, purring a deep, rumbling engine against Eddie's chest. "Don't mind him. He's judging us all."
You reached out a hesitant hand, letting Ozzy sniff your knuckles.
"He's blind in that eye," Eddie said softly. "Found him in a dumpster behind the store. Someone, uh, wasn't very nice to him."
Your heart did a painful little lurch.
You looked from the scarred, one-eyed cat to the man holding him. The 'devil-worshipping' freak of Hawkins who rescued hurt animals. The contradictions piled up, making your head spin.
"He's beautiful." You say it softly, unsure which of the boys you were actually talking about.
Eddie's gaze caught yours, and for a moment, the air crackled. The unspoken things between you felt heavier than the storm raging outside.
"Yeah, well," he cleared his throat, carefully placing Ozzy back on the floor. "Cocoa. Right."
He busied himself in the small kitchenette, pulling out two mismatched mugs and a carton of milk.
You sat on the edge of the worn leather couch, hands clasped in your lap, feeling like an intruder in a life you were suddenly desperate to know.
A few minutes later, he came back with two steaming mugs, topped with a generous handful of tiny marshmallows, exactly as promised.
"Careful, it's hot." He set yours down on the cluttered coffee table.
You took a cautious sip. The chocolate was rich and dark, and the tiny marshmallows melted into a sweet, sugary foam on your tongue.
"Thank you." You murmur, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic.
"It's no problem." He sat down on the opposite end of the couch, a careful distance between you. "So, uh, this is the place. Palace of sin, as John calls it."
You cough a little as he says that, almost choking on your marshmallow.
"He's joking, mostly." He adds quickly, misinterpreting your reaction. "He knows I'm not really sacrificing bunnies."
"I don't think that's why he calls it the palace of sin." You say quietly into your mug, and then you look at him. You look him directly in the eye, and it's the first real, sustained eye contact you've had since the morning with the girl in the sweatshirt.
"You really think I'm some kind of slut, don't you?"
The question hangs in the air, raw and unfiltered. It's not an accusation, not really. It's a genuine inquiry, and the vulnerability in it catches you completely off guard.
"No... I just..."
You what? Why did you care so much what he did or who he did it with? Why did you feel a heat pooling lower when his shirt would ride up or when he would stick his tongue out just slightly while concentrating?
You try to search for the words, to articulate the tangled mess of your feelings.
"I'm not judging you. I don't care who you sleep with. It's..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely between you, the storm, the empty apartment. "I don't know what it is."
"Then what was that comment about my neck? That sounded a lot like judging." He's not angry, just… confused. A deep furrow of confusion between his brows.
"Because I was jealous, Eddie!" The confession bursts out of you, loud and uncontrolled. "I saw her. In your sweatshirt. And I hated it. Because she was... she looked like she made sense next to you. And I don't. And that makes me feel insane!"
The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the howl of the wind outside and the frantic thumping of your own heart.
Eddie's big brown eyes seemed even bigger now, wide and a little glazed. He opened his mouth, then closed it.
"You... what?" He finally manages to say.
"I was jealous!" You repeat, the admission now free, terrifying and liberating all at once.
"You were... jealous. Of... her." He's processing it, the words slowly arranging themselves into a coherent thought in his head. A slow smile spreads across his face, but it's not his usual smirk. It's something softer, a little dazed.
"Can we not? Look, I know I'm not your usual type. I'm not some cool, effortless rocker chick in black jeans and a band tee. I'm wearing a sweater with little embroidered daisies on it, for fuck’s sake. I just... I didn't expect it to bother me so much. Seeing you with... someone more your type." You finally look at him, and the vulnerability in your expression is raw, an open wound.
Eddie leans forward, closing the distance between you on the couch.
"You're an idiot," he says, and there's no venom in it. It's a mirror of what you'd said to him what felt like a lifetime ago, but this time it's gentle, almost fond. "A complete, beautiful, floral clad idiot."
You blink. "Beautiful?"
"Yes, beautiful," he says, his gaze unwavering. "And you think she's my type? Did you not hear a single word I said? She was a one-time thing. A... mistake. I was trying to get over this... girl I work with."
He takes your cocoa mug from your trembling hands and sets it on the table. Then he takes one of your hands, his calloused guitarist's fingers wrapping gently around yours.
"You're like, my dream girl. All pretty and soft but with this fire inside you. You know more about music than half the dicks who come in here trying to flex on me. You laugh at my stupid jokes. And for whatever reason, you seem to tolerate my general presence." He takes a shaky breath. "Honestly, I can't imagine why you'd ever give me a second look, but I am so glad you do."
The tears you were fighting back finally escape, tracing hot paths down your cold cheeks.
"I thought you were making fun of me," you whisper. "When you call me princess."
"I am, but it's affectionate! I think you're a princess, but like, a warrior princess. The kind who would totally behead her enemies but then cry at a sad movie." He's so close now you can feel the warmth radiating from him. "I like your little cardigans. And the bows in your hair. I like them so much."
You can't take it anymore. The tension, the longing, the weeks of misunderstanding, it all snaps.
You close the final inch of space between you, pressing your lips to his.
It's not a gentle kiss. It's messy and desperate, a collision of months of unspoken feelings. He tastes like cheap cigarettes and expensive cocoa, a combination that is somehow fitting. His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs stroking away your tears as the kiss deepens, becoming softer, more exploratory.
"Don't cry, princess," he murmurs against your lips, the nickname a caress now, a secret shared only between you two.
You shift, swinging a leg over his lap to straddle him, the worn leather against your knees and the seam of his jeans rough against the soft fabric of your tights.
He lets out a surprised laugh, hands moving to the soft curve of your hips. "Well, shit," he breathes, looking up at you with wide, adoring eyes. "Okay."
His hands grip your hips, and you can feel the hard press of him through his jeans.
"You're so pretty," he says, the words a low rasp against your skin. You lean down to kiss him again, a slow, deliberate press of your lips. This time, it's less desperate, more sure. His hands slide from your hips, up your back, tracing the line of your spine through the delicate embroidery on your cardigan. He's touching you like you're something precious, something he's afraid of breaking.
"I want this," you whisper, the confession a puff of air against his jaw. "I want you."
"You have me," he answers, his hands stilling on your back. "Eager girl."
With newfound confidence, your lips find the sensitive skin just below his ear, and you're rewarded with a sharp inhale.
"Let's," you start, a little breathless, "move this to somewhere not the couch."
"Right. The bed. Yes."
The journey is clumsy, a mess of tangled limbs and quiet laughter. He backs you towards the bed, and the backs of your knees hit the mattress, sending you falling back with a soft bounce.
He looms over you, blocking out the dim light of the single lamp in the corner, a shadow made of ink and want. He hooks a finger into your sweater, tugging it up and over your head.
You had layers on, a tank over your bra, a skirt, tights, leg warmers. You blush a little at how many items of clothing he'd have to work through.
"Aren't you a present," he mutters, his eyes raking over you. "Gonna let me unwrap you, sweet girl?"
All you can do is nod, a frantic little bob of your head.
His knuckles brush against your skin as he unbuttons your skirt, slowly pulling it down your legs. His eyes follow the path of the fabric, a dark, hungry look in them. He tosses it aside, leaving you in your tights and tank top.
"These have to go." He says, hooking a finger in the waistband of your tights. "I'll be good and not ruin them. This time."
He's careful as he peels them down, the fabric whispering against your skin. The cool air of the apartment hits your bare legs, and you shiver.
"Shhh, I've got you," he murmurs, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your knee, then another a little higher, on your inner thigh. "Gonna keep you warm."
His hands trail up your legs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin where your thighs meet your hips. The touch is feather-light, maddeningly teasing, and you can't help but arch into it, a silent plea for more.
"Let's see if we're on the same page." he whispers, as if he can read your mind. His fingers continue their slow, deliberate journey upward, and you feel a breath catch in your throat as he traces the edge of your underwear. He hooks a finger under the damp fabric, and your whole body tenses in anticipation. "Oh, yeah. We are definitely on the same page."
With a low groan, he kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, pulling you flush against the edge. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your clothed core, and the heat of his breath through the thin cotton is enough to make you gasp.
"Eddie..."
"Wet little thing already," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you. "All for me? Just from a few kisses and some sweet talk?"
You can only manage a weak, desperate nod in response.
"Gonna treat you so good, princess." The nickname is a worshipful murmur now. "Gonna make you forget all about being jealous."
He finally slides your underwear down your legs, the cool air a shocking but welcome sensation against your slick heat. His hands gently spread your thighs, and you feel utterly exposed, completely vulnerable under the intensity of his gaze.
"Fuck," he breathes, the word a reverent whisper. "Look at you."
He leans in, and the first touch of his tongue is a revelation. It's slow, deliberate, a thorough exploration that has you writhing on the bed. He's not in a hurry. He's savoring every second, every sigh and whimper that escapes your lips.
"Mmm... this is my favorite flavor," he hums against you, the vibrations sending shivers through your entire body. "Wet, sweet, and all mine."
He focuses on your clit, drawing lazy circles with the flat of his tongue before switching to quick, precise flicks. Your hands find their way into his hair, the strands tangled between your fingers as you guide him, your hips bucking against his face in a desperate, needy rhythm.
"That's my girl," he praises, pulling back for a second to look at you. "So needy for me. Look at you, trying to fuck my face."
He's smiling, a smug, entirely too pleased smile, and you want to be annoyed, but all you can feel is a white-hot pleasure coiling tight in your belly.
"More, please, Eddie," you beg, your voice breathy and high.
"Anything for you, princess," he whispers, diving back in with renewed fervor.
He slides a long finger inside you, then another, the stretch perfect as he curls them just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. His tongue is relentless at your clit. His eyes are on you, so dark with lust they're almost black.
He looks like the most handsome devil and you understand why this is a den of sin as your back arches off the bed, a silent scream caught in your throat. The orgasm crashes through you, a wave of blinding pleasure that leaves you shaking and breathless.
He doesn't stop, working you through it until you're whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.
"Please," you gasp, pushing weakly at his head. "Too much."
"Too much?" He grins, pressing a final, soft kiss to your oversensitive clit before crawling up your body to loom over you. "We're just starting."
His lips crash against yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimate flavor makes your head spin. You kiss him back with a desperate hunger, your hands roaming over the familiar planes of his back, feeling the muscles tense and shift under your touch.
He lifts his shirt off and then reaches for the hem of your tank top. You raise your arms, letting him pull it over your head, revealing the simple, lacy pink bra you wore.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you. "Hiding these from me, were you?"
He reaches behind you to unclasp your bra with a practiced flick of his wrist, tossing it aside. His hands are on you then, cupping the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already hardened nipples.
"God, I'm gonna worship these." He says, before leaning down to take one into his mouth.
He sucks and licks and nips, each tug sending a jolt straight to your core. Your back arches, pressing yourself closer, seeking more friction, more of him.
"Sensitive little thing," he murmurs against your skin before switching to the other, giving it the same, thorough attention. "Could probably make you come just from this, couldn't I?"
The thought alone is enough to make you moan.
"Yeah.. I bet I could. Maybe next time." He pulls away, a string of spit connecting his lips to your nipple. "Right now, I need to be inside you."
He stands up, making quick work of his own belt and jeans, shoving them down his legs along with his boxers. He kicks them away, and your breath catches in your throat.
It's the prettiest cock, dark curls at the base, flushed and already beading with precum at the tip. You watch, transfixed, as he gives himself a few slow, deliberate strokes.
"Yeah?" His smirk is sinful. "You like it? Like knowing you did this to me?"
"Come here," you demand, your voice thick with want.
He moves over you again, settling between your thighs. He takes himself in hand, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal.
"I'm on the pill," you breathe out, a desperate last-ditch effort at coherent thought.
"Thank fuck," he groans, and then he's pushing inside you.
The stretch is a steady burn as he fills you inch by inch.
"Oh, fuck," he chokes out, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Feel so... you feel so good."
You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper.
"Dirty girl," he chuckles, the sound of a low rumble in your ear. "Want it deep, huh?"
His hips begin to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that has you seeing stars.
"Does the pretty, soft princess like to be fucked deep and hard?" The question is a taunt, a dare, and you answer with a sharp buck of your hips, taking him even deeper. "Yeah she fucking does."
He rears up, grabbing your hands and pinning them above your head with one of his, lacing your fingers together. The other hand grips your hip, holding you steady as he picks up the pace.
"Perfect for me, aren't you?" He breathes, his eyes locked on yours. "Soft and sweet on the outside, but underneath, you're a dirty little thing. My dirty little thing."
"Just for you..." It comes out a whiny moan as he starts to pound into you, the headboard of his bed starting to tap against the wall.
"My good girl." He claims. The rhythm is punishing, a driving beat that pushes you toward the edge again. "Letting a monster like me defile your pretty little body."
The coil in your belly is winding up again, tighter and hotter than before.
"I'm close," you gasp, your nails digging into the back of his hand. "I'm so close."
"Mm yeah, baby. Can feel it. But you're gonna give me a few aren't you?" He coos. His pace changes to deep, grinding thrusts, the coarse hair at the base of his cock grinding deliciously against your clit. "Gonna soak my dick again and again before I'm done with you."
You whine his name as your orgasm washes over you, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Your walls flutter around him, gripping him tight, and he groans, a long, deep sound of satisfaction.
"Oh yeah... I'm going to make you do that again," he pants. "Look at you, can't even stop shaking."
Before you've even come down, he's flipping you over. He pulls your hips up, guiding you to your hands and knees.
"This okay?" He whispers in your ear, checking in even now, the consideration a stark contrast to the raw, primal fucking.
You nod, pushing back against him, a wordless plea for more. He eases back in, the new angle hitting even deeper.
"Jesus... look at that," he breathes, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you wide so he can watch himself disappear inside you.
He starts moving again, a faster, harder rhythm that has the headboard slamming against the wall all over again.
"Wish you could see the way this pretty pussy swallows me," he growls, punctuating his words with sharp, deep thrusts. "So greedy for me. Taking my cock so well."
His words are filthy, a string of praise and degradation that makes your head spin.
"I'm gonna have you on every surface in this apartment. The couch. The kitchen counter. Up against the window where anyone could see."
The image flashes in your mind, and a fresh wave of arousal gushes around him. "Oh you filthy fucking thing. You'd like that wouldn't you? Want someone to see what we do? See how good you take me?"
You're reduced to a series of desperate sobs and whimpers, your brain too foggy with pleasure to form a coherent response. "S'good... f-feels so..."
"Yeah, I know, princess," he pants, one of his hands snaking around to find your clit. "Got you stupid on my cock, don't I? Just a pretty, brainless mess for me."
He circles your clit with a rough thumb, and that's all it takes. The next orgasm rips through you, violent and overwhelming.
He leans over, kissing your shoulder as your body trembles. "There we go... I want one more."
"Eddie..." you protest, the word a weak puff of air. "Can't..."
"You can," he insists, his voice low and demanding. "You will."
And he proves it.
He pulls out, turning you onto your back once more. The sheets beneath you are damp, a testament to your pleasure. He looks at you with such awe, a reverence that makes your heart ache.
"My messy girl," he murmurs, spreading your legs wide. "Fucking perfect."
He slides back in, the sensation of him filling you again almost too much, and yet exactly what you crave.
Your thighs are pressed against your chest, a position that has him impossibly deep. He moves slowly this time, deep, grinding thrusts that stoke the fire in your belly all over again.
"Yeah... gonna give it to you nice and slow," he breathes, his forehead pressed against yours. "Make you feel it."
"Feel you everywhere," you whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Everywhere..."
"You're so beautiful like this," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "All fucked out and begging. Never seen anything prettier."
The praise is your undoing. You can feel another orgasm building, a slow, deep wave that promises to be the most intense of all.
He keeps kissing you as your thighs begin to shake. It's a slow, deep, bone melting thing. You're not even making loud noises anymore, just a constant mewl into his mouth.
Then you feel him start to lose rhythm, you pussy clenching him like you never want to let him go.
"M'close... fuck... princess, you're gonna make me... make me cum... " He grunts, burying his face in your neck, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a long, shuddering groan.
His release is warm and there's so much of it that it leaks out around him, but he doesn't pull out right away.
He stays there, a heavy, comforting weight on top of you, as you both catch your breath.
"Please don't pull out," you beg, clinging to him. "Not yet."
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in your ear. He rolls over, taking you with him, so you're sprawled across his chest, still connected.
"I'd never pull out if I didn't have to eventually," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. He was still buried deep, softening slowly inside you. "We can stay like this as long as you want."
He shifts slightly, and you can feel a little more of him slip out. You try to clench around him to keep him in place, a futile, desperate gesture.
"Sweetheart... easy," he soothes. "We've got all night. And tomorrow. And every day after that, if you'll have me."
He pulls a blanket over your tangled, sweat-slick bodies, cocooning you in warmth.
"Like... dating?" you ask, your voice muffled against his chest.
He laughs. "No, like I'm planning on keeping you as my sex prisoner in my den of sin." He says sarcastically, then his tone gets serious. "Yes, like dating. Fucking obviously. I've been pining over you for months. You think I'm just gonna let you walk away after I finally got you into my bed?"
The idea of him pining, of Eddie Munson being just as wrecked by this quiet, aching tension as you were, makes your heart swell.
"I'd like that," you whisper. "The dating thing. Not the sex prisoner thing."
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Good to know. Glad we got that cleared up. But I mean... if we're talking roleplay..."
You swat at his chest, but it's a weak, lazy motion. You feel him soften completely, finally slipping out of you. You whimper at the loss, a sudden, hollow ache.
He kisses your forehead, murmuring against your skin. "Let's get you cleaned up, princess."
He's gentle, so surprisingly gentle. He disappears into the small bathroom and returns with a warm, wet washcloth. You expected him to just toss it to you, but instead, he kneels on the bed beside you and carefully, meticulously wipes you clean.
"Really did a number on you, huh?" A soft, proud smile on his face as he looks at the mess between your thighs. "All full and swollen. Perfect."
You hide your face in your hands, a fresh wave of heat flooding your cheeks.
"No, no. Don't hide from me." He gently pulls your hands away, leaning down to kiss you, a slow, deep, claiming kiss. "Come on... shower and pee time. Maybe round two if we're lucky."
He pulls you to your feet, and your legs tremble, almost giving out from under you.
"Woah there." He catches you, scooping you up into his arms with a grunt. "I've got you. And the princess gets carried to her throne, apparently."
You can't help but laugh as he carries you into the tiny bathroom.
After you've both showered, the hot water a welcome ease to your sore muscles, he leads you back to the bed, pulling on a fresh pair of boxers before handing you a t-shirt of his, an old Metallica one that's been washed so many times it's soft and worn.
You pull it on, getting into bed next to him. Ozzy jumps up to join you, curling into a ball against your stomach with a deep, rumbling purr.
"See? He approves," Eddie murmurs, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. "And Ozzy is a very good judge of character."
You snuggle into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart.
The storm has passed, and outside, the world is quiet, blanketed in a fresh layer of snow.
Inside, you're warm and safe in your own private palace of sin, the world outside melting away until there's only the two of you, and the comforting weight of a one-eyed cat, and the promise of every tomorrow.
Synopsis: A wall had been placed up metaphorically between you and your long-time roommate. As she returned home to your share house in a huff after a bad day, you decide to take a leaf out of your current novel and attempt to destress her in another way - including some unique aspects of the particular smut passage your eyes follow.
Themes: Tashigi x gn!reader, NSFW, MDNI, 18+, smut, face sitting, multiple orgasms, smut with plot, reading smut makes the smut happen, friends to lovers, fluff, smut, angst, love confession, feelings, minor dub con, masturbation, kissing, touching, first time together.
Notes: I wrote this while picturing an afab!reader, but no pronouns are used at all and can be interpreted as anything! Thank you for reading!
Trudging through the front door of your shared living space, Tashigi swiped off the rain from her jacket before throwing it completely off with a huff. Kicking off her shoes and tugging her hair loose from its confined elastic, she removed her glasses and began wiping the condensation gathered from her panting breath and droplets of rainwater. Despite the circles she rubbed into the lenses, all it appeared to do was smudge the glass instead of clearing it up, only to serve in further agitating her.
“You alright?” you asked, head snapping around from your position sat on your sofa. Tashigi huffed and grumbled nonsensically in a way that you truly could not understand while she placed her glasses back onto her nose. “Hey, now. What’s all that?” Closing the novel you were reading, you placed it beside you and adjusted your comfortable shirt down and wriggled in your seat, “Rough day?”
“Urgh,” she spat while gazing through the fogged lenses, ripping them off as she walked towards your sat position on the couch. You pulled your lips into a thin line and tilted your head to the side to gaze into the eyes of your swordswoman. Turning in your seat, you knelt while she made her way to walk past the couch towards the kitchenette. Catching her belt hoops in your fingers, you successfully stilled her in her stride.
“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, ‘Shigi,” you uttered softly, “But if you’re not ready to talk about it yet: give me your glasses, take off your uniform and stuff it in the basket, and go shower while I clean them up for you.” You unhooked your thumbs from her uniform pants and waited for her to move on, pleasantly surprised when she turned to face you.
“Why are you being so nice to me today?” she asked with her voice somewhere between a growl and a whine, “You’re never nice to me.”
“I’m almost always exclusively nice to you,” you chastise her plainly, moving up your hands to gently squeeze her hip affectionately, “It’s what makes us such wonderful roommates.” Tashigi paused, sitting her presence in that thick silence that had been becoming more apparent the longer you both lived together, before wordlessly handing you her glasses and stomping towards the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
“Bloody hells,” you whispered aloud, moving the framed lenses in your grip before reaching for the tissue box on the small table beside the couch, “Smoker must’ve been on her ass about something today. I should make some tea or something for her.” You carefully used your breath to add a thick wave of fog to the lenses, swiping them carefully with the tissue you collected to rid it of any markings.
Blissfully unaware of the domesticity occurring in the loungeroom, Tashigi stripped herself bare and threw her uniform into the basket while still in her huff. It was true, she was worked extremely hard today by her superior. She trained in the barracks with the new recruits, she did her paperwork, she attended meetings, she met with warlords and cast aside her doubts of their loyalties. It was, all in all, an extremely successful day.
Until it wasn’t.
What started with a friendly comment from a member of the human, mink, and fishfolk resources department quickly spiralled in her mind with the growing feelings in the pit of her belly. ‘If you would like to renew your housing contract with your spouse, please let me know so I may draw it up for you, ensign,’ was all they said to have her mind clouded completely.
Tashigi had denied her feelings for you for some time. What started as recruits, to officers, to her rank rising as ensign; she had you right beside her. Side by side, she grew to long for you as her assigned roommate. She couldn’t remember the first time her mind wandered to you sleeping peacefully beside her while her hand slowly disappeared beneath the hemline of her uniform pajamas, but it had been often enough that she yearned for you in your silence.
You and her were friends, which is what she told the resource representative. They took note, which Tashigi hastily cleared up her desire to still remain roommates despite only being friends. The way her fellow marine looked at her, free from judgement or any other thoughts while simply assuming you were a couple by the amount of time you spent with one another, had Tashigi’s mood remaining sour regardless of how well she did with her actions.
Flicking the shower on, she attempted to wash away all thoughts plaguing her away with lathered suds until she caught a whiff of the scent. Your body wash. That mix between the scent of witch hazel for the aches in joints after a hard day, and aloe vera after the warmth of the sun blistered your skin one too many times. You had said you are happy to share everything you purchased for your shared accommodation, but she still opted to use her own cucumber and peach body wash and face scrubs because she liked them.
Here, now, with your scent all over her, she felt the first sniffles of emotion beginning to trickle from her waterline and wash down the drain with her shame. Tashigi loved you. Truly loved you. And she couldn’t bear the thought of living in a house without you if you chose an alternative arrangement.
Alive and cheery in your ignorance, you steeped Tashigi’s preferred tea in the ceramic kettle you purchased to share with one another. With a purple base and pink flowers printed in the container, you thought of her and felt the need to buy it for the both of you. Living with your roommate came easy when you both got along so well. You had fallen into a pattern: the other picking up where one fell short, especially when one of you were rostered on, and the other rostered off.
It was a rarity where you both had the same day off, but even still, you would rather share it watching a projection image from the household snail with her than do anything else. You had your solo days off to refresh your inner thoughts and adventure in town, but the days you spent together, you had longed for. She was your oldest friend, one of the first friends you made in your marine career. That was why you signed the papers sent to you this afternoon to renew your dorm agreement with her, regardless as to which base you were both sent to.
You figured it would be easier to work with her than you did with any other. You knew her inside and out, and she knew the same of you. Pondering now on that thought while you removed the tea from steeping to bitterness, you chuckled at the thought of almost being married to your roommate.
As that thought hit you, you stilled your hands over the compost container with the leaves about to pour in. With Tashigi, you felt as if you didn’t need to date anyone else. She was enough for you to meet your social capacity one on one, which didn’t mean she couldn’t date anyone either. You shook away that thought, placing the tealeaves in the compost and closing the lid behind your depository. The shower flicked off, steam fogging from beneath the doorframe that wasn’t collected from the fan above, causing you to smile to yourself.
“Hope that shower sorted her out,” you spoke to yourself, placing the tea on the tray and bringing it over to the coffee table on a tray with two teacups, “Tsk, if she was keen on destressing, I’d offer her another way if she was into it.” You giggled and sat back in the position you were in earlier, picking up your book and beginning to read the next passage.
Truthfully, you had no idea what Tashigi was into. You hadn’t seen her date anyone, despite your earlier thought. Man, woman, fishfolk, mink, anything of the sort beyond any category - she simply did her job and came home to you. Reading the next passage in the book, the words thickly laced with desire and need in every word, you giggled to yourself as the crux finally met the threshold of why you purchased it.
The bathroom door opened, Tashigi’s hair in one towel while her body was covered with another revealed through the doorframe. She paused her walk as she made her way towards the shared bedroom, glancing down at the glasses and the tea placed beside it.
“Good shower?” you asked her plainly, smelling the scent of your body wash mixing with the creams and lotions she placed atop her skin, “Oh! You used my body wash. Good, right?” You tried to not allow your eyes to linger too long on the length of the towel halting just beneath her ass, opting to read another few sentences while she answered.
“It was nice, and the wash was actually soothing. Thank you,” she replied gently while gazing down at the teapot, “Is that the ‘sleepy time’ tea with raspberry leaf?” She leaned down, smiling at the teapot and inhaling deeply. You felt a rise of heat flushing your cheeks while you fought not to look to the hand clutching her towel and shielding her breasts from sight. It didn’t help that the passage you were reading currently was already invigorating and extremely graphic.
“It is. I wanted to combine your favorite with some muscle relaxants. You seemed incredibly stressed, and you deserve to let that tension out,” you offered her with a shrug. Tashigi moved her hand towards the glasses, her towel slipping above the curvature of her ass and slowly revealing her flesh. Your breath hitched while you watched her in your peripherols while simultaneously chastising yourself for looking. ‘Since when was I a pervert? Get it together, she’s your roommate,’ you snarled internally while turning your book’s page.
“That’s really nice of you,” she uttered out, choking a little on the thoughtfulness from you. She expelled her emotions and lingering feelings for you out in the shower, but her soul cried just a little at the fact you were thinking about her. She took a moment to gaze at the book cover of the novel you were reading, tilting her head and reading over the title, “That’s… an interesting book. What’s it about?”
“It’s a smutty romance about a couch and a human,” you shrugged it away, noticing her pause while she rose up to stand. Without time to concoct a lie while being flustered at her nudity, you opted to answer as honestly as you could while attempting to hide your fluster from it.
“How…?” Tashigi asked, not even bothering with her remaining thought of returning to the bedroom to put on more comfortable clothes, “...How does that work? Like, the human is in love with the design of the couch, or…?” She sat on the couch, raising her heel in front of her belly while the other lay pointed towards the floor.
“No, like… It’s really both hard and easy to explain. Firstly, it’s written from the perspective of the couch,” you offered, placing the book words down on your lap while you shrugged away inhibitions and embarrassment, “Like, the couch is sentient, but it’s like… well, it’s a couch. One of those long ones like we’ve got here.” You gestured to the ‘L’ shape you were formerly reclining on while Tashigi looked on in interest.
“A sentient, ‘L’ shaped sofa falling in love with a human?” she asked as she placed her elbow against the backrest, “Like, the human just sits down and the couch is like: ‘Yes, I like this human’?” She ended her sentence in a small fit of giggles, still confused but engaged in your interests.
“Well, secondly, the couch is female and so is the human,” you nodded towards the book and placed it now down on the coffee table beside the teapot. Tashigi placed her glasses back on her face and withdrew the towel from her damp hair and began to pat it dry while listening, “There’s been several parts about when the human comes home from a hard day, the couch just wants her to sit on her face to destress.” You shook off the embarrassment and simply rolled with the adrenaline rush while making shapes with your hands. “The couch says things like: ‘Oh, what I wouldn’t give to taste you bare on my face, consuming your desires with a hunger no human partner could ever give,’ all the while the human is just reading a book or drinking coffee while talking on the snail.”
Tashigi was both mortified and intrigued by the fact you were going out of your way to explain it, all the while almost bouncing from the energy you expressed while reading. Your excitement was infectious while she began to feel that giddy rise in your voice.
“So, like. The part I’m up to,” you gestured to the book before continuing your conversation, “She’s like… Okay, tell me if I get too much, because I honestly don’t know when to stop, ‘Shigi.”
“I want you to keep going!” she waved away your concern and placed down the hair towel on the coffee table, “I want to hear about the human and the couch. Talk to me.”
“Okay! Okay, okay, okay,” you laughed her away, “So, she’s finally fucking the couch.” You used your hands to gesture to the arm rest to the sofa you’re currently both sitting on to give her a reference, “Like, she’s stripped naked after a bad day, and the couch is like; ‘It is my time to showcase all that you have been missing’, and gets off on her using her to get off on.” Tashigi blushes, but hides it well by combing her fingers through her towel-dried hair, prompting you to continue, “So the couch’s dialogue is like: ‘If you move yourself along my seams, I’ll show you the world of possibilities. Feel my silk tongue flicking against your warmth. Make a mess on my face with your heat’, but it’s all so sweet at the same time? You know?”
Tashigi’s eyes blow wide and shocked behind her freshly cleaned glasses, causing you to contain your excitement a little and flusteredly begin to backtrack, “I’m sorry, too much? I can stop.”
“No! No, I like it. I’m just…” she paused, uncertain of what information to disclose to you as her friend or not before your expression encouraged her to continue, “...Like… The couch gets nothing out of it? Like, if someone’s… Now, stop me if I’m too much.” She giggled as she used her hands to demonstrate the couch’s movement as you were, “But if the couch doesn’t have a zone for her own pleasure, they don’t really get anything out of having her sit on her face and… use her, you know?”
“Hey, if I had a pretty girl sit on my face and use me as a catalyst to get herself off, I would say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, ‘Shigi,” you laughed off, again without utilising your brain before speaking your thoughts, “As the giver, you get plenty out of it. It’s a reward to know someone is losing their mind while you get to give them a reason to lose it.”
This was your turn to be mutually stunned to silence at your confession. Tashigi said nothing, you said nothing, the thick wall was placed up once more between you and your oldest and closest friend. Fortunately enough, Tashigi used what was left of her racing mind to make that wall transparent completely.
“Is it… Nice? To be used like that?” Tashigi offered you gently and timidly, “I haven’t… It’s… I haven’t had that happen either which way before, so I don’t really have a frame of reference.” Tashigi began playing with the hem of her towel before realising that she was admitting this while almost naked while you were being comfortable in your home clothes. The tea lay discarded in both of your minds while you took a deep breath to calm yourself down enough to admit anything further.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone… Since I’ve been with anyone,” you shrugged with a small, dry laugh, “Haven’t really met anyone I’ve clicked with aside from you. We make a pretty good team. If…” You paused, sucking in another breath and slowly letting it out before asking her further, “...If you wanted to sit on my face, simply just to experience it, I’m happy to do that for you. Doesn’t have to end with us dating, just a fun way to relieve tension. But, like… You can say no, if you don’t want that. I don’t know if you’re into-.”
“-I’m into you,” she nodded firmly. She bit her lip, furrowing her brows up and backtracking immediately, “I-I mean, I’m into like… the you… Like, the general you. Your type, I mean. That’s… I like that… You aspect… That you have…” You felt that warm blush rise from her cheeks to dampen your own with the heat. It felt like she confessed she had feelings for you, but you elected to not draw on it while you pursed your lips to hide your smile.
“You have had a rough day. I would be the same to muddle up my words,” you reassured her while moving closer and taking her hand, “If you want to like… Well, the door’s locked. I heard you click it, and nobody’s coming over. Do you want to do it like… here? On the sofa? I can lie back and you can just be comfy with your head on the backrest.” You smiled warmly up at her, watching as that small timidity rose on the lips of your swordswoman.
“Can we kiss a little first?” she asked shyly, “I can’t just… Get in the mood like that, but I really want to. I mean, if you’d rather just-, Oom-!” Her shy squeak was swallowed by your lips, tasting her skin beneath your kiss and the lingering flavour of her lotion. Her hands were immediately on you, drawing you in by your cheek and shoulders, while your own hands draw to the fuzz lining the towel on her chest.
With hands slowly drawing against one another, you caress her shoulders and lead down her chest to collect the wrapping of the towel. Your fingers dance and glide along the seams in unison of flicking your tongue within her lips to meet with her own. Tashigi whimpered in the kiss and parted her legs to draw you in closer. You moved with her, crawling up her body while she lay beneath you and slid your thigh between her legs. Her lips gasped and parted while your knee made contact with her bare core, grinding it against your body while she continued the feverish kiss.
Her hands slowly moved towards the hem of your shirt, wordlessly begging to remove it from your body while you broke the kiss to peel it off. Now bare, Tashigi opened her towel and pulled you back in without giving you an opportunity to gaze at her nudity. Chest to chest, Tashigi moaned into your lips while your hands found parts of her body to grope and play with. With every kiss you gave her, she returned it with a hunger you could only match with your own.
You broke the kiss against her lips and moved to the pulse point of her neck. Your breath and tongue flickered along her skin before you sucked a needy kiss into her skin. Tashigi cried out and moved the hand on your shoulder to bite on her index finger. You could feel her need between her thighs, only serving to grow your own desire to get out whatever she was lingering on earlier. You knew you could take a little of her stress away through your attention, and you were prepared to give it to her for as long as she was willing to receive it.
“Do you want me to touch you first, ‘Shigi?” you whispered against her neck, “I can do that for you. Just let me know what you want, and if that means I take the reins and you just take what I give, that’s okay too.” Your hands tickled along her sides, slowly dragging down to her hips and enjoying every elevation and shudder she gave you in response.
At the feeling of your warm body pressed against hers, she whined out and gasped needily against her bitten finger before shaking it off. She didn’t know if she would get this opportunity again, and swore to do what you had both been speaking about earlier to not give her feelings for you away. Turning her head, she kissed your forehead while her cheeks swelled with a warm blush.
“Lay on the ‘L’ part of the sofa and let me sit on your face,” Tashigi spoke warmly, smiling up at you from her position beneath you, “How do they describe it in the book? Like… Which direction?” You both giggled at one another while you withdrew yourself from her body completely. To not give your budding emotions away for the raven-haired swordswoman, you elected to demonstrate to her.
Moving to the ‘L’, you positioned yourself on your knees facing the direction outwards towards your snail screen. You sat on your heels, leaning your back against the backrest and gestured down to your body.
“This is one of the types of positions they describe her doing, but personally, this one would be better and far more comfortable for you,” you turned, still on your knees and embracing the back of the armrest against your bare chest, “That way, you can sit completely down and feel all warm and comfy while I get you off. If you want to wear the towel over your shoulders or the blanket we use for movie night for warmth, I don’t mind. I just want to do this for you.” You beckon her over, reaching for her hand again and slowly giving her a gentle tug.
“You won't be uncomfortable under my weight or get too warm under the blanket?” she asked you softly, “I don’t want you to-.”
“-Never you mind about me,” you laugh at her with a gentleness to reassure her further, “I’ll lay down, you straddle my face and plant your cute butt down so I can take care of you.” She laughed at your comment before pointing to your pants.
“Can you remove those? I believe in being equal in the battlefield despite the fact I’m the one using you and you’re not getting anything out of it,” Tashigi pouted. You felt your heart soar at her dominance which encouraged you to rise and strip yourself while she moved to the position you described. Her chest pressed against the backrest and her legs widened enough for you to slot yourself in. Once completely bare, you slid beneath her and watched as her thighs began to shake, likely from the adrenaline and nervousness of trying something new with someone new.
“Tashigi, I’m right here with you,” you offer her as you laid on your back and adjusted your neck to be comfortable beneath her, “I promise if you put your weight on me, I’m not going to die. Sit down and let me help you relax.” Tashigi whimpered before biting her lip and lowering her body to sit directly on your face.
You barely had the time to appreciate how beautiful she was in every aspect before the shadow of her torso and the couch back shrouded your vision. You slowly parted your lips and began to softly kiss against her cunt the same way you kissed her lips earlier. Soft, gentle, but with the hunger she matched you with earlier. You moaned against her core while you felt her body stiffen and then relax into your ministrations.
Rolling your tongue out, you slowly began tracing small patterns against her clit while your arms snaked around her thighs and held her firmly against your body. You heard her gasp before the world was deafened by her thighs squeezing against your ears. Smiling into her heat, you continued to trace those simple designs into her body before rolling back the hood with your tongue and sucking on her clit.
“Ah-!” she screamed in a pitched whine, “T’much too quick!” Her thighs shook against your head before you relaxed her back by flattening your tongue and working her up by smoothing her over. Her soft mewls was music to your ears, your own need causing your thighs to clench at her bliss. You focussed on the way she was panting and pleading with you with her breaths alone and adjusted to her speed.
While gliding your tongue against the seam of her core, you brushed your nose against her clit and tasted her inside her slit. You moved the muscle within, tugging out and greedily consuming her arousal before moving back to focus on her clit beneath its hood. You didn’t latch like earlier, simply rolling the pert bud over your lips and tongue while she sat comfortably on your face.
Focussing on deep breathing through your nose aided you in your plight to use your mouth to have her sing for you. Tashigi whimpered and shuddered through her breaths as you felt her weight shift to chase what position felt best. You used your arms around her thighs to secure her in place and chased her hips grinding against your lips to find that position she was seeking. Bobbing your head and pressing your chin against her core while your tongue flickered out to roll her clit upwards and downwards caused her to sob out gentle pleas.
“Like th-that-! Oh, seas! So good, please, just keep going. Keep going,” she keened while her body braced hard against the back of the couch. Her core began to clench and contract while her clit stiffened against your tongue. Your body knit together in knots at the pit of your belly while you opened your legs and enjoyed the feeling of her core rubbing against your face.
“Mnngh-,” you hummed greedily, whimpering your own joy into her body while she swirled her hips against your chin. Her slick glided down your face and caused you to rub everything you had in your arsenal to encourage her high to reach its peak. Tashigi bit down hard against the back rest to halt her screams as they slowly rose to its crux, all the while overcome with the joy that it was you doing this for her.
Her mind momentarily split to her bedroom, one hand on her breasts and rolling the pebbled flesh in one hand while the other slid down to circle gently around her clit. She would sneak glances at your slumbering form and stop her motions if she watched your breath slowly shake to indicate your wake, inadvertently edging herself while you remained in the bed beside hers. With her hands shaking against her clit, she toppled over the edge while silently whispering a screamed moan, getting herself off to the thought of something like the actions you were currently doing was occurring.
Yet none of those nights could ever prepare or compare to what she was feeling currently. Tashigi cried out against the plush back rest and found her body beginning to peak. Warmth flooded through her belly and moved towards her core where your lips were lingering. Her pussy began to clench down and clit bobbed with need before she could barely call out to warn you.
“I’m going to-! Oh, stars!” she called out your name while the galaxy was forged behind her eyes, her glasses catching the light of the room while her head flung back. Her chest pressed hard against the sofa while you continued to follow the same motions without relenting. Her body rode your face until you felt her clit let out a few twitches in aftershock.
Slowly, you moved your attention towards her folds and kissed her core so gently and deeply that Tashigi felt the warm flush of tears fog her vision for the second time today. Although her body was sensitive and thighs jellied with the bliss you had given her, she attempted to leave her spot on your face to not overstay her welcome.
Instead, she found your arms still holding her steady while her arousal still trickled against your skin. In lieu of letting her up and fleeing to wherever she wanted, you decided to use her already heightened state to see if you could throw her over the edge again. Your tongue slowly moved to her clit and licked over the hood, causing her to gasp.
“I-I just f-finished,” she sobbed out in a flustered stutter, “Y-You don’t have to do any more.”
“I want to,” you muffled beneath her, “I’m comfortable, you’re comfortable, I’m going to remain with us both mutually comfortable until you attempt to pry me away.” That was all you could say before you doubled your efforts. Despite her already being sensitive to touch, you refused to allow your friend to get away from you until she used you the way you wanted her to.
“Seas!” her soft voice squeaked while her thighs clamped down against your face, “Wh-Why? Wha-What are you getting from thi-, fuck, fuck, fuck! I’m gonna-!” Her core gushed against your lips while her veins were flooded once more in that overwhelming state of ecstasy. This time, she elected to use her strength to get off your face and flop against the two additional seats on your sofa, falling into a sobbing fit of giggles in response to her climax.
You giggled and moved up to sit, wiping your face with the back of your hand and watching your friend shudder and giggle with sparks of euphoria. Taking your time, your eyes drank her in and enjoyed the sight of that earlier huffiness fleeing and being replaced by her joy. You marvelled at her curves and the way her skin flushed with a deep blush while she panted.
“I told you,” you reach down and gently squeeze her calf, “What I get out of it is hearing and feeling you get off. It’s nice, right?” She gently swatted at your hand with a pout, her body oversensitive but still having a smile hiding something sorrowful beneath it.
You tilted your head and slowly moved down to collect her into your arms and move her to straddle your lap as she was in her prior position on your face. There was a deep melancholy in her mind showcased in that sad smile.
“If you regret us doing-.”
“-Do we have to go back to me pretending I don’t feel anything for you while you remain in blissful ignorance at the fact that I’m so, completely in love with you now?” Her confession caught you off guard. Your throat clenched and closed around a pit you had not felt prior. You cared for her in every aspect of your life, you just didn’t think she felt the same.
Despite her confessing that you were her type moments ago before backtracking into her shell, you were still shocked. You reached up and cupped her cheek in your hand, your soul crying for her when she leaned her face into it, you whispered your own confession back to her.
“I don’t want that, and neither do you,” you smiled up at her, “I love you, Tashigi. Wherever we go from here is up to us, but I don’t think I could go another day without the way you smile at me.” You press a kiss to her chin, grinning into her skin before pulling back, “I signed the new lease agreement for us as roommates today.”
“So did I,” she admitted with a small quiver in her lips, “The resources officer called you my spouse and I got upset when I had to correct them.” You both giggled before leaning in and pressing your lips to hers in a soft few kisses, pulling away as quickly as they began, “Looks like I’ll have to correct my correction.”
“I’m happy to come in on our next day off to go over that with you, ‘Shigi,” you scrunch your nose playfully at her, “I suppose that will be our first proper date. I should take you out for lunch after so it's not just… paperwork.”
“I love you,” she laughed gently, her joy now swirling in the air and rising that giddy feeling of your own new beginnings. All you could offer her in response was her own reflection shining back at her.
pairing: law x reader
summary: a book, some teasing, and a flustered Law->maybe your taste in dark, brooding men was fate all along.
CW: she/her/girl used,fluff, playful teasing, mentions of gothic themes, shy/soft law
word count: 1k
A/N: anyway remember how I said that my dog was in the hospital?so she died and I have no will to live 😍 BUT IM DOING THIS FOR LAW'S BIRTHDAY
art credit: @gargantuanonion
You had spent most of your afternoon in bed cuddling with Law. It was nice and cozy, and you loved feeling him close to you, but at some point, you started to get a little bored.
“Law? What do you want to do?”
“Whatever you want to.”
“Maybe we could read a book?” you suggest, shifting slightly in his arms.
Law lifts his head from where it was resting against your neck, looking at you with mild suspicion. “Read a book?”
“Yeah.”
He seems to internally debate this for a few seconds before finally giving in. “Sure... I guess we could do that.”
“Okay, what do you want to read?”
“I’m not picky. You choose something for me,” he replies, completely unbothered.
You smirk. “Not something medical again.”
Law rolls his eyes. “Why not? I like reading medical books.”
“I know you do.”
“What’s wrong with medical books?” he asks, acting as if he doesn’t already know your answer.
“You’re just a nerd.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m not a nerd!...I just like learning.”
You grin. “My nerd.”
Law immediately turns red and looks away, mumbling something under his breath. You catch the “...whatever” before he pretends he’s totally unaffected.
“You’ll read literature now,” you say, pointing a finger at him like you’re some strict schoolteacher.
He sighs, resigned. “Okay, fine. I’ll read something other than medical journals for now.”
“My nerdy boyfriend.”
His face somehow gets redder. “Quit it. I’m not a nerd. Just hand over a book and let’s get this over with.” He holds out his hand, waiting.
Laughing to yourself, you walk over to your bookshelf, scanning the spines carefully. You try to decide which one he might be interested in reading. After a moment, you pull out The Collector by John Fowles and hand it to him.
Law glances at the cover, then back at you. “I’ve heard of this one, but I’ve never actually read it.”
“Now’s your chance. You should be thankful you get to be blessed by my personal literary choices.”
He snorts. “Your ‘personal literary choices’ are a bunch of fiction books and sappy romance novels.”
You gasp dramatically. “I like gothic literature.”
Law raises an eyebrow. “You mean teenage girl literature.”
“No, I mean Frankenstein, Dracula, Wuthering Heights, The Phantom of the Opera, Carmilla-”
He gestures vaguely. “Basically books about monsters pining after girls. And don’t even get me started on Wuthering Heights.”
You glare at him. “What the hell, Law?”
He gives you a knowing look. “Have you read a single novel that doesn’t have a brooding, moody, creepy, and yet somehow handsome man as the love interest?”
You pause for a second, then shrug. “I’m basically living in one.”
He freezes in silence.
Law stares at you, processing your words. You watch as realization dawns on his face. He’s quite literally describing himself right now. The description of the male characters fits his own. He’s brooding. He’s moody. He’s handsome in a dark, mysterious way. And, yeah, maybe even a little creepy sometimes.
His mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. He looks completely thrown off.
You grin. “You’re my brooding, moody, creepy, and devilishly handsome man.”
Law’s face explodes into color. He looks away immediately, pretending to be deeply invested in the book in his hands. “...Shut up. I’m not brooding or moody.”
“Oh, you absolutely are.”
He crosses his arms. “Am not.”
“Look at you. You’re everything I wanted.” You smile at him sweetly, knowing exactly what you’re doing.
His face turns even redder, if that’s even possible. You’re enjoying this way too much.
Law looks down at the book, flipping it open just to have something to do. “Anyway, let’s read.”
You hum in agreement and turn back to your bookshelf to pick something for yourself. You can feel his gaze lingering on you before he speaks again.
“How many books about creepy men have you got in there?”
“Shut up.”
“I’ll shut up after you tell me the number.” His confidence is coming back now that he’s the one teasing you.
You sigh. “It’s a lot, probably.”
He lets out a huff of laughter and shakes his head. “You’re a complete mess. You have a weakness for brooding, dark, and mysterious male characters.”
“So you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you seriously comparing me to the characters in your books?”
“Yeah. I manifested you.”
Law blinks. “You’re saying I’m your ideal man?”
“Yup.”
He stares at you for a moment, then suddenly looks away. “W-well... I-shut up.”
You smirk. “I’m way more than just some brooding, dark male lead you read about in your novels.”
“What’s different about you, Law?”
He hesitates. “I’m real... I’m more than just a male lead made to be swooned over by a teenage girl.”
You tilt your head. “But you’ve got me swooning.”
Law groans, dropping his head into his hands. “You-you’re such an embarrassing person.”
“You’ve got me weak in the knees. I’m absolutely smitten with you.”
He doesn’t even know how to respond anymore. He just grips the book tighter, as if it’ll save him from your relentless teasing. His heart is beating too fast, his stomach twisting with that stupid, unfamiliar warmth that only you can pull out of him.
Finally, after a long pause, he mumbles, “I hope you know that I think you’re completely embarrassing. And I hate you.”
You smirk. “Am I your ideal girl?”
He exhales sharply, giving up. “Yes. Of course you are.”
His voice is quiet, but it’s sincere. He hopes you know how much you’ve changed his life for the better. You feel yourself soften.
Slowly, you walk over and sit on his lap. Law lets out a small noise of surprise, his hands instinctively settling on your waist.
“Yeah, the person into dark and brooding men wouldn’t avoid you for sure.”
He glares up at you, but it’s half-hearted. “You just have no shame, do you?”
You kiss his cheek and wrap your arms around his neck. “I really like you, Law.”
He sighs, his fingers tightening slightly on your waist. “...I like you too.”
You grin. “You mean everything to me.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the way he presses his forehead against your shoulder tells you everything you need to know.
