Simon's fingers are thick enough to make it burn at the stretch.
He rarely uses only one. Just at first, of course. Middle finger testing around before it finds a place to slot in and curl. He waves it inside, dancing back and forth with his wrist but never going in too deep, straying from bruising your cervix—knows it's not there that you like it.
Knows you inside out, actually.
Every bloody time you and Simon have sex, it turns into one hell of an anatomy lesson. The patience of the man is genuinely unmatched—perks of dating a sniper, you think.
No, not there. Bit to the left. Yeah, can you feel that? Should feel a bit rougher.
Slow. Slower. Nah. No. Lost it.
Fast. Oh God—yeah, like that. Touch my clit too, baby. Yeah—yes, oh my G—please, keep—no, no not—oh. Alright. Lost it.
Fucking hell, that man has put his whole blood and sweat into it. Fingers, tongue, cock, toys, hands, fists—nothing.
You're oddly alright with it. Frustrating as it is, of course. You're not immune; it's obvious that you want to come too. Alas, you've made peace with it.
You never had a good orgasm with someone else. Or a bad one either.
Pretty trustworthy of your fingers, or your vibe when it's your hand guiding it, your orgasms are usually mind-blowing when it's you coaxing them out of yourself.
When it comes to someone else, though, it's like your body immediately shuts off and doesn't know how to climb over that edge.
Simon once insisted on watching you get off as he did too (quite the hot experience), using that newly discovered kink to study what you did—but you didn't come, that night, even though you changed absolutely nothing of your usual masturbation routine.
It's a trust thing. An anxiety thing. A stress thing. So many things crammed into one big, cumbersome, unnamed feeling that sits heavy in your guts.
Simon's hurt, even if he doesn't show it. He trusts you wholly, and it took him a long damn time to reach this level of commitment, so why don't you do the same? It's not as simple as that, though—he knows it. However, it’s not easy on either of you.
Your relationship has faced its share of rough patches throughout all of this, largely due to this impediment of yours. But Simon... well, Simon loves you. He won't give up something so precious because of a few obstacles.
So, no matter how many times you tell him that it's okay if you don't come, he just doesn't let it go. And while you have to admire his stubbornness, it has put even more pressure on you.
Tonight, he's settled between your legs. Got his face in there right as you opened your thighs. You like it when he initiates it, though his expectations of you still tighten your stomach into knots.
It's been fifteen minutes. You’re sure of it, since the clock’s right above the door to your left. You looked at it when he went down, and you’ve been glancing back every five minutes, like usual. Now your eyes find it for the third time, so you can confidently say that Simon's been eating you out for the past fifteen minutes.
Mathematical. Precise.
And you still haven't come. Unsurprisingly.
You're taking too long. He must be getting bored. Once again, vitriolic thoughts rush through your head and make you feel like a dull, frigid monster who can’t even feel good.
Simon seems unbothered by the switch in your eyes, mostly because he’s paying little attention to them.
He sucks on your clit. Leaves kitten licks when he pulls back, unsheathing it with his thumb to have the most sensitive part of it at his mercy. God, it feels weirdly good when he does it—like you've been zapped out of the blue and your toes curl and your fingers fist the sheets.
And he never leaves any part of you empty. He sucks on your clit and fingers your hole. One finger at first, then two. He usually goes in with a third, and whenever you want to explore a bit of pain, he fits in four of them. His fingers are thick enough to make you exclude the possibility of a whole fist—you tried once and never again. It scarred you for life, you think.
He amps it up, usually. Starts soft and slow, and by the time you're precisely twenty minutes in, he's tried it all, and you stop him. Tell him it's enough. That you can't come and it's okay. And then you have sex, and he comes a bit after that. Pent up as he most certainly is, it doesn't take him long to reach his high.
However, it's been eighteen minutes now, and he's still slow and teasing: two fingers and a gentle mouth. He's not being methodical and precise. He's lazy and sloppy, drool trailing down his chin. Slurping noises here and there, your wetness coating his fingers and making his pads all pruny.
And like usual, there's this knot building at the base of your belly. Tightening and churning, melting liquid in pleasure, but still not enough to tip you over.
When the clock signals that it's been twenty minutes, you go for his hand on your thigh—like routine.
"Can't do it, baby," you whisper. Gently, you pat his knuckles like you're consoling him, giving him the reassurance that it's fine and he can stop this and fuck you so he can feel good too.
But instead of pulling back, Simon swats away your hand.
"Like it," he rumbles, mouth to your clit. He sounds... annoyed? Like you're interrupting something.
You cock your head. He's still licking down at you and hasn't even opened his eyes.
"But I can't come," you explain slowly.
His fingers curl upward inside you. Inadvertently, your hips meet his hand, shifting towards it to chase the feeling.
"And?" He asks. "Feels nice anyway don't it?"
You blink.
"I mean, yeah—"
"Then let me."
"But I thought—"
"Stop with tha'," he grumbles.
His eyes open, finally, and land on your face. With a slow lick on your clit that makes you shiver, he unlatches his mouth from your pussy.
"Stop with what?" You ask, feeling slightly lightheaded and breathless. Just because you can't come doesn't mean you can't feel what he does to you.
It's the most frustrating thing about the whole ordeal, honestly: you feel good, so good that you might just have one of those earth-shattering orgasms that change your life. One of those that seize up your legs and trap him between your thighs. One of those that ultimately never co—
"Stop bloody thinkin'," his voice interjects, quite effectively stopping your train of thought. "See it all over yer face. Knock it off."
You scoff. "You can see it?"
"I can, yeah," he drawls. "Now lemme get on with it. I wanna eat you out."
"But I won't come—"
"Said tha' already," he interrupts. Slowly, his eyes return to your cunt, glistening with his spit and your arousal. Simon licks his lips.
He pumps his fingers unhurriedly, watching enraptured at the flesh stretching around them and the wetness collected on his palm. He goes down, licking it from his own hand.
Jesus fucking Christ help you.
The crooked bridge of his nose nudges your clit, and he nuzzles it. You clench your teeth, eyes rolling back behind closed eyelids. When he returns his focus on you, he's wet from nose to chin; there's a heaviness to his eyes, blown dark and murky with hunger.
"I wanna eat—” and he slaps your clit. You gasp, wide-eyed and choking on a breath. “—this fuckin' pussy." Slap.
He’s crude and abrasive.
"Can I do it, or we on the clock?"
And with a healthy smattering of sarcasm, too.
It's embarrassing beyond belief that he's noticed your gaze flitting to the clock every time. Of course he has, always so attuned with you and with his eyes and ears perked. God forbid he turns off his senses for once.
You feel your cheeks grow hot and your chest bloom with sweat.
His hand unfurls from your thigh and snakes upward, landing flat on the valley of your breasts. Gently, he guides you down, letting your back meet the mattress.
"Lie back, yeah?" He rumbles, sounding suddenly softer. "Kill the lights, eyes shut, an’ quit the bloody thinkin’ for once."
He's got this pull on you that has your hands comply before your mind even registers it. They reach behind, testing blindly on the wall above the headboard—easily, your fingers find the switch, and the room goes dark.
“Stay here, focus,” he whispers against your thigh.
“Hear that?” He stops. Curls his pads inside you. “Fuckin' soaked. Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.”
You exhale shakily. Your eyes struggle to focus in the darkness, and the clock is out of sight. So, you do as he says: you close your eyes.
Simon's breath puffs on your pussy: warmth meeting even hotter skin. His stubble scratches the inside of your thigh. You can feel him shift his head, like he's caressing you with his cheek.
The moment your legs soften up on his shoulders, Simon sighs.
"Atta girl," he murmurs, kissing your clit ever so softly.
You jolt in his hold, and he keeps you still by tightening his hand around your thigh.
The press of his lips turns open. Wetter. Languid and soft, and completely selfish—a meal prepped for a feast. His tongue splits you open, tracing the seam of your pussy only to tip at your clit and draw sloppy circles around it. Then he flattens it, leaves it there as he bobs his head to increase the pressure more evenly. Fingers pumping you full, slow and unsteady—a rhythm that has no rhyme or reason.
A rhythm that, despite it all, you try and tune. Hips meeting his hand, lifting slightly off the bedsheets.
He grunts. Sounds pleased—you wonder what his eyes look like, whether they're trying to find you in the darkness, or if they're already accustomed to it. Whether he's looking at your face, or if he's decided to focus on your taste, on your smell, on your touch.
You screw your eyes shut and try to do the same.
You concentrate on the callouses of his palms brushing your ass and sliding up your knee in a soothing fashion. On the roughness of his tongue dragging against your clit as it swells and throbs for him. On the sting of his stubble, the sound of his breathing.
On the smell of sex, so pungent yet sweet.
With a quiet pop, Simon releases your clit. He's panting, close enough to your pussy for you to feel his lips moving when he speaks. Tickling, almost teasing—a mellow contrast compared to the two fingers pumping inside you, or to the way your hips meet his hand.
"Like this?" He asks softly. He sounds like another man entirely, not at all like the one who almost barked at you previously—frustrated and annoyed at your interruption.
You nod your head blindly. God you wish you could check how long it’s taking you to finish. Wish you could see his face, if he's bored or if he's enjoying it. Maybe meet his eyes—
"Words, pet," he whispers, leaving a fat kiss on your clit. He sucks and you arch into him. Pop. "Can't see ya—pitch black ‘ere."
You feel your throat close in. "Y-yeah, like that," you croak.
He hums appreciatively. Noses your clit as his hand follows a new rhythm—the one you set. Not the sloppy, uncoordinated mess from before—Simon instead follows your hips. It's good. Scratches you right, with the softness of his pads alternating with the rougher patches of skin marring his knuckles.
You clutch his forearm, the one wrapped around your thigh, and dig your fingernails in.
Once again, Simon kisses your clit. "Show me," he murmurs.
"Just try—"
A light slap on your thigh. Your legs seize in anticipation.
"Said show me, not tell me," he admonishes. "Go on."
On instinct, you heed him. Your hand slides from his forearm to the top of his hair, clutching short strands in a tight fist. Simon grunts, and it's lost in a chuckle so deep and dark that you feel it vibrate against your pussy, where you guide his mouth.
This time, your hips drive forward to meet his tongue and not his hand, though somehow he doesn't lose that rhythm you showed him before. Not too deep, not too shallow: just there, just past your entrance, on top. A constant and deliberate curl of his fingers, hitting upwards and then retreating—slow, controlled, delicious.
God this feels the closest you’ve ever been to an orgasm. You might even believe it will happen, and if he keeps following that pace, you might just—
Quit the bloody thinkin' for once.
You exhale. Inhale. Deep, feel your chest swell with air.
Stay here, focus.
His palm brushes your leg, his fingers curl inside you. His tongue is perfect, guided by your hand fisting his hair. Slowly he draws deep sighs from your lungs, fills your belly with molten pleasure, liquid lust.
Hear that? Fuckin' soaked.
Squelches echo each time he pushes in. Muted slurps when he sucks on your clit, thick grunts spilling freely from his lips.
Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.
And that tightness that builds around his fingers. The soreness of the muscles in your legs, cramping as your heels dig into his back.
The shortness of breath. The darkness around you—tangible, warm like a hug and yet constricting your throat like a vise. Your mouth opens wide to gulp in air, but all that comes out is a groan that shocks your bones, an orgasm so innerly loud that your ears ring.
You don’t feel your hands, what they clutch or how hard, nor the movement of your limbs. All you know is that you're cumming in Simon's mouth, around his thick fingers. And it's wave, after wave, after wave that crashes at the shore of your neck. Blooms rapidly to your cheeks, steals your breath away.
Simon keeps the rhythm you set, head soft under your hold, allowing you to pull it in or push it away. A puppet to your strings, surrendering entirely to your control.
You breathe, finally. In, out. Tingles run up your arms, tickle the sides of your neck. His tongue softens but keeps lavishing your clit—and the tide retreats, still brushing up your navel every time the tip of his tongue touches where you're now overly sensitive.
It's awfully hot and Simon's a walking furnace, so the feeling is tenfold stronger—and yet it's more of a hug than a restraint.
Gently, you leave the grip on his hair and caress his cheek. Fingers dance to the nape of his neck, and you tug him to you. Upwards he follows, hands landing on either side of your face.
You pull him in, but it's dark, so his mouth initially lands on the corner of yours. Still he kisses you there, and then travels to your lips where his tongue delves in.
You taste yourself. You feel the wetness of his fingers when he comes to cradle your cheek. His smile cracking his face. Simple at first, until you feel his teeth smooth against your skin.
A bit of pride, a ton of thankfulness.
"Oh my God," you breathe, airy giggles riddled with disbelief.
"I know," he whispers fondly. "I know."
You smile too, threading your fingers through his hair, and you kiss him again, and again. Kisses that taste of love and breathy chuckles, of happiness and relief and searing hot lust. Sparse grunts and moans that rumble like a hungry stomach, famished still.
Your limbs shake. They feel gooey, falling off the bone. You wrap them around his waist, feeling the heaviness of his cock pressed between your belly and his—sandwiched hot and wet.
"Fuck me," you breathe.
Simon groans. He slides in seamlessly and fucks you thoroughly, biting your shoulder to stave off his orgasm because—
"Never been this wet—fuckin’ hell, pet—"
Each thrust is punctuated by a heavy grunt. Sometimes it breaks, crackles in your ear like a freshly lit fire. A wheeze, a thick breath drawn in. Fingers grasping greedy handfuls of your ass. Teeth biting your lip, traveling downwards to suck marks on your neck. His voice raucous and scratching your brain—
"Perfect girl. Wish I’d seen ya—maybe 'nother time, yeah?"
A promise with no expiration date. No matter how long it takes—maybe, not surely. No pressure, just your pace.
You don't come. But you feel it all. When he spills inside you and plugs you full, and some of his cum trickles down the curve of your ass. When he whispers sweet nothings in your ear as his chest sticks with sweat, flattened against yours. His heart in a frantic search for your own.
You kill the lights. Close your eyes. Stop thinking—for once.
quite honestly, life was much better after being ruined in society's eyes.
no more teas with ladies who would smile to your face just to stab you the moment your back turned. no more lords at balls who would offer to show you the gardens, just to accost you the moment you were outside. you could now live out the rest of your days as a spinster, your dowry granted to you on your next birthday, and find a cottage somewhere in the countryside. if boredom proved too tiresome, you could be a governess to your cousin's squadron of children. or maybe-
"daughter!"
you sighed, placing down the periodical out of sight of your mother's watchful eyes then tracking the voice of your father to his study. his hair, what’s left of it, is only getting grayer. but for the first time in the eight months you had been founding kissing a baron in lord garrick's garden, and had faced a refusal of a proposal from said baron, theres something close to elatedness on your father's face.
"dearest, this is lord riley, the new earl of chesireforth. your betrothed."
there goes spinsterhood.
-
your cousin, gossip that she is, supplies the information. lord riley, a lieutenant of the queen's army, had fifteen distant relatives die within the span of two years before ending up with the earldom in his lap. with the suspected curse on the title, no self-respecting woman wanted to marry him, even with his 10,000 pounds a year. if it wasn't the curse, it was the scarf he wore on the bottom half of his face like a highwayman. or his brutish accent from growing up without elite education or any expectation of an earldom. but his inheritance requires an heir within five years, or it will go on to the next in line.
it seems you are the perfect candidate for a man without choice.
you only see him once before the wedding, scheduled in a mere two weeks. he eats dinner at your family's table with all the grace of a hound, shoveling food into his mouth at record speed before tucking the black bandana over his nose, all before you've even gotten through your first glass of wine. despite his manners, you can't ignore there's something...overwhelming about him. his stature, bigger than any man you've seen. his hands the size of salad plates, scarred and competent. the glint in his eyes everytime you meet them, almost cocking a brow in challenge.
it's, frankly, alluring. much more than that handsy baron phillip who gave you your first kiss and ruination all in one.
the atmosphere is full of your mother's chatter with your younger sister, something about the dreadful august weather. you keep your eyes on the quail eggs in front of you, ignoring how lord riley breathes beside your left shoulder. the wine is tempting, but too far for you to reach with the constraints of your corset. the new dress, a lavender to match the complimenting slippers on your feet, was tailored to your size months ago, before you were able to shed society's expectations and eat a proper appetite instead of the singular meals your mother would allow.
"sister, would you pass the-"
"'ere."
all gruffness and masculine, he blocks your view as he swipes the pitcher of white wine, imported straight from italy which your father was much too proud to declare earlier in the evening, and pours it into your empty glass. you murmur your thanks demurely, whispered breath escaping your lips as you suddenly find yourself unable to meet his eyes. lord riley stays turned, his knee knocking into yours, seemingly waiting for you to drink.
so you do. a ladylike sip, ignoring how the liquid is a bit too bitter for your tastes. when you place the glass back down, a gloved finger finds your chin and tugs until your eyes meet.
your mother goes silent in the corner. apparently, societal norms no longer apply to ruined women.
"ya don't like it." it's not a question, but an observation. you gulp and his thumb tracks the movement, trailing down your throat to follow the line down. he stops at your collarbone, above the necklace of pearls you found on your desk after the betrothal announcement.
an engagement gift. from him.
"my tastes lean sweeter, my lord." you answer. a lie feels almost illegal in his presence, his domineering shoulders taking up half of your view. he tugs on the pearls, as if to test their strength, and your younger sister gasps behind him.
"good t' know." he rumbles, nearly shaking the table. you track where the bandana meets the bridge of his nose, slightly bent as if it had been broken before. his gloved hand drops away, and you turn back to the table like nothing happened.
the heat on your face and the throbbing between your thighs says otherwise.
-
the wedding comes faster than expected. it takes place at the main church in hampston, the biggest town in lord riley's lands. thankfully, the location means the only ones present are your family and an odd collection of people on lord riley's side. there's lord price, seemingly itching to get home as you remember his wife is in confinement, not seven months after their wedding. the widowed lady laswell with lord garrick on her arm, the very same man whose lands you'd desecrated with your ruination. he doesn't seem to hold a grudge, simply winking when your eyes meet his. and finally mr. mactavish, done up in a kilt you assume is his family's plaid with the red and blue stripes. you've never seen a man's knees that weren't your family's, and the sight nearly knocks you off the wedding slippers you wear.
lord riley maintains his gloves during the ceremony, and it feels almost like sacrilege when he huffs at the priests who suggests their removal. then the feast, mr. mactavish visiting your table half the time to make jokes about your upcoming lack of rest that you don't understand. it's only in the carriage ride to your new home, alone with lord riley, do you truly take in the events of the day.
you're married.
no chance of a life alone, of spinsterhood, of something close to independence. hopefully lord riley will tire of you and provides you your own wing, but even that thought twists your stomach. you don't even know what you want your future to look like. might as well attempt conversation.
"is this estate your favorite, my lord?" you ask, eyes trained on the green fields outside the carriage. you can just make out the outline of an estate, though it's too far away to judge its size. "least stuffy of 'em." he grunts. though you're on opposite side of the carriage. your wedding skirts brush against his outstretched legs. his thighs are thick as tree trunks, and you suddenly wonder if mr. mactavish was referencing the lord's size with your upcoming wedding night.
"how wonderful," you reply, unsure how to continue. your hands fall from the window to your lap, and you trace the lace of your white gloves to have something to occupy your mind. should you attempt more conversation? most men don't prefer a talkative wife, you've heard, so maybe-
"anywhere's better than london." you snap your head up, and his eyes seem to be crinkling, like there's a smile under the scarf. "you don't like london, my lord?" he huffs like a horse, and you bite back a smile at how animalistic he is. not one to play guessing games or put on a show, your husband. "'s too loud. full of knobheads." well, you've found common ground. you've always preferred your country estate to the rooms your mother forces you to uptake during the Season, loving the wind tickling your skirts over the grime of the london street.
"i prefer the country as well." you raise your hand to play with the pearls against your neck, before remembering you are now a composed countess. "can pick whatever estate ya like. got ten or twelve of 'em." twelve. you blink, unthinking.
"which do you reside in, my lord?" you ask to buy time, still stunned by the number of properties at your disposal. he leans forward, a thick knee pressing into yours. unlike every man of means you've meant, this one doesn't smell like another lady's perfume or a pompous odor. your husband is sweat and musk and man, a somehow appealing mix that relaxes your shoulders.
"wherever ya are, i'll be." the carriage lurches, sending you stumbling against the side. "c'mon wife. we're here."
-
you don't have time to take in the dusty paintings or the staff of thirty or the hounds that nip at your heels. your husband's hand on your back guides you to the master's suite, where a bath is already steaming in the connected room. the sun has already set, the carriage ride long, and grime clings to every part of your body.
"go'on." he urges, already stripping off his giant boots to reveal socked feet proportional to the rest of his body. as candles reveal the rest of the room, its decor decades behind anything fashionable, you process your proximity. he's right there, lying in wait like a hunter as he fights with a button of his shirt. where he undresses. in front of you.
like a husband would.
"i require a maid, my lord." you tremble, sweat slicking under your gloves. "f' what?" you gesture at the buttons on the back of your dress. he huffs and all of sudden he's behind you, pawing at the back of your dress. surprisingly, he nimbly removes the buttons faster than a practiced maid, as if he's had to dress himself alone.
as if he's had to remove another woman's dress before.
you go still as he finishes, a hand at your hip guiding you out of the skirts. he unfastens underskirts and your corset in record time, and you can't even take a freeing breath as the reality of your situation sinks in. your cousin said it was painful, but nothing like childbirth. your mother simply said to what was required. your romance novels speak of happiness and clouds and completely abstract euphemisms.
in your chemise, you start to tremble.
the back of you is practically exposed, and one of his hands, ungloved, is heavy at your nape. "ya need to take this off f' your bath." he murmurs, fingers already playing with the scalloped neckline. "i- - do not require a bath, my lord?" you squeak it out like a question, unable to urge your body closer to the water. you'd likely drown.
"'ere."
you shriek as you're transferred from ground to air to bed, practically thrown on top of it. the hulking man seems to have no regard for the effort required from the exhilaration, already standing where the hem of your chemise ends.
"my lord, i-"
"quit yer squawkin' and give me a minute. then ya can complain." you shut your mouth, years of obeying lessons coming back. and then he leans down and your eyes widen and he's surely going to eat you and my, his scarf is off, and what is he-
oh.
oh.
he tugs down the neckline of your chemise down until your nipple meets cold air, then covers it with his mouth. its warm and wet and he sucks and suddenly your hips are tilting up, chasing something ingrained far into your bones. you whine, incessantly, and his mitt of a hand finds your other nipple and pinches, hard, until your foot catches the side of his leg. his teeth scrape your breast ("tits, sweetheart," he'll teach you later) and lightning courses through your body.
your hand finds his head of hair, shorn close to the scalp but with enough length to tug and you do just that. he growls and it reverberates against you, your body not yours any longer. as he adjust his stances, switches to your other breast without meeting your eyes, something hard finds the split of your middle.
"what..." you trail off as he pushes into you, and the friction against you is delicious. your treacherous hips move again, this time against the wall of man that has trapped you to the bed. something pounds below your stomach, and he moves against you in a practiced rhythm. the pounding gets louder and louder until your senses dull, until all you can hear is the spit that slicks your breasts and the grunts from your husband. it coalesces faster than any moment of pleasure, of a warm tea cake or a summer's day, you've felt.
something changes. turns. explodes, like the gunpowder you imagine he handled in the army. it thrums through you like a war drum and fades slowly, until the pounding becomes your heart in your chest as your body is pure butter.
"told ya." he smirks, and you finally notice the scars that cut through his lips. the chunk of cheek missing that sharpens his features even further. against your greater judgement, you cup that part of his face, breathless and wordless under him. your lord husband lets you stay there for a moment, refuses to nuzzle further or pull away, until demanding hands find the edge of your chemise.
"off."
-
he works you onto one finger, shushes you when you squirm, and grins when you sigh at two. three makes you impatient, for what you don't know, and four is torturous. you're dripping and pleasure-soaked and almost delirious when he finally rids himself of his wedding clothes. his nakedness feels like a beast released from his cage, more scars crisscrossing his body with burns interspersed. you don't ask, too scared it'll turn him away, but you take your fill until he slots himself between your thighs.
and then you notice the other thing.
"'s a cock. c'mere." he tugs your hand until it's on his...cock, velvet and angry at the same time. he squeezes your fingers, and you almost pull back for fear you've hurt him, but he doesn't let you flit away. "don't worry, sweetheart. feels good." sweetheart melts you like an ice treat, and you climb closer curiously as you tug his cock. it's like power in your hands, every pump making his voice groan and his chest expand.
"stop playin'." he pushes your back gently to the mattress, the most delicate touch you've experienced so far. until-
"it's not going to fit, my lord." he ignores you, tugging a naked leg up to his shoulder so your ankle brushes his ear. lord riley swipes a thumb through your folds and you squirm at the oversensitivity. "ya don't think it'll fit in this little cunt?" cunt. you shake your head, attempting to shimmy away from him. but he grips your hip hard and snares you in place, hunter with his prey.
"soft everywhere, aren't ya?" you open your mouth to respond, to plead reason, but he pushes his cock in and the air in your lungs is punched out. you pant, quiet ah ah ahs as he sinks in further, finding only the slightest resistance. "been a while since i fucked a woman. ain't gonna last long." he says crassly, sounding more like a workingman from manchester as his vowels reshape themselves.
the bottom of his stomach, slightly plush ontop of his hardness, brushes your thigh. he starts moving, in and out as your walls stretch to accommodate. it's not painful like your cousin said, just full, so full you might vomit. but the rhythm is inviting and you fall into it, gripping the bedsheets and letting him manipulate your body every which way.
it's quite pleasant as your body tingles under his gaze.
until his thumb finds the top of your cunt and starts to rub and suddenly your body is on fire. "no, no, my lord." you try to push him away but you can't even reach. he doesn't even attempt to swat your hand away, just finds a pattern that turns the burn into pleasure, your body reluctant to participate.
"simon, love. 's simon. an' you're comin' with me." you whine mindlessly at his order but comply anyway, this sensation gentler than the first two. it's more the rush of a stream than that of a river, but lightning all the same. your body goes boneless and warmth fills your cunt, simon's thrusts stuttering as he reaches his own end. you stay there for a moment, his spend dripping out of your cunt and over his cock, making an imprint on the bed.
then he pulls out and you're so so empty, a completely changed woman from who you were hours ago. a countess, a wife, a no-longer-virgin. now you just watch as your husband's naked body shines in the candlelight, as he finds a small towel to wipe you down with the lukewarm water from the bath.
"up." simon guides you into his waiting arms, tangling your naked body with his as he tucks the covers over the two of you. curious fingers find your puffy cunt and the spend that drips down your thighs, pushing it in until you claw at his chest. "hurts, simon." you whine, his first name rolling off your tongue for the first time. he squeezes your hip in apology, then adjusts you against him in a more comfortable position, your head tucked under his chin.
"do you need your scarf?" you whisper, glimpsing it on the bedside table. he's quiet in contemplation for a moment, before shaking his head. "do you think we made a babe?" you ask another question, not wanting to sleep just yet. "we'll fuck 'til it takes, love." fuck. your vocabulary seems to be expanding into vulgar words with the acquisition of a husband. you snuggle in further and finally allow your eyes to droop.
-
you decide on the estate with the most updated plumbing that's conveniently an hour carriage ride from your cousin. with every wifely duty, simon rewards you.
you replace the stuffier wallpaper, and he fucks you against the wall where the samples dry. the bug-eaten furniture is burned, so he lays you against the ground and takes you with your cheek against the wooden floors. when you leave to visit your cousin, a two-day excursion, he ties you to the bed for hours until you promise to make her come here next time.
four months later, you've missed your monthly course and there's a certain queasiness under your skin. you find him in the study, his body comfortable in the custom chairs you insisted he order. "simon?" you knock before stepping in. lord price is there, muttering something over simon's shoulder as the two look at a piece of paper.
"i can come back-"
"out, price."
the bearded man chuckles, feelings unharmed, and leaves your husband with a hand to his shoulder. when he approaches you, your gift tucked behind your back, there's a glimmer in his eyes. he looks down at your stomach, though you aren't showing yet, and finds a small smile on your face. "you'll have to come visit my wife for advice, my lady." his wife who delivered him triplets months ago, one heir and two girls to be doted on for the rest of their lives. the two of you share a look, and he's out the door, shutting it behind him.
"c'mere." you flounce into his lap, a new favorite cushion of yours. he doesn't wear his scarf at home at your request, so your fingers find your favorite scar and trace it to his lips. "i missed you." he murmurs, squeezing you tighter against him. simon's told you he likes the fat at your hips and your stomach and your tits, and you wonder if pregnancy will be his preferred state for you.
"i was only upstairs knitting." you say, a leading statement to the treasure tucked behind you. "too far." he grumbles, tucking his head into the crook of your neck so he can lick the sweat there. before he gets too far, you push at him with your free hand. "won't you ask what i was knitting, husband?" his eyes flash at the title, too omniscient for his own good.
"what were you knitting, my wife?"
you produce the yellow booties, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. he stares and stares and stares, and you wonder if you have to spell it out for him.
"we're havin-"
"christ, love. c'mere." he picks you up gentle to the reclining chair in the corner of the room, a favored spot of yours when you want to nap and be near him. his hands, those scarred things, are overly cautious as he lays you down. "simon, i'm not a teacup." he shakes his head, brushing his hands over your stomach. "you're carrying our child." his accent has softened in the months you've been together, but the gruffness is still there.
"lay with me." you tangle your hands together and pull, ignoring how his feet have to stay on the ground for stability. "you are a wonder." he whispers, nipping your jaw. you hook a leg around his hip and pull him further. until you're melded, two into one.
"teach me a new word. teach me to make love."
-
hi guys. ive been sick. not covid tho! but ive been writing my secret project and of course reading historical fiction which is where this thing appeared. enjoy!
a most pleasant marriage (john price x f!reader, minor simon x john x reader)
medieval arranged marriage au, SMUT, reader is a virgin, i did no research i fear, 4k wc
victorian marriage fic
-
The emerald grass below your window, stories high and nearly minuscule, sways as you wait. And wait. And wait.
He was supposed to come two days ago. Your new husband, a foreigner, promised to you by your father in exchange for help to gain his own lands back. Greed begets greed, and while your maids help you change for your nightgown to a favorite dress of light blue, your stomach churns at the thought of the kind of man who would make such a promise. Your father has refused to educate you in any sort of war strategy, but you’re wily enough to know that promises can easily be broken. That the sagging stone buildings of your kingdom, small and unimportant to bigger ones that stomp on it like a bug, are no prize to be won. Why would your future husband want to help such a land when he could just as easily take it?
And so you wait outside of the arched slits of your stone window, your stitching in your lap as you halfheartedly nod to the chattering gossip of your ladies. After tea later in the day, sugar and butter heavy in your stomach, you nearly doze to their droning in your chair.
The clattering of horses wakes you right up.
A band of knights on horses, dressed in the black and white colors of your husband’s household, climb the winding hill that leads to your castle. You drop your stitching on a side table and gather your skirts, nearly running down the hall as your ladies follow you gleefully, taking another way about to the entrance hall. Worn stone and fiery sconces pass you in a blur as you skip down curved staircases, apprehension flooding your veins. What if he’s cruel? What if he breaks his promise to your father? What if-
A wall of muscle cuts off your next step, and thought, as you ram right into someone. You can tell it’s a man by the scent of musk and sweat, heady in the center of his torso. Your face hits stretched fabric as pain floods your nose. Strong hands grip your waist, a place no man’s ever touched, and stop your momentum from causing further destruction. Your hands, heavy from the stylish long sleeves that widen at your wrist, grip at stern shoulders as you steady yourself and your rapid breathing.
“I apologize, good sir. It was not my intent to run into you, I merely did not see where I was going. My deepest apologies.” You remove your hands to gingerly touch your nose, effectively blocking your view of him as you try to ensure no permanent damage was done. Remembering yourself, you step back until his hands leave your waist, coldness seeping in after. A terrible position to be caught in, especially with your husband’s men and potentially your husband himself in this very castle.
“Not to worry. I should hope I’m able to withstand an act of violence from a princess after my years of warfare.” Satisfied your nose is not broken, you remove your hands from your face slowly. A man stands before you, seemingly unruffled from your run in. Strong legs, horseman’s legs, build into a wide torso, the kind made for an armored chest plate with shoulders broad enough to bear it. He wears black and white and the insinuation of it sends a shiver down your spine. At last, you take in his face. His eyes are less kind than you thought they’d be based on his voice, the dark blue of a cruel river stream, fast enough to drown a child. He wears a beard in an unusual shape, one you’ve never seen on any man. His hair, brown as an oak tree, is thick enough to run your fingers through.
The thought is traitorous.
“If you call that an act of violence, you must not give accidents any berth to be what they are. Just accidents, that is.” The words escape without thinking, your hands flying to your mouth to stop the onslaught of thoughts spilling from your mouth like a waterfall. It’s then that you notice other things about the stranger. The quality of the fabric he wears, noticing that the black is actually a deep indigo, a rare color you’ve only heard of from whispers in court. Metal chains of gold encircle his neck, showcasing his wealth through lapis and rubies. Such a man must be rich beyond your wildest dreams, and certainly beyond your father. Your heart drops at the realization.
“You knew I was a princess.” You murmur before he can acknowledge your earlier sentence. “Yes.” He takes a step further, no honorific in his words. Any man who’d have the gall to not acknowledge your title must have a reason to. Realistically, he might be able to tell your status based on the jewels that adorn you, but something bigger itches at your brain like a hound pawing at a closed door. “How?” You whisper, eyes trained on his shoes. Something drops on the floor, and only when your trembling fingers touch your skin do you realize your nose is bleeding.
“Your father showed me your portrait before I agreed to the marriage agreement.” His feet, clothed in indigo as well, come into your field of vision as he steps into your space. A callused hand raises your chin up, his thumb swiping at the blood under your nose. He removes his hand almost immediately, his thumb slick with your red blood nearing his mouth. You watch as his pink tongue swipes at the blood, then track as he wipes the rest on the white of his tunic. A claiming, a forbearance of what’s to come.
“King John.” You curtsy as another drop of blood falls, staining the fabric of your sky-like gown. Out of the corner of your eye, the king grins.
“A pleasure to meet you, Princess.”
-
You officially meet a few hours later. It seems that King John didn’t mention your illicit meeting to your father, and after staunching the bleeding of your nose and changing into another gown, you didn’t either. The gown is a deep blue color, and you couldn’t help but think of King John’s eyes when you picked it. You plead a headache as to why you return early, and your ladies are eager to fill the silence with gossip of the men King John brought with him. One who wore the mask of a human skull, a Scotsman, and another who made so many flirtatious overtures half of the women fainted. All you can think of are warm hands on your waist, gripping you like a God-given right. Though, you suppose it is.
When you make your entrance into the throne room, it’s surprisingly empty. No courtesans, though your kingdom has few already. Instead, King John converses with your father at his throne, towering over the man by pure stature. You curtsy and scurry further when your father calls your name, already confused at the unusual silence of the room.
“King John, may I present my eldest daughter. I trust she is to your liking?” There is no warmth in his tone, just the promise of retribution sparkling in your father’s eyes, the same color as your own. You turn to King John and curtsy again, keeping your eyes lowered as you stand demurely afterwards. “Your Grace,” you murmur. He’s silent, eyes burning into you as he appraises you. He hums, a low sound that goes straight to your core. You hope he noticed the color of your gown.
“She is. Her portrait does not compare.” Your cheeks warm as you keep your gaze lowered, years of etiquette classes holding back your reaction. Father grunts, clearly not wanting to spend more time than necessary praising you when they could be discussing how to win your lands back. “Yes, Your Grace. As we discussed, the ceremony and exchange of dowry will take place tomorrow.” Your heart thunders, blood rushing in your ears. You knew it was coming, of course, having packed most of your things and done dress fittings as your mother planned the wedding itself. Hearing the confirmation out loud is a different beast. This is your new life.
You hope he will be kind.
They converse about the dowry but do not dismiss you, leaving you to stay frozen in place as they discuss how many gold coins and jewels you are worth. Finally, you are dismissed with a reminder of the welcome feast tonight.
-
If this is the feast before the wedding, you fear for the antics of the one after. King John’s men, a horde of knights with almost no holy men to be found, are rambunctious as they drink your wine coffers dry. You sit at the seat of honor tonight, usually only reserved for your brother, the heir. King John sits on the other side of your father, mainly conversing with the man in the skull mask as you pick at your meal. Your father is reddened by drink, a young maid who is not your mother seated in his lap as he raves about his last conquest years ago. Your ladies titter beside you, your other sibling and mother having been sent off to bed an hour ago.
“Daughter!” You jolt as your father slaps the table to get your attention. “Yes, Father?” You answer meekly. “Practice serving your husband. His cup should never be empty.” He plucks a flagon of wine out of a passing maid’s hands and shoves it towards you. You rise and take it from him, hands shaking as you uncork it. When you round his chair, his gaze back on the woman on his lap, King John’s men stare. And stare. One of them with eyes like lightning nudged the handsome one beside him, whispering something that makes them both laugh. The skull-faced one, sitting closest to King John, is silent, his eyes dark as a demon’s.
You wrench your gaze away from them to land on your future husband’s. His cheeks are pinked from wine and he sits with his legs spread, wide enough to fit a barrel of ale between them. “Go’on.” You pour, your full focus on the jeweled cup as you feel his full focus on you. When the glass is nearly full, you place down the flagon and stand uncomfortably, waiting to be dismissed.
He does not dismiss you.
Those same hands from this afternoon grab your waist again, pulling you harshly into his lap. You make an unladylike squeal, immediately looking over your shoulder to see if your father noticed. Thankfully, he’s gone, probably off with that poor maid. “Your Grave, I don’t think this is appropriate.” You plead, hands gripping the fabric of your skirts so hard they might rip. He shifts you so you sit on one of his thighs, your feet in the space between them while the side of your ass is practically on his…
“You’ll be my wife in the mornin’. And I’d slay anyone makin’ fuss.” You gasp at his sternness, turning to see the truth of his words written on his face. One hand cups the front of your thigh, searing like a cow’s brand, while the other steadies your hip, keeping you in place. “You would, Your Grace?” You ask, eyes wide. He nods, straightening a bit so you fall further into him. Your hand reaches out to brace his chest, your fingers tangling in gold chains, and you keep it there, drunk on the power beneath you. Your father has never made any claims in your name, content to push any duties of propriety onto your mother.
“Call me John,” he implores. He nods his head to the skullfaced man who’s been watching your exchange, no turning in his chair to give you a sense of privacy. “Sir Simon, my right hand. Garrick and MacTavish are off somewhere in the crowd, his seconds.” You nod in your best imitation of a curtsy while affixed to your future husband’s lap. Beneath your thigh, you feel something harden. You freeze as the warmth in your core. John makes no comment, pressing circles into the velvet of your dress above your hip.
“They call you the Ghost, Sir Simon.” It seems wine has loosened your tongue as well. Thankfully, he grunts in a way you think might be a chuckle. “They do, sweetheart. He scare you?” John murmurs, his words losing any royal tone. Nervously, you nod minutely. John chuckles, shaking you awake like a bath gone cold. “He’s not the one you need to be scared of. C’mere.” He scoops your skirts and legs over his other thigh, closing his own to make an overwhelming lap of strength with tree trunk thighs. John grips your chin, a memory of this afternoon, and turns you this way and that. Sir Simon leans forward, close enough that his legs brush your own. “Pretty.” Sir Simon concludes, leaning back out of your face as his chair creaks. “Agreed. And plenty to handle.” He squeezes your thigh for emphasis. You clamp them shut, afraid he’ll take you right there on the table if you give him any leeway. It’s a complicated mix of fear and something you can’t quite name, close to the anticipation of a new dress but all encompassing. Below your stomach, butterflies flutter in places reserved for your husband. For John.
“Go to bed, princess. I’ll see you in the morn’.”
-
The morning disappears like lemon cakes on a spring morning. The formality of the religious ceremony carved itself into your bones, the same way your father carves your name on the decree of your marriage. Then it’s a parade through the town square, sitting in an open carriage and waving to the crowd as John holds your hand. The sun is sweltering, but you don’t know if that’s from the layers of white fabric you wear or John’s insistence on being next to you at all times. Then it’s back to the castle, the exchange of the dowry getting packed into the carts John’s men brought.
It all leads up to the feast.
This time, you are directly next to John at the place of honor. So many toasts are made you start to lose your voice, placating it with hot broth from the kitchens. Hours later, the crowd drunk on its own congratulations, your father stands with his goblet in his hand. “It is time.” He announces ominously. You lose John’s grip as your father guides you down into the crowd.
Hands, everywhere. Men of all ages lift you above their heads and tear your clothes off at the same time, making their way to your Royal Chamber for the night. All you can do is close your eyes as the smell of fermented wine rolls off their tongues, greedy hands grabbing what they can as they get you up the stairs. Thankfully, it’s harder for them to be coordinated, abandoning the struggle against white fabric as they bring you to the chamber door.
John arrives just after you, a gaggle of women behind him. He’s not as undressed as you, with only a tear in his tunic. You frown and he senses it, his eyes immediately turning stormy. “Out.” John orders. The women leave, but the stupider men stay. One lord speaks up, a slimy gleam to his face. “I beg your pardon, but we need to watch the consummation, Your Grace.” You almost retch at the thought of them watching you be intimate with a man you barely know. “Out.” John says again, fire in his voice like a dragon. They take the hint and fumble their way down the stairs. You gasp in air, breathing out a sigh of relief.
“Wife.” He greets you, appraising your torn state of dress. Your skirts are ruined, turned into strips of fabric. The lengthy sleeves have turned into scraps, exposing the top of your chest, but nothing more. With every breath, you can feel the dress start to rip even more. “Husband,” you reply breathily.
He opens the door for you. The fireplace quietly warms the room, but there’s no light other than that, making everything past the bed hard to see. You start fidgeting as you walk in front of him, taking a seat on the bed as you fiddle with your hands. “We need witnesses for the consummation. If I’m not with child right away, they’ll say it’s my fault or annul it or say you’re-“ He stops you with a thumb to your cheek, the rest of his fingers squeezing the side of your neck. “Look in the corner.” You squint, scanning the room for whatever he’s looking for. Suddenly, you hear a masculine grunt from the darkest corner of the room. When you whip your head towards it, you catch graphite eyes and the silhouette of a warrior.
“Sir Simon.” He tilts his head in acknowledgment, almost like he’s bored with his role. Your palms sweat and you rub your thighs together to stave off the strange feeling in your stomach. “Don’t look at him, wife. Look at me.” You follow John’s orders immediately, locking onto his intense gaze. “What have you been told of this?” Your cheeks warm, remembering the short lesson from your religious teacher and an even shorter one from your mother.
“I shall lay down and let my husband use my body to complete our marital duties.” John sits down beside you with a grunt. Instead of responding, he runs a finger down the length of your exposed shoulder. You shiver involuntarily. He leans forward, and you stiffen as he kisses your shoulder. The last time you received a kiss was years ago, after a harrowing fever where your mother sat next to your bedside for a fortnight. “Is this…part of the marital duties?” You ask, voice trembling as he makes his way to the side of your neck he previously held. “Yes.” John murmurs into the hollow of your throat. He licks at the skin there and you jump, almost hitting your jaw against his head.
“Steady now.” Simon’s voice is raspy, like a dry paintbrush against blank canvas. You follow his orders immediately, willing yourself to calm down as John comes off the bed and in front of you.
And then, he kneels.
A King kneels before you, his rough hands dragging your tattered skirts up your legs, revealing parts of your skin that have never seen the sun. You freeze as he makes his way to your thighs, the skirt sitting around your waist. Your underskirts are made for using the chamber pot easily, so there’s no fabric around your cunt. John groans again, close enough that you can feel his breath cool the wetness beneath you. “Y’know what that is, princess?” He murmurs, spreading your thighs with ease. You shake your head, confused at the butterflies in your core. “Slick. Wetness. Arousal for your husband and his second, hm?” It seems rhetorical, so you stay silent as his fingers near your cunt. He kisses your inner thigh and you immediately snap your thighs shut. John looks up at you, violence in his eyes. “Stay open.” You try to, forcing your thighs open as he nears again. One large hand steadies your right thigh as his other strokes the slick between your thighs. When his fingers get close, your thighs snap shut again of their own will.
“Simon.” He appears in an instant, stony eyes peering down like he’s reading a text. “Hold her other leg open.” A scarred hand clamps down on your left thigh, wrenching you open almost to the point of discomfort. This time, John rubs his fingers at the slick between your folds and all you can do is sit there and take it. His thumb dips into your hole, and the intrusion is frightening, but he’s gone before you can even notice. He moves it up a little and there.
A loud moan escapes your lips, a sound you’ve never heard before. You clamp your hands to your mouth in embarrassment, remembering your mother’s lessons about staying quiet. “There she is.” John murmurs, seemingly uncaring of your break of expectations. He rubs again and again, then changes the angle so the heel of his hand rubs while he teases the entrance of your hole. Your breaths are heaving and Simon’s hand is hot on your thigh, sure to leave marks tomorrow. The top of your dress, already crumbling, breaks under the weight of your panting just as John presses his palm hard. Your nipples scrape against the dress fabric as your tits escape from the confines of your dress while Simon squeezes the soft skin of your thigh. It’s a funny feeling, a little like peeing, as you release into John’s hold, whining as he holds his palm steady.
“What just- I don’t know- did I do something wrong?” You pant as both men look at you with sparkles in their eyes. “It’s called an orgasm, princess. A release. Necessary for your marital duties. You’re being perfect.” Your heart calms at his praise, and it’s only when you nod do you realize your tits are bouncing of their own accord. John stands, ripping your bodice before you can even think to process. Simon tugs the fabric out from under you as John pushes you back, scanning you like a hunter after a deer. “Hands on your tits, wife.” You follow his instructions, laying your hands confusingly across your chest. John opens your thighs with both hands this time, his mouth wet against your curls. Simon leans over you and you realize this whole time, he’s removed the skull mask with only a black handkerchief covering the bottom half of his face. Those same scarred hands cover your own, showing you how to squeeze your nipples until you understand on your own.
The movements send sparks down your spine, making your hips buck against John’s face. He doesn’t complain, sucking hard at your cunt as you squirm. Simon's stare is as intense as a full moon on a clear night, making you feel like the center of the room. Even as a princess, you've never gotten such attention without it feeling transactional. There is no pain like how your maids whispered, just sheer pleasure, better than any honey cake or sweet wine stolen from the kitchens. Lightning sparks down your body, and the pressure of John holding you down while Simon knows your body better than your own. Your cunt is sopping, the sheets under you wet from your slick as you convulse when John adds a finger inside you. You gasp at the sensation, one becoming two quickly as he finds no resistance. He crooks them towards himself, like he's telling his pretty wife to come here. You come again just like that, thrashing into Simon's hands until you melt like a spring snow into the bed.
John strips off his clothing harshly, revealing a masculine figure you've only seen in carvings or glimpses from the men practicing at their swords in the yard. Hair all over, bearish in appearance, but you're learned enough now to not close your thighs. "C'mere," he orders, and you scramble forward, losing the warmth of Simon's hands. He guides your soft hands to his cock, letting you explore it with questioning touches. It's heavy in your hands, velvety but hard as stone. He grunts when you do an exploratory tug, and you drop your hands, afraid you did something wrong.
"This may be quick, wife. I'll rectify it in the morn'." You nod, brows furrowed as you were told it was always quick, no matter what. John climbs out of you as Simon steps back, but you can see his own silhouette of his cock through his trousers, backlit from the fireplace. John lays his weight on you, his forearms bracketing your head, and you sigh at the comforting feel of him. There's no fear anymore, your senses pliable from two orgasms. He nudges open your legs and you feel an intrusion of where he was before, but it's smoother than you thought it would be as he slides in. "John." You moan, mouth open as fullness grows inside. "So sweet, princess." He murmurs into your ear, pushing further until the hilt. You whine, squirming until Simon presses a gigantic hand on your stomach, keeping you in place as John finds his bearings.
He thrusts once and your breath hitches, your arms wrapping around his muscular shoulders as you sink your claws into his back. John tucks his face into the crook of your neck, and it feels like so much more than duty as he finds a pace. Simon's hand stays there, and your stomach feels fuller than the biggest feast. John's thumb finds your cunt and you start squealing at the overwhelming feeling. "John, I'm- cannot again I-," and he just chuckles, thrusting over and over. You share the same breath, your eyes finding Simon's at every other moment. If this is marriage, you think, it is nowhere near a prison. It's the rough hair of John scraping against your torso, his sweat gliding against yours. That spark builds again, not as bright as before but still powerful, and you clench again when he hits a specific spot. John, slippery with sweat and panting murmurs, follows after, warmth flooding between your thighs as he slows.
"I apologize, I cannot last as long as I used to." John confesses, still inside you as Simon takes his hand back. Your head is cloudy and sugar sweet with no room for reason. Your hands are still on his shoulders, and on instinct you move one to slide into his thick head of hair. "Nothing to apologize for, husband. It was pleasant." Simon chuckles, and you wonder if you've done something wrong. “Pleasant, she says.” John says to Simon, letting you gasp as he slips out of you, his cock leaving a trail of white on your thighs. You tighten your grip against John’s scalp as you watch Simon return to his seat, practically unaffected despite his arousal.
“Did I please you, husband?”
“Yes, wife. This shall be a pleasant marriage. Now rest.” And you do, John trapping you with his body and Simon trapping you with his eyes.
You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms.
You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him.
For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short.
Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining.
You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach.
You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.”
You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out.
Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant.
“Here, sweetheart,” he says.
You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.”
“Can I make it for you?” he asks.
Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.”
Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building.
You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Are you sharing?”
“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers.
“Thank you.”
Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.”
“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.
He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.”
“That explains why it’s still warm.”
He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute.
“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips.
You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”
“Do you have big dinner plans?”
“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.”
“Why not?”
You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.”
“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says.
“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.”
He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says.
It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it.
“I’ll bring you some if it does.”
“I’d like that.”
You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning.
“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?”
“I can be punctual,” he promises.
“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”
“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”
You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force.
“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you).
Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?”
Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet.
Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days.
When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes.
It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else.
And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath.
You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed.
—
The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer.
“That smells amazing.”
You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?”
“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.”
His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised.
The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks.
“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask.
“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.”
“I haven’t done anything?” you ask.
He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.”
If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell.
His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks.
You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath.
Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place.
“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says.
You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say.
“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.”
You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile.
“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave.
You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision.
“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly.
There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment.
“It’s a little brave,” you say.
“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.”
You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you.
—
Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control.
You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure.
“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says.
“I’m not worried about the sun.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon.
He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.”
You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm.
So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that.
“Do you worry about that a lot?”
“Hm?”
“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?”
“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask.
He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”
You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”
Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.”
“Or what?”
“Or nothing. Just knock it off.”
He makes everything sound so satiny.
“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds.
“Promise?”
Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.”
You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart.
A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him.
It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism.
Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.”
“And?”
“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says.
He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth.
“What’s amazing?”
You remember where you are urgently.
“I made macarons,” Jimmy says.
Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?”
You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee.
“Morning,” Clark says.
“Hi. Good morning.”
“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?”
You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.”
“You look good.”
Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.”
“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite.
Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose.
“You do look good,” he says again.
You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.”
You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice.
“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.
“What?”
His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself.
“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”
“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.”
His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue.
Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.
“Don’t.”
“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”
“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?”
“Take me somewhere else.”
His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator.
He hits the button for the basement as you step in.
“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”
No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop.
“Clark!” you say.
“Can I kiss you?”
He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth.
You raise your hand to wipe it away.
“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly.
Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be.
Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back.
“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung.
“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.”
“Really?”
“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?”
“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh.
His eyebrows pinch. “What?”
“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.”
“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.”
His neck goes all shades of rose.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?”
You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble.
He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit.
“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.”
The elevator chugs back to life.
—
You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar.
“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?”
You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out.
“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.”
You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily.
“You’re okay,” Superman assures you.
His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger.
“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion.
“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.”
“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.”
You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”
“Everyone’s safe.”
You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.”
“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak.
“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.”
Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly.
You shake your head, not without fondness.
All boys are the same.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times
Eddie asks you out on your very first date, indulging you in huge philly cheesesteaks, a vanilla milkshake (with two straws), a largely neglected bucket of popcorn, and a sugary first kiss. requested here. shy fem!reader, 3.2k
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
I'm actually going to die here, you think morosely.
This was a very bad idea on your part, and perhaps a worse one on his. What possessed Eddie —ripped jeaned, silver-chained, aspiring heavy metal rockstar Eddie— to ask you on a date? Perhaps you'd appeared more formidable outside of Hawkins library than you usually did.
You were in a particularly bad mood after a chilly fall afternoon spent checking the quality of the returns, and the prospect of walking home in the cold was a dismal one. You'd been glaring at nothing when a big, hulking bucket of a van slowed to a crawl beside you, thumping bass leaking from the closed window. It rolled down, the music quieting with it, and out came a head of inky dark curls.
"Hey, sweetheart," Eddie said, pet name rolling around in his mouth, "you heading home? Do you want a ride? It's a long walk."
Somewhere between the library and your driveway, Eddie asked you on a date. You genuinely can't remember what you talked about or how it happened, your adrenaline high enough you could've used it to climb Everest. You do remember the quiet way he'd asked, as though he was waiting for an impending rejection, and his smile bordering goofy when you breathed out, "Yeah, okay."
You rub at the seam of your cream sweater over and over, the pad of your thumb numb. The wind runs through you, ruffling the skirt of your black dress against your thighs. I'm an idiot, you think. Hypothermia might kill you if your racing heart doesn't.
Eddie holds a similar sentiment, "What the fuck are you doing out here?"
You flinch embarrassingly hard. He wasn't there a moment ago. Eddie cusses and holds his hands out to you before you can slip backward off of the low brick wall you'd been waiting on, his fingers shooting tingles down into the epidermis of your skin like wild golden sparks where they grab you, hoisting you up into a more secure standing position.
"Fuck, I'm so sorry. Like, really really sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, just– it's like, minus ten out here? What are you doing?"
"I–" You give him a more petrified look than you mean to. "You said to meet you here?"
Does he not want you here? Was it a joke?
Eddie laughs out of the side of his mouth like he's holding a cigarette between his lips. "Well, yeah, but I meant inside. I've been waiting for you at the table." His amusement dissipates as he feels the chill emanating from your clothes. "Jesus, I'm sorry. Are you ready to come in?"
Minus ten was dramatic. It's a solid 30 Fahrenheit, but the cold wind makes it feel colder. As soon as you enter the diner you're warm, heat nibbling at your fingers as the blood starts to pump. Eddie takes you to the side of the restaurant away from the noise of the games machines and the bathrooms, slipping into a booth where a worn paperback book is waiting.
"I left that in case someone decided to steal our table."
"What if they stole your book?" you ask, sliding into the booth seat opposite.
"They'd love it," Eddie says. He leans forward with a mischievous air about him. "It's about a bullied teenage girl who loses her shit and gets psychic powers. I think she's gonna kill someone." He blinks. "Not that that's cool."
"It's just a book, right? You're not a murderer."
You wonder why the fuck you'd say something like that, but he nods his agreement breezily. "Exactly."
"Plus," you add, eager to say something he'll like, "it's hard not to root for the underdog."
His smile twitches with an emotion you can't name. "Exactly," he says again.
A waitress with thick rings of eyeliner comes to take your order. She has a sunny attitude, like Eddie in that way, an exterior some might say was intimidating and a bright smile. You're nervous from the get go and you have a cliche worry, watching Eddie interact with her from the corner of your eye.
"For you?" she asks you.
You stammer. What you'd thought about on the walk here this evening can be pinpointed into two simple lines of inquiry —what should you say to Eddie, and what should you say to the waitress. Shy to the point of aching, you'd rehearsed your order ten times, but all that comes out is hot air.
"Um," you say, wishing you'd paid more attention to what Eddie said rather than how he looked at the waitress, "could I have, uh. Just the same? As he had, please."
"Are you sure?" Eddie asks, nothing but patience in his tone. "Do you like pink lemonade?"
You don't want anything carbonated tonight, nauseous enough. "Um, the same but with water instead, please."
The waitress writes a short sentence with a big flourish. "Water," she reads, giving you and Eddie each a glowing smile. "No worries, I'll bring your drinks right out, food in twenty at most."
"Thank you," you and Eddie say together, in starkly different tones.
Eddie waits for her to leave before he shucks off his jacket. He puts his elbows on the table and runs his knuckles up and down the length of the opposite forearm, smudging the whorls of his inky tattoos, the skinny silver chain around his wrist catching the light. "You know, I don't mind doing the talking, if you don't want to."
You can't describe the embarrassment that bites at you, then. "It's– I'm sorry, I just couldn't think of what I wanted–"
"I'm sorry," Eddie interrupts. "I should've told her to come back in a minute, I didn't give you chance to read the menu. I swear that's the only time I'll make a dick move tonight."
You cough. He grimaces, teeth sinking into the pink of his bottom lip as he laughs it off. "Not like that. Or, not not like that. No dick moves," he says, "I just wanted to talk to you over a table rather than that pillar of a desk in the library."
"It's a really tall desk."
"It's so tall! I get that they want us to have somewhere to put the books but they have to go down to you guys anyways when you stamp 'em."
"I don't know what the idea was behind them," you say.
"Maybe they hired a bunch or very small librarians initially," Eddie says. He spies the waitress approaching with your drinks and leans back to accommodate her. He thanks her, but as soon as she leaves he's staring at your tap water with critical eyes. "It looks a little cloudy. You want my lemonade, instead?"
"No, it's okay," you say, though drinking it feels like a bad idea. There's a whirlpool of scum at the top like clouds circling a mountain peak, ice cubes drifting in slow laps beneath.
"I can take it back–"
"Please don't," you say, "I'd be so embarrassed, it's only water."
"I get you. Maybe I can get you something else, then. I'd say we should get hot cocoa but it's weird having hot cocoa with cheesesteaks." Eddie knocks the table. "I'm really sorry I asked you here."
Your heart could be likened to a balloon popped by a sharp pin. You knew he'd regret asking you, knew it was too good to be true–
"We should've gone somewhere nice. Like Enzo's or Bullock's. Hey, we even could've gone into Indianapolis. And I have to say sorry double 'cos I should've asked you if I could give you a ride, I really messed it up."
"It's not messed up," you say. "It's not."
Eddie smiles at you, his most stripped back to date.
Things are awkward and you theorise that it's your fault, but Eddie doesn't let you flounder in it. He asks questions, he says kind things. You have no choice but to relax and laugh at his ill-conceived jokes. You almost choke on your sub and he goes as far as to say, "Hey, you even make choking look good," having leapt up to pat your back. It's too much but it's weirdly nice at the same time. It's almost worth dying if it means Eddie's gonna rub your back with a big, unflinching hand.
He wanders off when he's sure you're alive and you catastrophize: choking is far from attractive. He saw the way your nose wrinkled and your jaw went soft in your coughing and jumped ship. You dab the tears (from choking, though they could change at any moment) away with a napkin, sniffling. Your throat hurts and your sandwich doesn't look as appetising now.
"Here," Eddie says, placing a tall glass in front of you grandly.
"What is it?" you ask, though it could only be one thing.
"Vanilla milkshake. Benny uses full fat cream, it's basically ice cream and nothing else. Is that okay?"
You take a sip through a red and white striped straw without answering, the cold soothing your raw throat. A second straw stabs you in the cheek.
"That ones for me," Eddie jokes.
You swear you're gonna catch fire, putting the milkshake down with a thunk. "Oh," you say.
"I'm kidding," he says.
"No, I mean, if you want to share–"
You're offering in the interest of being polite, but the look on Eddie's face reminds you of the more romantic connotations. "You sure?" he asks.
You could say no. "Yeah. Of course."
Between sips, you talk. Your conversation begins to feel like the unwinding a tight knot, unravelling defences you were unaware of, like a tapestry you never agreed to shaken out. Sure, you're shy, but you're interesting, and you have things to say. Eddie's eager to hear them; he won't stop pulling on the thread.
Your throat tickles intermittently with scratchy pain. Eddie tucks a rather lustrous curl behind his ear, exposing a small stud earring and a hoop behind it.
"I never noticed you have your ears pierced," you say, leaning forward to take another sip.
Eddie pulls his straw from the glass to hit at yours teasingly, the slope of his eyebrows arching steeper. "Then you should look at me more often," he says. He stabs his straw into the glass and meets your eyes. To the outside observer, you're sure you look like partners getting gooey. "Notice anything else new?"
Your pulse tangles in on itself, a snag in the thread. "Um, well…" You glance over his pale cheeks, their gentle caress of freckles. "You have freckles… and," —there, nestled between his lashes like a tiny dotted star— "a beauty mark under your eye."
He doesn't smile, but some sweet softness plays in his eyes, his lashes kissing as they close ever so slightly. "You're prettier up close," he says quietly. "I didn't think you could get much prettier, but I've never been this close before, I guess."
You take another sip to avoid further mortifying yourself with a stammering answer, but Eddie has a similar idea, leaning in. More awkward to pull apart, you share your drink and try not to bump his nose. The drink slurps and crackles as you finish it off together. Sitting back with twin smiles, awkward and flushed and not knowing what else to say, you fluster. There's a lot of stuff you want to ask him, but now he's finished his food and the milkshake is empty, you might not have time.
"Did you, like, wanna catch a movie or something?" Eddie asks, sounding for a second not quite as confident as he appears.
You like metalhead Eddie, but you're starting to love this earnest version of him too.
"Yeah, I'll see a movie with you," you say quickly.
"Yeah? I know that's weird to plan more date in the middle of the date, I'm not trying to pressure you."
"I've never been on a date before, so. This is setting the precedent."
"The precedent," he says. "For future dates?"
Is he hopeful? You open your mouth without thinking. "With you."
His lips purse to one side, tamping down a big smile. Your cheeks hurt from how much you've smiled tonight. Is it always like this? Being with someone, dating, is it always unnervingly pleasant? You're eager to find out, and Eddie's eager to show you.
"Let me go track down our waitress and we can probably get to the Hawk before the seven thirty," he says, clambering sideways out of the booth.
You and Eddie are fifteen minutes late for a slasher movie, but you get there. Dark, two lone seats at the back are your only options, and you cram into them together with a frankly ridiculously huge bucket of popcorn to share. Eddie keeps whispering even when it's quiet and ticking off your rowmates, but he's being so sweet on you that you forget where you are. You forget to worry about what people are thinking.
It's bliss.
"Look at that," Eddie says, a handful of popcorn to his lips. "Ew, that's bloody. Shit, sweetheart, don't look at that."
Sweetheart. "What do you think that is?" you whisper.
"The fake blood? Isn't it pig's blood?"
"Is that legal?"
Eddie almost drops the popcorn as something super gross happens, a silver flash and a spray of sticky orange movie blood coating the protagonist. "Holy fuck," he says, much too loudly as he puts the popcorn in your lap and covers your eyes.
You laugh in surprise, "Woah, wait a second!"
Someone shushes you loudly (and deservedly) from the row in front.
"Sh, we're at the movies!" Eddie whisper-shouts. "Don't be inconsiderate."
You peel his hand from your eyes. It doesn't drop entirely, long fingers slipping slowly down your cheek, turning your face to his. He's close, the nature of the small seats and your low conversation, his skin glowing with a red-pink and dappled white as the movie plays to your left.
"Can I kiss you?" he whispers.
On the walk to Benny's, your mind had drifted to the fantasy of a kiss. Eddie and his hands, the small silver bands of his rings and their heavier signets, how he'd offer to drive you home, walk you to your door, and peck you chastely in goodbye. He'd smell like his cologne that you tend to notice when he returns his borrowed books on Saturday mornings, chamomile and something deeper you've never been able to identify, no matter how long he stood there chatting. His lips would feel solid and cold from the weather, and here's where you stopped yourself from thinking any further, blood rushing to your wind-bitten cheeks.
It's not so simply condensed, here.
"I've never kissed anyone before," you whisper.
"I'll have to set a good precedent, then," he says, rubbing the hollow of your under eye tenderly. "Or you can say no. That's okay, too."
You shake your head, "I want you to."
The eagerness that's been simmering behind his eyes all night rears as he ducks in for a kiss. It's not what you're expecting, but it isn't bad; it's lots of things, his hand on your face and your elbow, your hands vying for him in startled delight, the popcorn between your knees tipping dangerously to the side as your lips give under his.
He doesn't smell like chamomile at first, but hairspray. He presses against the seam of your lips and only as they part, forcing you to suck in a breath through your nose, do you smell it on him, close now. The cologne must linger on his shirt.
He pulls away to shush you gently but urgently, Don't get us kicked out, it seems to say.
And he's kissing you again. Nothing heavy, charged all the same, the barest taste of sweet popcorn shared between you. His hand does half the work, the tracing of his fingertips and the soft line they draw as he slots them behind your ear puttyifying you, like jelly in his warm palm. You make an unsure sound and he pulls away a second time, sugary brown eyes widened in concern.
"Bad?" he whispers.
"Am I doing it right?" you ask.
The concern becomes adoring. You feel like you've been injected with manic butterflies, having a guy like Eddie looking at you like that. "You're doing it super right," he says, so quietly you can barely hear him. "I'd tell you practise makes perfect 'cos I'm dying to do it again, but it was already perfect. You lying to me?"
"No, of course I'm–"
"I was kidding," he says, his side pressed heavily to the back of his chair as he drops his hand to your elbow casually.
"Oh. I knew that."
He pats your arm, sympathetic, a tad condescending but he's hot enough to get away with it like this, lips kissed rosy and a glossy black curl falling into his eyes.
You look down at his lips. Eddie doesn't make you beg, but he does gesture you forward, your hand landing atop his thigh as you angle up for another kiss. It's unlike you, but it's such a rush of feeling, you don't give your hokey-pokey brain time to consider the things you'd usually worry about.
That being said, you pause just before your lips connect. You close your eyes too hard, head listing to the side self-consciously.
Eddie must see it, whispering reassurances with a rough scratch, "Hey, it's okay. You can kiss me. You worry a lot for such a pretty girl, you know that?" He takes your hand. "Don't overthink it."
"I can't," you say.
"Take the night off. Let me worry…" His breath fans over your lips. "I'll take the lead," he suggests, closing the short gap between you.
Your hand goes limp in his.
—
The flowers are delivered to your desk sometime in the mid-afternoon. Pearly white lilies with green spots creeping toward the soft edges. Your chest yawns open and your lips curl into a smile like you've been hooked, rubbing a thick petal between your thumb and your forefinger.
There's a long note folded and tied to one of the stems.
Y/N,
I am so, so sorry. So sorry. I am the sorriest boy who has ever lived, and I would love to make it up to you. Please call me when you get the flowers and tell me if they're a sufficient apology, or don't call me and I'll send you more. I know you said it was fine, but still.
Yours, Eddie Munson.
P.S. did the flashlight guy have to be that mean? He pretty much blinded us with that thing. And did he have to make fun of my jacket?
P.P.S I promise I will get you unbanned from the Hawk. Best date ever, yeah?
You'll call him. Getting kicked out was a joint effort, after all, and you really want him to kiss you dizzy again, even if you found it hard to look at him on the drive home.
Maybe if he kisses you enough, you'll forget how it felt to be shepherded out of the movie theatre like a common criminal.
You drop the note between the pages of your current read with a sigh. "Best date ever," you say.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
thank you so much for reading! i really hope you enjoyed ♡ if you did, please considering reblogging, it means the world and makes a difference :D
hi babe! could we get something suggestive with joel? maybe he and reader find somewhere to bathe / shower and he gets a bit flustered? would be funny through his stoicism lol. i’m nineteen!
thank you for your request! reader is 20s or older cw MDNI very suggestive/ light smut, heavy petting, joel being a voyeur
The river water is very, very cold. Gooseflesh ripples over your skin and all the hair on your arms stands on end as a small breeze whips past you.
"Christ," you say, startled.
Standing a little ways down the river, Joel waits for you to get out with a hand on the gun he has pointed at the ground. He lifts his gaze at the sound of your cursing and you cover your chest too slowly.
"Sorry," you say, your arm held over your breasts. "It's just the wind. Surprised me."
He clears his throat and looks away.
For fucks sake, you think. At least he didn't see any lower down. Kneeling as you are, the water laps at your navel lazily. You look down at the rush of clear water over the stone riverbed and fight the urge to drown yourself.
Joel just saw your tits. Covered in soap. He just saw more of you than he's ever seen before, all 'cause of a cold breeze.
You wash the soap from your chest and under your arms. You dunk your head in the water and rake it away from your scalp, and when you emerge Joel's watching you again.
You cup your chest. "Do you mind?" you ask teasingly, though you're starting to forget how cold the river is, a hearth of heat lit in the pit of your stomach.
Joel tucks his gun into his belt and starts to pace toward you.
"You'll shoot your ass off," you say, parroting something he loves to say himself.
"Think that's the least of my worries."
Look, you're no sex weapon. Everything you know about sex is from books, everything you know about kissing from Joel. You don't have a clue what he likes or what he wants, but the tightening of his pants gives you a clue.
You part your fingers, letting your nipples peek out between them as you push your hands up your chest before letting them fall. "Fine," you say softly, nearly indecipherable over the sound of the river around you, water trickling over rocks not too far down, "it's your funeral."
He squats down near the edge of the river. He's still on higher ground than you, but his closeness makes you nervous. You drop your hands deliberately between your legs as you enter into a staring contest with him, willing him to be the first one to look down.
His brow is low and gives away little emotion. In your peripheral you can see his hands, his huge, thick-fingered hands, rubbing down to his knees. You break his held gaze first and follow the length of his thigh to the bulge between them, your mouth suddenly dry, your stomach burning with a foreign feeling.
You look up.
Joel gives you a smile. A real smile.
"You come on out when you're ready," he says, standing up. He turns and walks back toward your camp on dryer land.
You don't have a towel to dry off with when you get out of the river, but you wring your hair of as much excess water as you can. You put on a blessed pair of clean underwear and a shirt and make your way toward him, bare-legged and barefoot. He's waiting for you near the propane stove, one leg stretched out in front of him. He looks up when you're close.
"You look cold."
"Warm me up?"
He puts his hand on your leg. You smile, your heart pounding fast against your chest as he eases you over one of his legs.
"There," he says as you sit, spreading your legs wide and tugging you up the length of his thigh. "Warmer?"
"Not yet."
"Where are you cold?" he asks, the beginning of a doped up smile on his lips, his hand playing with the hem of your t-shirt.
You lean forward until your lips are near his ear. You wish it were to be sexy, but really you're too shy to say it to his face. "I think you got a good look at where," you murmur.
His palm flattens over your soft stomach. Rough skin moves up, and up, each inch dragging until his fingertips nudge the damp underside of your breast.
He grabs you more suddenly than you'd thought he would, squeezing, heat of his palm against your cold skin. The sound you make breaks any hesitancy that he has left.
"This okay?" he asks, leaning in.
You nod into a kiss, hands framing his scratchy face, and though you try to lead he quickly takes control, kissing you searchingly as his hands get acquainted. His nose nudges against yours and you part your lips, sigh turning to a pant at his less than gentle treatment.
You move your knee in until it's snug against the hard bulge of his cock. "Someone's excited…" you whisper, looking down at your knee. "Don't have to spy on me, you know? All you had to do was ask."
"Sure wasn't spying when you got a handful. Why don't you show me again?" He lifts your shirt up to your collar, letting it rest on the swells of your breasts. His thumb brushes your nipple. You know it's to torture you.
You hesitate, holding your hands to your sternum.
"All I had to do was ask, right? I'm asking, baby. Touch yourself."
You look out over his shoulder at the clear expanse of river, and then behind you. Joel takes your face into his hand and pulls you back around.
"I'm keeping an eye out," he assures you.
You know he is. You feel safer with Joel than anybody else no matter where you are. You lean back in his lap, trailing your fingertips up the expanse of your naked, trembling abdomen, fingernails scratching lightly 'til you reach your chest. You cup your breasts and bring them together, watching in awe as his eyes noticeably darken, his eyebrows pinching together.
know you’ll wear my makeup well - sirius black x reader
cw: gn!reader, just banter, sirius being The biggest flirt in the world, yk the usual
a/n: title from g.u.y by lady gaga. i can’t stop listening to it. this is a result of that :]
sirius black has no issue with makeup. he thinks it looks great on other people, but he’s never been curious enough to test it out on himself.
“siri, can i do your makeup? please?” you ask.
sirius black is suddenly significantly more interested in testing makeup out.
he’s sat on the couch, nose in his phone and a blanket up to his shoulders. he always thinks it’s too cold, no matter how high you set the thermostat. he looks terribly comfortable, you think, which is why you really didn’t want to disturb him. but, desperate times.
he sees you’re hiding something behind your back. probably a makeup bag, he realizes, because you know he wouldn’t deny you of anything. maybe remus is right, maybe he’s getting too soft.
he laughs quietly. “why would you want to do that?” he asks, just cause he wants to see you squirm. just a little bit.
you shrug. “it would be fun. and you would look really, really good. i think.”
he clutches his chest. “am i really so hideous that you think i need makeup to look good?”
you roll your eyes. “yes, you’re painfully unattractive. now let me in,” you say as you pull the blanket away from him. he grumbles the whole time, 'but i was so comfy', until eventually you’re settled in his lap.
there's a moment of quiet where sirius is content to just lay back and let you put various powders on his face, but after about two minutes he gets bored. surprise surprise.
"what're you doing?"
"concealing."
he peeks one eye open. "what're you concealing?"
you copy the face he's making. "your skin. duh."
"duh," he snorts. "y'know, sometimes i miss the days when you were all shy and intimidated by me."
"remember how that lasted for a week, and then i saw james make you laugh so hard you blew champagne out of your nose? and then you started screaming about how bad it stung?"
"true, but what a week that was."
"yeah yeah. close your eyes."
another thirty seconds of quiet. "now what are you doing?"
"eyeliner."
he grins big. "oh i'm gonna look so rock n roll. so edgy. can't wait."
"actually," you sigh, "i'm just gonna give you blue eyeshadow and call it a day."
"nonono no need for that. as you were. make me look like a rockstar." you both hold your breath as your pencil traces around his eyes.
another bit of silence. you wonder, briefly, how often sirius would let you get away with this. doing your own makeup has become boring, just another part of your morning routine. with sirius, though, it's fun again. it's doing something for the first time again. his face is sharp where yours is soft, angular where yours is round. it's a completely new playing field.
"am i beautiful yet?" his voice brings you back to the present.
"i don't have enough makeup for that."
he gasps. "you wound me, you really do."
"shh, be still. we're almost done."
you clean up the eyeliner, brush out his brows, apply some tinted lip balm, then give yourself a minute to gawk. he’s so pretty. it's unfair. you'd made a joke early in the relationship about what deal he made with the devil for his bone structure, which kept his ego inflated for weeks, but now more than ever you're convinced his looks have to be supernatural.
you go too long without adding any makeup, so sirius blinks his eyes open. he's always been able to read your expression easily. now is no exception.
"that good, huh?" a smug smile takes over his face.
"what can i say? i'm very talented."
"i'm sure. lemme see the artwork." he makes grabby hands towards nothing, just waiting for you to find something reflective for him.
"referring to yourself as artwork… just when i think you can't get more vain," you mutter as you dig a compact mirror out of your makeup bag.
you watch in real time as sirius takes in just how good he looks. he clocks the contour that makes his cheekbones look unreal, the eyeliner that makes his eyes seem the brightest they've ever been, and the lip balm that even he gets distracted by.
"how would you feel about doing this every day?" he asks, wide grin replacing the smirk he was wearing.
"fine, until remus and james see it and then i also have to do their makeup every day."
"no just me. they can find their own personal makeup artists."
you smile. you think of a joke about them just doing each other's makeup, but it's lost as you go back to inspecting your work. you really are good.
sirius seems content with you ogling him while sitting in his lap for all of thirty seconds. “you’re really gonna have to do this every day if this is the reaction i get,” he says as he brings his hands to your hips and rubs long, rough strokes over them.
“yeah?” you say as you mess with the neckline of his shirt.
“mhm. i like being stared at, actually.”
you bend down the slightest bit. it’s gratifying the way sirius immediately leans up to meet you in the middle. “never would’ve guessed…”
anxious loser gf who’s just having a down day and sweet goofy sirius who just lays by her and rubs her back with his warm hands and lets her be sad <3 and she just loves on him too <3 love u
sirius is the kind of boy who would hear you're not feeling the best and that's it, he's picking you up from work and walking you straight to bed. the two of you would strip down to ur skivvies and climb under the covers, u on ur stomach and sirius half-sitting, a hand that refuses to leave you on the nape of ur neck and ur shoulders n ur back. you don't CRY cry but there's a few tears and he slides down onto the mattress fully so he can be eye to eye on you, push ur head gently to the side and wipe ur tears where they're pooling at the side of ur nose. he'd definitely try to say something reassuring that wouldn't come naturally for him, something movie grand, like, everythings gonna be alright, i got you, and im always gonna have you. he probs wouldn't even understand how much that means to you because he's lost on how to handle it when people close to him get upset. sidenote: everything he knows about love he knows because of james (and remus), so you're getting a big warm meal (as james would) and a sweet treat (as remus would).
baby blurb for remus!! maybe him being mushy when r brings him flowers :p
ily jade
ily baby ♡ gn!reader
"Oh handsome," you drawl lightly, joking but not joking at all, "where are you?"
Remus isn't the type to yell. He waits for you to happen upon him where he's sitting at his kitchen table, a cup of coffee in one hand and a tattered paperback in the other. You let him finish where he is for now, this greeting a familiar routine, and he doesn't notice you have something behind your back until you've already leaned down for a one-armed hug and a quick cheek kiss.
"What are you hiding?" he asks, voice rough as if hewn from a chalky stone.
"Have something for you."
"Yeah? Show me, dovey."
You bite your bottom lip and smile, eyes bright as you unveil his bouquet. "For you, my love," you say, and mean it entirely. He's all of your love in one person.
He takes them in hands so big you'd never guess how gentle they're capable of being. "For me," he says quietly.
Remus' eyes travel over each flower in turn. You adore that he takes the time, that he reaches into the bunch and takes a petal between two fingers.
"They're beautiful. Thank you."
Succinct but entirely appreciative, you have no doubts. Remus puts his bouquet down carefully beside his dog-eared paperback and opens his arms, and you like him so much you don't worry about squishing him as you perch on one of his thighs.
He strokes from the bridge of your nose to the tip with a trimmed fingernail. "What made you think of me?"
"I'm always thinking of you," you confess, cupping his neck, meat of your palm scratched by his almost invisible stubble.
"Mm," he hums. He drops his hand to the bouquet and pulls out a smaller bud with soft, stout petals. He twirls it slowly and holds it out toward your face until the petals kiss your cheek. He's sick with love, you can see it in the way he smiles. Blissed.
You feel similarly, wrapping your arm around his shoulder and leaning into his chest.
Remus inclines his head toward yours until his temple rests against your hairline. "So pretty."
"They are a lovely arrangement," you say agreeably, though you know he hadn't been talking about the flowers at all.
hi, could you possibly write some soft james please? doesnt matter what it is, maybe something where hes comforting r when shes not doing well. thank you, although i completely understand if you dont write this for any reason <3 take care
hi tysm for ur request I did some hurt/comfort about anxiety and friendship, hope that’s okay! <3 fem!reader
You and James have been walking in silence for the last few minutes. Your eyes are far away, out over the water of the lake. The dirt path crunches loudly underfoot and, besides the soft cry of birds in the distance, it’s the only sound.
He starts to him to fill the space between you and eventually works his way up to a croaky rendition of Frank Valli. Your suspicious squint softens at his crackly voice, fondness melting your pretty features. You look much more peaceful.
He offers his hand.
“What’s eating you?” he asks gently, pleased as punch when you take his hand. He squeezes the four of your fingers with his own and is immensely reassured by their familiar weight, their shape.
“Nothing, really.”
He nods though he doesn’t believe you. “Over the bridge or home?” he asks.
You look toward the wooden bridge over the lake’s mouth and shake your head. “Home please.”
He’s saddened but not surprised at your teary eyes on the way back. He sneaks looks at you, perturbed, near distress at the growing glassiness in your eyes, and when the first tear falls a couple of minutes from home he stops and pulls you to one side to wipe it away.
He’s very careful about it, sleeve over the heel of his hand while he dabs at your cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” you say weakly.
“It’s okay. Don’t be sorry.”
“I have something to tell you.”
He feels a horrible skip in his chest. What could you have to tell him that he doesn’t already know?
“Take your time,” he says, frowning at the strangled catch to your breathing. It’s like you’re breathing on manual. Like you’re forgetting to take the next one.
He holds your hand all the way to the front door, all the way to the kitchen table, where he encourages you into a seat. Kettle on, he leans against the counter and watches you tear yourself apart, your nerves and unhappiness evident.
“Whatever it is, it’ll be okay,” he says.
“I’m not sure it’s the kind of thing I should tell you, James.”
“If you want to tell me, tell me. I want to listen.”
You tip your head back. A tear races down to your chin and lingers.
“I don’t think I have any friends.”
James knows you. He knows you well. He wants to know everything there is to know about you, and he reckons he’s halfway there, but he’s not sure he knew this.
“I mean- I have… I have people I talk to but- but nobody like- like Remus. Or Sirius.”
James blinks. He wants to say, Baby, if you want to be friends with those idiots you’ve lost all hope. He wants to say, Baby, if you want to be friends with those idiots then I will make it happen. But it’s not what you mean. Sirius and Remus are people James would kill for. His life wouldn’t be the same without them.
“I think you’re my only friend.”
He abandons the tea to stand by your seat, looking down at your heartbroken face with a creeping sense of uselessness. What can he do? What can he say to that?
“I meet people and- Even when they’re nice, and- and cool. It’s like I can’t click. I always feel one wrong step from disaster, and-“
“Take a breather,” he says, encouraging your cheek toward his torso carefully. You fall into him, collapsed in relief.
“I can’t make myself what people want me to be,” you say. You sound especially strung out, words a sob into his shirt. You take a huge breath and find some composure. James bites the inside of his lip, because if you want to sob then you should. If you want to cry for days he won’t mind, he can support you.
He rubs his thumb over the ridge of your shoulder. “Shortcake, you can let it out.”
“I’m just- So sick of feeling like I’m making people angry. I feel like I have to say sorry for talking sometimes… Like I’m always saying the wrong thing.”
James’ eyebrows pinch together. That’s a big leap from your first confession. From the raggedness of your tone, it sounds as though you’ve been holding onto that thought for a while.
He kisses the top of your head, rubs the tip of his nose against your hairline. You shudder beneath him.
James shushes you, a quick but kind succession of sound. “It’s alright. It’s alright.” Your hands tangle in the loose fabric of his shirt at the reassurance. “You’re not making me angry, okay?”
“Okay.”
You sound very young.
He lets you cry it out for a while, his face pressed to the top of your head and arms around your shoulders, holding you together the best that he can.
“Can I tell you what I think?” he asks eventually, having taken some time to think it over.
You nod.
“I think that- that people love you more than you think. But, if you’re feeling like you don’t have people you’re close to, that’s fine, baby.
“I know it’s not the same, but there have been plenty of times where I felt distance between me and the boys. People… change. You’re changing all the time.” He tilts your face up to his, meeting your eyes unflinchingly. “And every time you do, I love you more. One day, you’ll meet people who feel like I do. I promise.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Not everybody clicks. I haven’t spoken to some of my friends in years and it doesn’t mean I changed for the worse. It’s like us.”
You wince. “What?”
He laughs and strokes your cheek with the side of his pinky finger. “Not like that. Before we met, I had girls. Girlfriends. We didn’t last because we didn’t click. Not like me and you. Friends are just like that, they don’t always work. Doesn’t mean you’re wrong, or that they’re angry with you. And what you said before, about changing, for other people? You don’t have to do that.”
You nod glumly, another sad tear dripping from your chin. He pinches the wetness of off your face and cups both of your cheeks.
“You worry a lot, Y/N,” he says, lightly chiding.
You actually giggle at that, self-deprecating as you say, “God, I know.”
He beams. “And by the way? This is exactly the kind of thing you should tell me.”
His argumentative tone, playful but in earnest, has a spark reappearing in your eyes. “No, because,” — you smile sheepishly — “if you want to break up with me-“
“What?”
“- then you’ll think you can’t do it because I only have you.”
His brilliant smile tamps down a touch. He pushes his thumbs over your damp cheeks and sighs out of the corner of his mouth.
“We aren’t breaking up. Blaspheme like that again and I’ll cry. Ugly cry, and I’ll make you watch.”
“Please do, I won’t feel so embarrassed then.”
James’ hands follow down to your neck, where he laces his fingers behind the nape. “Do you feel better?” he asks.
You clear your throat. “Yeah, I do. Thank you, Jamie. You always know what to say.”
“The truth?” He kisses your cheek very quickly, a dive in and move out situation. “No thanks required, sweetheart,” he throws over his shoulder, eyes on the boiled kettle. He takes another look at you to reassure himself. You're tearstained and dishevelled.
Drunk!reader and rockstar!remus would be the most incredible thing. It would probably be insanely sweet and fluffy (like everything you write but just especially so):)
yes! fem!reader sorry he's barely a rockstar
"Sweetheart," you say, which is funny — hilarious — for a lot of reasons. The first, sober you won't often call Remus anything so nice. You're too shy for it. The second, you're slurring your words more often than not.
Sweetheart becomes 'sweethea', no r's or t's.
He opens his arm encouragingly and you walk into him, smelling of your lovely perfume and and the unmistakable kick of tequila.
Arm protectively slung over your shoulder, Remus tilts his head back to get a good look at you. "Yes?" he asks warmly.
"I missed you."
He brings his second hand to your hair and starts to fix the mess of it as best as he can. His hands are gentle but stern. You stay very still. When he's done, he strokes the pad of a callused finger down your face. Your a thousand times softer than the grit of a guitar string. He does it again, just because he can.
"I missed you," he says, because of course he did.
You'd been ten seconds away on foot and had felt a half a mile. Maybe because you're especially pretty tonight. Maybe because he loves you. Whatever it is, the gap had felt like an impasse. He's glad to have you back.
And not a minute too soon. The other girlfriend's seem to have egged you on.
"What have you been upto?" he asks knowingly.
"Cocktails, mos'ly."
"I can see that."
Your eyes open wide as they can. You stagger a little toward him and he rights you easily against his front.
"You seem to have overshot it, lovely girl," he says with a chuckle.
"You think so?"
Remus nods sagely. Your nose wrinkles like you might sneeze. He has to kiss it, has to, legally.
Your face relaxes. For a moment, all you do is smile. Eyes lit with happiness under the fog of booze, cheeks appled and eyebrows slowly pinching inward like you're concerned. He aims to soothe your internal conflict with another kiss, this one propped up under you ear and lingering, hand at the small of your back. He tugs you in towards him until you've arched under his touch and burst into riotous giggles.
"Ticklish?" he asks, words vibrating.
"I think I'm gonna need you to kiss me for real," you plead.
"I think I'm gonna have to make you some toast before your blood turns to booze."
Hii! Could u perhaps write something with marauders friendship group x luna lovegood reader please? :)
I love this like... this could be an entire fic. i want three idiots obsessed with one idiot thank u for ur request! ♡ fem!reader
James isn't very surprised when you appear. Used to your quiet movements by now, he doesn't flinch as you sit down beside him with a soundless whoosh. Sirius, on the other hand and on your other side, flinches hard.
"Fuck, babe, can a guy get some warning?"
You turn to him with an adoring smile. "Sorry, Siri. I'm gonna sit down."
Remus snorts. James snickers behind his hand and reaches out to mess with your hair, which is in a mad disarray.
"You haven't been out in the wind, have you?" he asks worriedly, fishing a small leaf from the back of your head.
"You'll catch your death," Remus reprimands.
"Or hypothermia," James adds.
Remus rolls his eyes and dog ears a page in his book before setting it aside. "What did you find?"
You push a hand deep into your pocket and pull out a tattered piece of toilet roll. You unspool it to reveal a shiny purple beetle.
Sirius stands and walks away. James peeks over your shoulder curiously.
"Is it alive?"
"No," you say, sounding maybe a little bit sad. "I was going to try pinning it, now that it's passed. It has very pretty wings when they're spread. It's called a Judas Beetle."
You close your hand suddenly around the beetle and sneeze, a fit of them. When you're done you tear off a small piece of the beetle toilet paper and wipe your nose.
James frowns and curls a hand over your shoulder protectively. He hates when you go out in the cold. You have no gauge of temperature, or if you do it doesn't bother you until it's too late.
"You've made yourself ill," he says.
"Or I'm allergic to the beetle."
"Definitely the second one," Sirius says from the door. He keeps his distance, but his concern is obvious. "You couldn't have worn a coat?"
You sink into James' grip, like a puppy sometimes with how much you like affection. He indulges you by rubbing your shoulder. Now that he's looking at you this close, you look rather under the weather. Glassy eyes, dry lips.
"James," you begin.
"What?"
"You smell like roses."
He looks at the other two smugly. "Rosewater in my hair. Wanna smell?"
You lift your head and smell his hair. "That's nice. Will you put it in my hair?"
"Sure will. Remus, come take over on cuddle duties."
Remus swaps with James. He has no qualms about being so close to you, wrapping an arm around your neck to squeeze you against him.
When James returns you've sunk into the settee and acquired a water bottle. Sirius sits near but not touching you, stating he doesn't want any mysterious illnesses or bugs to transfer. Still, he watches you out of the corner of his eye, and James knows it's his water bottle in your lap.
James sprays rosewater into your hair, listening to you babble about bugs though it's all lost to Remus' sleeve.
if you’re okay with it, could you please write some extrovert bf james and introvert gf at a party and she’s feelin a bit awkward n out of place because she doesn’t know most of the people there? 🥰🥰
him
"I don't know anybody, Jamie," you say at your usual quiet volume.
James ducks down so his ear is at your mouth. "Say it again, pretty girl."
You flush and pick at the hem of your shirt. You can't look at him as you repeat yourself.
"I don't know anyone here."
He pouts as if to say, that's fair.
"Well, you know me," he says.
His face is quickly transformed by a soft grin, his features lit up. You bring your hand to his cheek and stroke the side of his nose with your thumb before remembering yourself and where you are.
He softens further. "I'm not going anywhere, okay?"
"Liar."
"I'm not!"
You're quiet with a guilty feeling heavy on your chest. Maybe you should encourage him to go talk to people, have fun. God knows you're not any at these parties, too awkward and, honestly, slightly afraid. People make you nervous.
"What's that look?" he asks.
"What look?"
"That look, that depressed, sullen number."
"Sullen," you repeat. "Are you saying I look ugly?"
He starts to laugh and takes your face into his big, hot hands, fingertips at the corners of your eyes.
"I'm not sad," you protest. You lose the heat you'd felt and let your eyes fall to his chest. "Sorry, I know I'm being awkward."
"You're not being awkward. You feel awkward and that's expected. Like you said, you don't know these people. I didn't come here with any preconception, or even any desire that you would suddenly not be a wallflower, babe."
You press your lips together in a reluctant smile and look at his sun-kissed face from under your lashes.
"Thanks."
"For what?" he asks, though he definitely knows. Another generosity.
He presses a smacking kiss to each cheek and drops his hands to your neck.
"Guess who just walked in?" he asks, gazing over your shoulder.
"Is it-" you begin, still giggling from his kisses.
"Remus!" He calls loudly over the din. "My boy! Come here and say hi to me and my pretty girlfriend."
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