J.W.W.

I write stuff sometimes. Smut 4 life. J|31|CA

[weasleywinchester]

WeasleyWinchester Fic Master List

Hey Fam, I'm tired of having to look for my stuff so I can link chapters to each other so here's a master list

And small overview of my writing: I tend to write long chapters, a good deal of smut and fluff, with the occasional angst because I apparently like to make myself suffer (and I can’t do that alone, so you suffer too). Also 99.9% of my stuff is Female, Plus Size reader insert. If it’s anything else I mention in at the beginning of each story :) (Loki and Sully so far is the only gender neutral ones I have)

*most of these will have multiple chapters that I’m still working on! (I've highlighted them in blue) If you want to be tagged in anything let me know 💙

Supernatural

Dean Winchester

Save Yourself (currently written 19/25)

He Didn’t Dump Me (featuring Crowley)

Sam Winchester

Lock the Damn Door!

Marvel

Bucky Barnes

The Way You Look Tonight Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Baron Helmut Zemo

The Way You Look Tonight Part 2

Loki

Can I keep Him?

Steven Grant/ Marc Spector

Any Way You Want It

Triple Frontier

Franki

You & Me - Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 Where the Rivers Meet

Santi

How Did You Know My Ass Would Need Saving?

Tom

Unless I'm Allowed Dessert

Star Wars

Din Dijarin

A Different Kind of Bounty (smut)

Strangers - Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3

Ladies, Please (feat. Fennec & Boba)

Cassian Andor

It's A Low Number

Hot Blood (love is gunna get ya) - sex pollen

Poe Dameron

Don’t Tell Anyone! Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The Last Of Us

Joel Miller

I Can’t Help Myself - Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Malicious Mean and Scary? - smut

Top Gun

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw

Slow Motion - Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch.4 | Ch.5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9

I Ain't Worried - Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3

Robert "BOB" Floyd

I Ain't Worried - Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

I Ain't Worried - Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3

Stranger Things

Eddie Munson

Highway to Hell(fire) - Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5

Sherlock

Greg Lestrade

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2

We Can Be Hero's

Marcus Moreno

Not A Shrine

Winx

Saul Silva

Begin Again - Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3

Uncharted

Sully

I Got You Baby

[aesthetically-dying101]

A pastry a day keeps the salaryman bricked up.

A/N: we love a good old Nanami x baker reader. Its a classic. pls enjoy me kissing the brick before i launch it on saturday

warnings: long. pls give this a chance. smut, PROTECTED smut. slight violence. nanami being... whipped (like whipped cream haha)

There are many things Nanami Kento considers beneath him.

Reality TV. Polyester suits. Gojo Satoru’s entire existence.

Fantasizing about the local baker with the soft arms and the flour-dusted apron?

He wishes that were beneath him.

Unfortunately for him (and fortunately for you), he is a very, very weak man.

*-*

To the average pedestrian, Nanami is an unshakeable pillar of calm.

A man of beige suits and exact timekeeping, eyes like wet ash and a jawline you could dice shallots on. He walks like his spine has never known a slouch. He counts his steps. Breathes in a rhythm. Lives by the ticking of his watch.

He is also, tragically, so far gone for the woman at the corner bakery that he once rescheduled a grade one exorcism because he heard she was testing a new tart recipe.

And you. You’re the problem:

You make pastries like you’re possessed.

Not in a demonic way, though Nanami has considered exorcism as a means of freeing himself from the maddening pull of your whipped cream chantilly and fat little jam-filled beignets.

No, it’s more like—like some unholy mix of talent, divinity, and a deep, sexy knowledge of butter temperatures. You’re too good at what you do. That’s the problem.

You, with your flour-dusted apron, laughing behind the counter with a voice that bubbles like sugar in a pan. You, with your absurdly perfect pastries and your cat. You, who once gave him a free canelé and called him “Mr. Cool Office Guy” with a wink and a grin, and now he hears phantom giggles every time he closes his eyes.

He’s going insane.

He is certain of it.

*-*

The bakery does not need to be this good.

The quiche is illegal. The kouign-amann is weaponized. The “Chairman Meow” bun (a puffy cinnamon roll in the shape of a cat paw, with little sugar-glazed claws) is objectively humiliating for a grown man to buy—especially when he buys two and pretends one is for a friend.

(Lie. Nanami Kento has no friends.)

He tells himself he likes the bakery because the food is good. He’s a practical man. It is close to the office. It is on the way. He is a man of logic, taste, discipline.

Except he also somehow knows the exact week you change your seasonal menu. And the song you always hum when you think no one’s listening. And that you studied pâtisserie in some sleepy town in the south of France that smells like sea salt and burnt sugar, and he knows this not because you told him, but because he stalked your Instagram all the way back to 2014 at 2:12 AM on a Tuesday like a man unhinged.

It’s not his fault you were semi-Instagram famous before you moved to Japan. It’s not his fault your pastries could be considered legally erotic. It’s not his fault your smile could kill a man.

He hates himself. He’s back again the next day anyway.

*-*

Nanami is fully convinced he’s being normal. Entirely neutral. Chill, even.

This is a lie. He tells himself he’s only here for a snack.

He lies. He lies like a dog. A bald-faced sinner.

*-*

The worst part is that he tries to be normal. He tries, God bless him.

Every day he walks in with all the confidence of a man about to negotiate international trade sanctions, and every day he ends up saying something like:

“Hello. One... cat paw... please. The edible one.”

Or worse:

“The raspberry tarts are... wet today. In a good way.”

Or worst of all:

“Is that your cat in the photo? The one in the chef’s hat? He looks like he wants to die... Same.”

He wants to take an expensive flight to France, suffer in the metro and lie face-down in the Seine.

He wants to die beneath the wheels of the bakery delivery van, crushed under boxes of éclairs.

He wants to gouge out the part of his brain that saw the photo of you and the cat—Chairman Meow, a furry war criminal dressed like Paul Hollywood—and thought, God, I wish I was that cat.

He knows where you live. Not technically in a creepy way—he just happened to notice the address on the back of a flyer once, and then happened to walk by, and then happened to notice your curtains were the same color as your bakery logo.

(He thinks about what your kitchen looks like. What your bed looks like. What you look like half-asleep, reaching for coffee in the morning. He thinks about you too much.)

*-*

You like him.

You don’t know why, because he’s a little stiff, a little strange, always looks like he’s trying not to panic when you talk to him—but there’s something about him.

Something sad. Something polite. Something funny, in that deadpan way where you’re not sure if he’s making a joke or confessing to murder.

Like today:

Today, you catch him staring at the strawberry shortcakes like they’ve personally wronged him.

“Rough day?” you chirp, sliding him a paper bag with his usual: one financier, one “Chairman Meow” paw, one espresso.

He blinks. He swallows. He looks at the paw like it contains a bomb.

“I wish I were this cat,” he mutters.

You blink back. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

He takes the bag and leaves like the bakery is on fire. You hear the tink of the bell as the door closes. You think maybe, possibly, hopefully... he’s just a little weird.

You like weird.

Oh yeah, you really like weird.

*-*

Nanami dreams about you.

He dreams about your fingers, dusted in powdered sugar, brushing his knuckles as you pass him a macaron. He dreams about your laugh, loud and full, head tossed back as you roll dough at midnight. He dreams about kissing you, bending you over the bakery counter, flour in your hair and his tie yanked off and your mouth tasting like vanilla and bad decisions.

He wakes up hard.

So... well: he goes to the bakery.

You give him a sample of a new custard bun and ask him if he thinks it’s too sweet. You lick some filling off your thumb. He almost dies on the spot.

You say, “You come here a lot, Mr. Office Guy. Don’t you get tired of sweets?”

He says, “Not when you make them.”

He wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge.

*-*

Gojo once caught Nanami lingering outside the bakery like a sad, sad man in slacks and asked him if he was trying to haunt the muffins.

Nanami told him to fuck off.

*-*

He doesn’t know what to do. He’s a grown man. He exorcises curses for a living. He has biceps and trauma and a skincare routine better than most idols.

And he is completely and utterly in love with the woman who sells him pastries shaped like paws.

He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself he’s not obsessed. He tells himself it’s just a little crush.

Meanwhile, he’s walking ten minutes out of the way just to catch a glimpse of your “Closed” sign flipping to “Open.”

He’s rewriting his schedule to match your bakery hours.

He’s memorized your handwriting from the little chalkboard menus.

He knows the name of your cat, your hometown, your favorite jam flavor, and the exact sound of your laugh.

He’s not obsessed.

He’s just... ...devoted.

That’s better. Right?

*-*

There are moments—brief, glimmering, morally ambiguous moments—when Nanami considers the possibility that you are evil.

Not in a tax fraud way, or a won't turn your phone brightness down in a movie theater way.

No.

He means Evil™. Arcane evil. Seductress evil. French rural witch evil.

You’ve been in his thoughts.

Scratch that. You are his thoughts. You’ve moved in, settled down, started paying rent with your soft smile and that little hm-hm-hm hum you do when icing eclairs. You haunt his brain like it’s a cozy Airbnb with complimentary brainworms.

Nanami is spiraling. Quietly. Elegantly. With grace.

You are, in his completely unbiased, sexually frustrated opinion, suspiciously good at making custard.

And that is, clearly, a red flag:

“There’s a possibility,” he murmurs over black coffee, “that she’s a low-grade curse user siphoning power through some kind of... hexed brioche.”

“Or,” says Gojo, from his crime against humanity of a bar stool, “you’re just in love with a hot baker and trying not to cum about it.”

Nanami chooses violence and walks away. But the seed is planted. And like everything around you—it fucking grows.

*-*

You're behind the counter, wiping down trays and humming some old chanson that sounds like longing dipped in honey, and Nanami is watching you through the tainted glass with the grim intensity of a war general studying enemy tactics.

He does not understand his feelings.

Therefore, you must be cursed.

It’s the only logical explanation, the most obvious one.

You: warm, soft, sweet like a madeleine soaked in brandy. Him: cold, tight, stressed, still has a goddamn Nokia from 2008 because “it functions.”

He looks at you, and his stomach twists. He thinks of biting. He thinks of holding. He thinks of what kind of jam you’d taste like and gets dizzy.

And so, his brain—bless its brittle, tax-paying, emotionally constipated structure—goes full fantasy-paranoia. He wonders again, very seriously:

“What if she’s some kind of low-level jujutsu sorcerer that bakes cursed confections to seduce men and drain their cursed energy through erotic pastries?”

(This is what happens when you don’t go to therapy.)

*-*

Nanami walks into the bakery like always that morning. Suave. Smooth. Suit pressed, tie aligned. All part of the ritual. He opens the door. The bell rings. The air smells like vanilla and sex and maybe nutmeg.

He thinks: maybe today will be normal.

HA.

Maybe today, goats will fly and whales will walk.

Because then he walks into your bakery, and the fucking vibes are off.

It’s not the usual good-off, like the time you accidentally put hot pepper flakes in the strawberry jam and called it “emotionally volatile confiture.”

No. This is curse-off.

Stale, crawling, leechy.

Nanami stiffens. Eyes narrow. His gaze immediately shifts—reflex, training, trauma—to the curse floating, slick and shadowy.

It’s leeching off your back like some ugly little leech goblin, gurgling like a clogged sink and pulsing with enough cursed energy to make his stomach twist. Small. Filthy. Leeching your warmth like a perverse little parasite.

It’s touching you.

And Nanami just. Stops.

“Ah,” you greet, beaming. “You're back! Try the cherry brioche today, it’s—”

He is not hearing you. He is staring. Hard. Jaw clenched. Because there is a fucking curse crawling up your spine and no one else can see it and what the fuck is the universe’s problem???

“You okay?” you ask, peering up at him with nothing but kindness in your gaze. “You’re… staring.”

Oh God. You’ve noticed. You’ve noticed he’s been staring. You probably think he’s checking you out. (He was last week, for the record. But not now. Now he’s being haunted in real time.)

He opens his mouth to lie. He’s good at lying. Emotionally guarded men always are.

But then— You blink. Lean in.

And say, soft and slow:

“...Can you see it too?”

HE IMMEDIATELY FREAKS THE FUCK OUT.

Nanami stares at you like you just slapped him with a baguette and whispered, “Surprise, I’m God.”

“What,” he says. Flat. A single syllable drenched in existential crisis. “What did you just say?”

You glance behind you, at nothing. The curse is wriggling happily like a tapeworm in heat.

“The thing,” you whisper. “The weird… sticky ghost-thing. Can you see it?”

He does not answer.

Instead, he vaults the goddamn counter like a gymnast in a Calvin Klein ad, yanks the blunt sword from his back, and slams it into the curse with enough force to shatter the air itself.

Because of course.

Of course he doesn’t hesitate. One clean strike and the curse explodes into black mist and bitter air, shrieking into the ether.

Silence. You’re shaking. So is the cat, who just witnessed a goddamn exorcism next to the espresso machine.

Because the thing popped like a cursed piñata.

Nanami straightens his tie. Sheathes the sword.

Silence.

Nanami straightens. Adjusts his tie. Eyes you carefully.

“...Why didn’t you get rid of it yourself?”

You blink. Still catching your breath.

“...Get rid of what?”

He gestures to the sizzling spiritual remnants in the air, still hissing faintly like microwave popcorn.

“The curse.”

You furrow your brows.

“Oh, is that what those are called? My grandma always said they were, like… spirits. Or, y’know, les esprits tordus—twisted souls. She said they couldn’t move on- or y’know, like in yokai stories? Or French folklore. You’re supposed to ignore them. That’s how you make them go away.”

Nanami looks like he just found out the sun is fake.

Nanami squints.

“And… you didn’t think that was concerning? You… you’ve just been ignoring them?”

You shrugged.

“Yeah? My grandma taught me how to like... sorta train my brain to not see them anymore. It’s like a game of ‘don’t perceive the demon writhing in the corner.’”

You grin like this is normal. He looks like he needs to sit down.

“Also,” you add, “who are you? Why do you have a sword? Are you, like, a priest? Or a demon hunter? Or… like that one anime- whats it called again- Oh yeah, Demon Hunters?”

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m a jujutsu sorcerer,” he mutters.

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It is.”

“That sounds fake.”

“I don’t have time to argue with you. I need to file a report- wait what did your grandmother say??”

“She said I could just ignore them. So I learned to do that. Like when someone tries to sell you MLM oils on Instagram.”

Nanami’s eye twitches. He is visibly malfunctioning.

“You’ve been seeing them your whole life?”

“Yeah, but it got way worse after I moved to Japan. It’s, like, super haunted here. No offense.”

Nanami has so many questions and exactly zero emotional bandwidth to process any of them.

“You’ve never trained? Been contacted? Approached by anyone in the jujutsu world?”

You blink. Again. Slowly, a small smile starting to play on your lips.

“The jujutsu what now?”

You laugh. You actually laugh. Nanami is… confused. Intrigued. Horny.

"I... I need to go. I need to write a report-"

“Fine, Mr. Sorcerer. But you owe me a pastry explanation. Like… what the hell was that sword? Why does it look like someone sewed a curtain onto a kitchen knife?”

“It’s my weapon.”

“Is it polka-dotted?”

“You’re deflecting.”

“You traumatized my cat.”

Chairman Meow meows in agreement. Divine retribution.

*-*

You wrap a raspberry tart in wax paper. Press it into Nanami’s palm.

“Here. Payment for curse removal. Come back after your… ‘sorcerer job.’ We’ll trade info. You bring me answers. I’ll bring you cake.”

Nanami, for a moment, just looks at the tart like it’s a sacred object.

He nods, curt and awkward, like this is a hostage negotiation.

“I’ll be back at 7:00. After work.”

“Cool,” you say, grinning. “Don’t get cursed.”

“That’s not how it works.”

You wink.

“Still sounds fake.”

He leaves, flustered. Walks directly into the door.

You giggle.

*-*

There is something deeply humiliating about hope.

And Nanami certified hater of modern life, is standing outside a closed bakery at 7:01 p.m., learning that lesson like a child burned by their first oven.

He stares at the “SORRY WE’RE CLOSED” sign like it insulted his mother.

The lights are off. The curtains are drawn. The air smells like cinnamon and delusion. The sun is low, casting long shadows like a noir film, and Nanami is—how do you say—tragically, dicklessly, emotionally unwell.

“I was stupid,” he mutters. To himself. To God. To no one. “She was being polite. A free tart does not mean she wants to know about my cursed technique. I'm a fucking idiot.”

He turns. Shoulders drooped. Soul crushed. Probably going to cry into his briefcase. He will go home, eat instant noodles in a three-piece suit like a divorced Victorian ghost, and pretend he doesn’t wish she’d called him back in.

But then—

“MR. WIZAAAARRDDDD!!”

His soul fucking leaves his body.

*-*

He turns around.

There you are, in the bakery’s side door, lit from behind by the golden glow of fairy lights and domestic divinity, waving like a lunatic and calling him “Mr. Wizard” like this is a fucking fantasy novel.

Nanami wants to die. He wants to live. He wants to kiss you on the mouth and then respectfully retreat into a volcano to process his feelings.

“That’s not—” he starts. “I’m not a wizard, I’m a sorcerer.”

“Okay, Gandalf.”

You gesture him over with a grin and a little shimmy of your hips that nearly sends him to hell. He’s so gone for you it’s offensive. Disgusting. Genuinely criminal.

He steps inside. You lock the door behind you. And then you take him through the bakery, past the ovens and cooling racks, through a small hallway…

..to the cutest fucking courtyard he has ever seen.

There's ivy. There's a teapot already steaming on a wrought iron table. There's a string of glowing fairy lights above.

Chairman Meow is lounging on a cushion like a loaf of divine judgment. And across the courtyard is your actual house, which is—fuck—a tiny, two-story cottage with blue shutters and window boxes full of marigolds.

Nanami is having a stroke.

“You live here?” he asks, stunned.

“What, you thought I slept under the bakery counter?”

“I—no—”

“Well. Sometimes naps happen there. But that’s different.”

You usher him to sit. Pour him tea. It smells like lemon balm and honey and sex and crime. There are also pastries. On dainty little plates.

You are the Devil.

This is a trap. And Nanami is walking directly into it with a boner and a prayer.

“So,” you say, settling in with a cookie and a gleam in your eye, “explain the sword thing. And the… curse stuff. What is a jutsutsu sorcerer? Is it a union job?”

Nanami sighs.

And launches into it. Like, really launches. He explains Jujutsu society. The school. The levels of curses. The dumbassery of Gojo Satoru. The politics. The existential dread. The constant dying.

You nod, fascinated.

Nanami explains. Slowly. Methodically. The same way he breaks down curse structures and enemy tactics in debriefs.

“Curses are born from negative emotions. Fear. Hate. Regret. They form in places where humans suffer.”

“Like... hospitals?”

“Or public bathrooms.”

You gasp.

“Do... do they have toilet curses?”

“Yes.”

"Ew."

"Exactly." He answers, as he awkwardly patting the cat, who's loaffed next to him like he’s never touched anything soft in his life.

You continue.

“Your weapon,” you say, pointing to the polka-dotted sheath. “Why does it look like an umbrella made by Comme des Garçons?”

“It’s a blunt sword. Wrapped in cursed cloth. I activate my technique through it—Ratio Technique.”

“Oh damn,” you mutter. “That sounds hot. What does it do?”

“It mathematically locates a critical point on the target’s body and strikes with guaranteed lethality.”

You blink.

“So you kill people with math.”

“Yes.” He answers, a bit flustered. "As I said, it regulates the ratio of cursed energy to physical force. I use a binding vow to—”

“You’re losing me- the hell is a binding vow?”

He sighs.

“It hits really hard.”

“Hot.”

Chairman Meow chooses this moment to march onto Nanami’s lap like a loaf of divine retribution. He kneads Nanami’s thigh once. Twice. Settles in. Stares up with narrowed, ancient eyes.

Nanami goes completely still.

“He likes you,” you say, sipping your tea like this isn’t war.

“He’s sitting on my tie.”

“Better than him pissing on it.”

Fair point.

*-*

You start talking about your grandmother. The jar lady.

How she would whisper to curses and coax them into tiny glass containers. How no one believed her. How you did. How you could see them, floating like black smoke, pulsing and ugly and weird. And how, when she died—every single one of those jars either shattered or were somehow emptied.

So you explain:

You tilt your head, watching the steam rise off your tea like you’re about to drop lore.

“My grandma used to collect jars,” you say. “Big ones. Old ones. She’d paint little symbols on the lids and store them in this attic no one was allowed to go in.”

Nanami nods, already deeply intrigued.

“Everyone thought she was just old and eccentric. Or maybe a hoarder. But I could see the curses inside. They’d scream sometimes. Look like shadows.”

“She had a technique,” Nanami mutters. “Some kind of seal? Storage-type? A domain fragment—Well it sounds like your grandmother had a cursed technique. One that created sealed areas—a type of containment field. Simple, but effective.””

“Yeah, I think she was trapping them. She said curses were like flies—useless unless you caught them and made them behave. After she died, all the jars were empty.”

“Her cursed energy must’ve dissipated.”

“And then I started seeing them everywhere.”

You both fall silent. The moment is... odd. Gentle. A little holy. You, surrounded by ivy and old ghosts. Him, sword-saint of salarymen, sitting with sugar on his fingers and a cat making biscuits on his thigh.

You talk for hours.

Chairman Meow sleeps on Nanami’s lap. You refill his tea. He eats three pastries and tries not to moan about it.

He wants to kiss you. He wants to kiss you so bad he feels it in his knees.

Instead, he finishes his tea. Adjusts his tie. And stands.

“I should go. I have an early mission.”

You walk him to the edge of the courtyard.

“Thanks,” you say, softly, “for not thinking I’m crazy.”

“You’re not crazy,” Nanami says. “You’re… terrifyingly competent.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You hand him a little box.

Inside: a cookie shaped like his sword (made that morning- after the curse incident). And a card.

On the card: your number. With a heart next to it.

He looks up.

You grin.

“Just in case you wanna teach me more wizard stuff.”

“Sorcerer.”

“Sure, Tinkerbell.”

“Don’t text after 10:00 PM,” he mutters. “I turn my phone off.”

“Noted. Grandpa.”

“I’m thirty-five.”

“That’s so hot.”

He leaves. Still has raspberry jam on his collar. Doesn’t notice until he’s halfway home.

He leaves, heart hammering. Whole body warm. Soul restored. It’s the best night he’s had in years.

*-*

You didn’t expect Nanami to be a frequent texter. You also didn’t expect him to be weirdly fucking good at sending memes. Not good in the conventional sense.

Anyway. The point is: you see him. A lot. Over three weeks, in fact.

Sometimes he shows up after your shift and you sit in the courtyard, drinking whatever the hell tea you felt like brewing, while Chairman Meow does laps around Nanami’s shoes like he’s trying to possess them.

Sometimes you get lunch with him (which is absurdly illegal-feeling; Nanami in daylight? Nanami not in a suit? Nanami with his tie tucked into his shirt like he’s just a guy and not The Sexual Apocalypse incarnate? please call the authorities.)

And every time, you learn something new.

“So Gojo,” you ask once, chewing through an almond croissant like it’s laced with heroin, “he’s... like, strong?”

Nanami sighs like you just asked him to describe the ocean using only corporate buzzwords.

“He’s the most powerful jujutsu sorcerer alive. Technically. He’s also an idiot.”

“Like dumb-hot or hot-dumb?”

“Both. And worse.”

You nod.

“So his power is just… infinity? Like math??”

“He manipulates space.”

“So physics math.”

*-*

You learn about cursed energy. About how most people don’t even know what it is. How kids get scouted from early age if they show signs. About the schools. The missions. The deaths.

“And you’re... like a salaryman by choice?”

“It was either that or therapy.”

*-*

He tells you about cursed techniques over butter cookies. About his Ratio Technique. About how math—math—can be his weapon.

You tell him more about the jars.

“I don’t really remember what happened. It was like... my grandmaa's hands just knew what to do.”

“That’s how most techniques manifest,” he murmurs. “Under stress. Instinctive. Primal.”

You don’t say it, but you do think about the way he says primal. And you try not to look at his hands.

You fail.

*-*

It’s 10:37PM when you call. You expect to leave a voicemail.

Instead—

“Hello?”

Nanami’s voice is low. Sleepy. Suspiciously naked-sounding.

“OHMYGOD YOU PICKED UP—HI—SORRY—BUT—I—OKAY—LISTEN—”

“You’re speaking like Gojo. Are you hurt?”

“No! No no. I caught a demon.”

“...I’m sorry?”

“Like a little creepy guy! Kinda cute actually! It jumped at me and now it’s in a jar.”

Silence.

Then:

“...I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

*-*

When he arrives at the park near your bakery, he’s in... a half-suit. Not half-assed. Literally half.

He’s wearing slacks. A belt. His button-up is halfway done and his tie is in his teeth. He looks deranged. He looks like sex and taxes. He looks like he’s ten seconds from either fighting god or proposing to you.

“Where,” he pants, “is the curse.”

You gesture proudly to a large glass jug on the ground beside you. It’s about knee-high. Some sort of old-timey wine demijohn, the kind people repurpose for Pinterest DIYs.

Except inside this one?

There’s a fucking curse. Squirming like a pissed off eel in a blender. A little smoky bastard with limbs and hatred and a tendency to hiss like a tea kettle.

“See?” you basically cackle in glee.

Nanami squats. Touches the glass.

“It’s sealed,” he mutters. “This is—this is your cursed technique?”

“I mean, I guess?? I wasn’t really trying. It just—happened. I was leaving my friend’s place and it lunged at me and I panicked and wanted it gone and then it was in the jug and my hands were glowing and I—”

“Why didn’t you just run?”

“I was holding cheesecake.” You answer as you lift a very small pastry box.

Nanami makes a face like he’s not sure whether to fuck you or shake you.

“You risked your life for cheesecake.”

“It was Basque-style.”

He closes his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose. You can hear him whispering to himself:

“This is fine. This is okay. I can work with this. She’s only mildly suicidal.”

*-*

He carries the jug. One-handed. Like a man. Like a gentleman. His shirt flaps in the wind. You want to unbutton the rest. With your teeth.

You get back to your place, usher him inside, put the jug on the floor of your kitchen like it’s your new haunted roommate. The curse growls. You put it next to the trash. It screams. Chairman Meow hisses.

“So,” you say, hands on hips, “what now?”

“Now,” Nanami says, stepping close, “I file a report with the higher-ups, notify the jujutsu authorities, and work to classify your cursed technique as—”

You kiss him.

Because what else are you supposed to do? He’s been sexy and stressed and saving your life for weeks. He brought a tie to a park at 10PM and held your ghost jug like a prince cradling a cursed baby.

You kiss him, and he kisses back like he means it.

Hands on your waist. One in your hair. The kind of kiss that’s definitely inappropriate in front of a cursed creature and a cat.

“You’re trouble,” he breathes, biting your lip.

“You’re the one in half a suit, sexy wizard.”

“Sorcerer.”

“Yeah, yeah. Call me later, Gandalf.”

You’re giggling. He’s hard. You pull him into your kitchen. You climb up on the counter. He groans when you pull at his belt.

“This is reckless,” he mutters, voice shaking.

“This is hot.”

“There’s a demon in a jug watching us.”

“It’s called ‘audience participation.’”

You make out. You grind. There’s groping and panting and a very clear moment where Nanami moans into your neck and Chairman Meow leaps off the counter in disgust.

It’s beautiful. It’s filthy. It smells like vanilla extract and lust.

And.. well. You know it’s going to happen the moment Nanami moans.

Not just any moan, either.

Not your run-of-the-mill "mmm yeah babe" porno crap, no. This is a low, wrecked, real noise—the kind that’s half-strangled behind clenched teeth and a button-down that’s two stressors away from bursting at the seams.

A sound so honest it makes your thighs twitch and your brain sizzle like oil in a pan.

And then—

“We’re not doing this in front of the curse,” he growls, tugging your legs apart like he's Moses and your thighs are the Red Sea.

“I mean, it’s in a jar?”

“And the cat.”

“...Okay, yeah. Chairman Meow is a baby.”

(He's not. He's like 30 in cat years.)

“Exactly.”

Then he picks you up.

PICKS YOU UP.

Like you're weightless. Like you’re nothing but a feathered dream in his arms. Like your chubby little bakery thighs aren’t full of croissant and bad decisions and emotional instability.

“Bedroom,” he says, lips brushing your ear like a threat. “Now.”

His arms are so strong it’s not even sexy anymore, it’s just disrespectful. You’re clinging to him like a slutty little koala, getting carried bridal style past the ghost jar and Chairman Meow (who squints at Nanami like he’s judging his tax returns), and you're being deposited—gently, reverently—onto your bed.

And then his hands are on you again.

Gliding. Grabbing. Ghosting under your shirt with purpose and precision, like he’s been fantasizing about this since the moment you offered him a butter tart months ago and said, "I made this with love. And a little bit of rage."

The sex?

Oh, well... just average...

WRONG!!!

He lowers himself to your thighs after stripping you like you were something holy and—because yes, he is a gentleman, a scholar, and a man who understands that foreplay is the syllabus of romance—he eats you out like he’s auditioning for a Michelin star in cunnilingus.

And ohhhh my god. He knows. He fucking knows.

He goes down on you like a man on a mission. Like he’s trying to collect all your moans and put them in a jar next to your curse. Like he wants to taste everything and ruin your life in the process.

Every movement precise. Every lick, suck, press, curl of his tongue calculated for maximum chaos and orgasmic destruction.

He is methodical. He is cruel. He is tender. He is earth-shattering.

You arch like a cat possessed. His hands grip your hips, your thighs, your ass. You are trembling, quivering, dripping like a melted sugar sculpture.

His tongue is demonic. Not in a literal sense (to be fair, it might), but in the sense that you would absolutely sell your soul to it.

He finds your clit like a GPS-enabled delivery driver. He moans into you. He fucking moans into you.

His lips wrap around you like you're the holy grail and he’s been dying of thirst for decades. You swear you see God. Or maybe Gojo. Terrifying either way.

“Jesus CHRIST, Kento—”

“I’m not done.”

A loooonnggg lick, his thumb finds your clit.

“Oh my God—okay, okay, yeah—okay—fuck.”

He doesn’t stop until your legs shake. Until you grab the sheets like they owe you money. Until your voice cracks like a fucking opera soprano and your soul does a somersault into the stratosphere.

Then he kisses up your belly like the romantic menace he is.

“Was that okay?” he asks, lips slick with your essence.

“Okay?” you croak, tears in your eyes. “I just saw my own funeral.”

You hand him the lube (because you just can SENSE this man's girth). It’s vanilla scented. It’s all you had.

He laughs.

He laughs. A quiet, hot chuckle that rumbles through his chest and goes straight to your neglected, begging pussy.

“Of course it’s vanilla,” he smirks, opening the cap. “Sweet.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“It fits you.”

“I am a WHORE, sorcerer sir.”

“You’re adorable.”

He pulls one out of his wallet like a gentleman.

“You don’t need to—”

“I want to. I trust you. But I like being safe. It’s... important.”

STOP IT RIGHT NOW. A man? Respecting you? Checking in? Not trying to rawdog your future against your will?

You nearly marry him on the spot.

You see IT.

You blink. You see it again. OH. OH.

Let’s talk about the cock.

This is no ordinary cock. This is a career-focused, exorcising demons, salaryman-of-your-dreams cock.

Sensational. Groundbreaking. Like an early morning earthquake in the best way. Thick, hard, precise. The kind of thing that makes you forget how to think, makes you forget your own name, makes you absolutely devoted in a way that is borderline illegal.

We’re talking commanding. Regal. A fucking Excalibur of a dick. Thick, weighty, veiny in a way that’s both artistic and slightly threatening.

He rolls the condom over his cock like he’s conducting a sacred ritual. You literally think you might cry from how responsible and fucking sexy this man is.

He slides in slow. Too slow. He holds eye contact the entire time.

“There we go,” he breathes, forehead to yours, voice low and strained. “You feel perfect.”

You do. You feel full. Like a pastry cream pipe got shoved in you and God said, “LET THERE BE SIN.”

And then he fucks you. Slow and deep at first. Then faster. Like he’s trying to rearrange your internal organs into a pie chart that says, “NANAMI KENTO OWNS THIS PUSSY.”

His hands roam. Everywhere. Ass, tits, back, hair. He doesn’t miss a spot. He slams into you in a rhythm that is both brutal and tender. Each thrust a lesson in patience, control, and pure filthy love.

You’re a mess. He’s panting. The bedframe is squeaking.

“Is that good?” he murmurs.

“Yes—fuck—yesyesyes, oh my God—”

“That’s it,” he growls, grabbing your hips like a man possessed.

You come again. Harder this time. So much harder. There are tears.

He follows right after, cursing under his breath, fucking you through it like he’s trying to tattoo your guts with his cock.

You lie there. Sweaty. Destroyed. And so, so loved.

He kisses your collarbone. Your cheek. Your lips. Your heart.

“I like you,” he says, hoarse.

“Yeah,” you breathe, giggling, “I noticed. You ate me like a starving man.”

“You taste better than anything you bake.”

“Shut up. You’re obsessed.”

And outside, in the kitchen, the curse jar sits silently. Still glowing. Maybe a little traumatized... it trembles, possibly jealous.

Chairman Meow licks his paw and looks away. He’s seen worse.

A/N: okay so this was fun. hope you enjoyed:) tomorrow, will be VERY special so i'll post smth extra special.

Masterlist.

:)

[weasleywinchester]

This was so sweet and yummy 🫠

[luv-alwyz]

lonely sunday friend | e.m.

✶⋆.˚ WC:13.4k!!

✶⋆.˚ CW: 18+ for my whole blog!!! miscommunication trope for the win, bad thoughts justifying bad thoughts, 1 (one) use of y/n, explicit, f!reader, p in v, oral (f!receiving), dirty talk — student!eddie munson x tutor!reader, modern au, just read it's ok

✶⋆.˚ song: Sunday - Sonic Youth

dividers by @bhavihelps !

It was learned early that in your hometown, quiet is mistaken for obedience — for politeness, for a good girl who knows her place. So, you let everyone think that. It made life easier. 

Teachers liked you. Adults praised your “maturity.” Classmates forgot you existed until they needed notes.

You learned how to be useful without being seen. How to sit still long enough that no one wondered what you were thinking.

College is supposed to be the reward for that. A small community college, still stuck in Indiana, isn’t the dream, but it is a stepping stone. A place you endure so you can get to somewhere else, somewhere bigger, somewhere that doesn’t smell like diesel exhaust and stale cigarette smoke baked into winter coats. 

On campus, you keep your head down. You sit in the front row not because you’re eager, but because participation points are an easy win. You raise your hand when required, speak clearly, never linger. You don’t go out on the weekends, don’t drink unless it’s strategic, and when asked about yourself you always shorten the story.

These are the guardrails. This is how Indiana becomes a footnote.

When you applied for the tutoring job it wasn’t about altruism, but about stability. Money. Control. Clear expectations, clean delivery. Help, get paid, move on. No room for error, no place for attachment.

The tutoring center clock ticks too loud, each tok sharp. The vending machine hums constantly, a low mechanical whine that feels like it's taunting you.

You’ve been waiting for twenty-two minutes exactly. 

Your planner, color-coded to perfection, lies open beside your cooling coffee. Your pen remains capped and resting parallel to the spiral. You refuse to waste ink on lost causes. 

If he doesn’t walk through the glass doors in the next three minutes, you’ll email the coordinator and request reassignment. The money helps — a decent apartment, coffee every other day — but it isn’t worth this. You can already feel irritation flexing between your shoulder blades, settling there like a brace.

You bend to grab your bag when the door crashes open.

Your new (and late) student stumbles in like he’s taken a wrong turn into the wrong life. 

Eddie Munson. A cigarette tucked behind his right ear, silver jewelry catching the light in the other.. His long, dark curls windtossed, jacket half-zipped, and a tattered bookbag hanging from one shoulder like an afterthought — which, given his timing, tracks.  

He freezes when he sees you. 

You're already standing straight. Neat. Perfectly oversized cardigan over a plain tshirt, posture precise, expression sharp enough to stop his smirk dead.

“You’re twenty-three minutes late,” you say.

He blinks then checks the clock like it might argue for him. “Good to know you keep score.”

He grins.

It hits a nerve immediately. You’ve seen this grin before — boys taught they can charm their way through gaps where effort should be.

“Sit,” you say, adjusting the chair with a sharp tug. “Open your laptop, let’s not waste anymore time.”

“The subject can count, yet hasn’t mastered manners,” he chuckles at his own words, an obvious attempt at friendly banter. Unsuccessful. 

“Niceties are for people who show up on time.”

That earns a low laugh you don’t understand. He drags the chair closer, choosing to sit beside you instead of across, the metal legs screeching against the floor. He drops an ancient laptop on the table. It looks like it's just barely survived a tornado — band stickers lifted at the edges and scratches clouding the logo.

“So,” he says, flipping it open, “you read my draft?”

You were warned about him by the coordinator. The gist was: anymore missed points and he’ll be dropped from the class, which will domino through the rest of his credits. However, the boy sitting next to you doesn’t carry himself like someone on the last rung of anything. He’s loose, limbs sprawled, one knee bouncing under the table.

“Skimmed it,”

“Pretty shit, huh?”

You pause. “Not the worst.”

His grin widens — crooked canines, confidence that looks practiced. The kind you can imagine being rehearsed in a mirror, layered over something less steady. He slides the laptop with his writing pulled up over to you, knocking your coffee cup lightly off-center. You’d brought a printed copy, red pen ready to edit any mistakes, but this works too.

He taps a chewed pen against the table, a clumsy rhythm that works directly on your nerves. When you glance at his hand, he catches it and stops.

“So,” he leans back in the chair, “what’s your deal?”

You don’t answer. You keep your eyes on the screen, jaw set, fingers already going to correct a sentence.

“You from around here?” he tries again. “Indiana?”

“Yup.”

“Hawkins,” he says, jerking a thumb at himself. 

You look up despite yourself. “Seriously?” 

You’d heard of Hawkins — something about a huge mall fire, an earthquake. It was a big deal for a second, but, like with most things, people moved on quickly.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “Figured I’d see how far I could get.” 

You give a noncommittal hum. “Small world,” 

You decide not to unpack the self-deprecation tucked inside his words. You’re not equipped for a sudden overshare, and, really, you don’t intend to be.

Thirty-five minutes later — after explaining, carefully, why an academic essay can’t be written the way he texts — the time is up. He’s impossible. Late, unorganized, sloppy. Everything you have no patience for, everything you’ve tried hard to avoid. 

And yet—

“Same time next week.” you hear yourself say.

The words surprise you as much as they do him.

He smiles lazily, something like relief flickering through it before he masks it again. “Wouldn’t dream of missin’ it.”

——

The second time you meet, he’s only five minutes late — which, technically is an improvement.

You’re seated at your usual table, laptop open, notebook aligned with the edge. You’re mid-sentence in your notes when the door to the private study room bangs open and Eddie barrels in, holding two paper coffee cups, his bag, and a bent notebook tucked under his arm.  Rain clings to him — darkening the shoulders of his sweatshirt, curling his hair looser towards the ends. He smells like wet pavement and ozone, sharp and electric, like the storm followed him inside.

He carefully sets one of the cups beside your laptop. His sleeves brushes the corner of your keyboard, leaving water droplets behind.

“Peace offering,” he says, knudging it an inch closer with a ringed finger. “It’s probably awful, but…” 

You stare at the cup like it’s a live grenade. Your fingers hover, then retreat. “Uhm, thanks. I could’ve just gotten one myself,”

“Yeah,” he says easily, dropping into the chair beside you. “Well, maybe it’s a bit of a bribe. Y’know, I bring you shitty coffee, you don’t quit on me before midterms,”

He grins, but there’s something underneath it, thin and weak — a pause, a flick of his eyes to your face. Desperation, if you’re paying close enough attention.

“Right,” you grab the cup and set it aside, “well, this doesn’t erase your tardiness.”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning back, hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. “But it softens the blow, doesn’t it?”

You hate that it does.

——

“Are you even listening?” you ask. 

You don’t look up right away, you don’t need to. You already know the answer.

The session has barely made it twenty minutes before Eddie’s attention thins and slips away. You were mid-explanation — something about active versus passive voice — when his pen slowed, hesitated, then wandered. Now his notebook is angled just enough for you to see it: his bullet points tapering off into empty space, the margins overtaken by tight, coiling doodles. Repeated shapes.

Pretty, if they weren’t being made while you spoke.

“Sorry, uh—” he stalls. The chewed end of his pen taps against the table. Once. Twice. “You were saying something about… commas a-and —” he winces, lips pulling tight before he exhales. “Shit, sorry, honey. Y’caught me.” 

He leans back in his chair, hands lifted in mock surrender. The chair creaks under him and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he says, quieter than expected.

He drops his gaze back to the page and starts writing again — harder than necessary, pen digging into the paper.

Something about the shift makes you pause. It’s the first time he doesn’t rush to fill the silence. No joke, no crooked grin to soften the moment. Just the scratch of ink and the hum of the A/C unit pumping air into the small study room.

You glance at him while he’s looking away.. 

There are dark half-moons under his eyes, jaw working as he chews the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit you’ve, annoyingly, cataloged. His leg bounces under the table — constant, restless, only stopping when he realizes you’re looking. It stills immediately, like a reflex.

By the time the hour’s up, your coffee’s gone cold and you’ve only gotten through the first few paragraphs. Eddie slings his bag over his shoulder, the strap catching briefly on the chair. He frees it with a tug and gives you that grin again, smaller this time.

“Same time next week?”

You hesitate before nodding. “Same time,”

Late at night, in your tiny apartment — sparse but intentional; books stacked neatly, clothes folded with care, desk always cleared before you go to sleep — when campus quiets and thoughts drone on, you tell yourself you’re content, that independence is strength. 

But sometimes,in the stretch between turning off the lamp and actually sleeping, you wonder what it might feel like to find that spark people talk about. The one you’re supposedly supposed to want.

You don’t let yourself linger there. You shut it down the same way you’ve been doing to the thoughts of him.

The ones that surface when you walk across the small campus with your headphones in. When you sit through another lecture full of half-listening students. When you pass the campus coffee shop and smell burnt coffee — cheap, watery, always too sweet — exactly like the cups Eddie keeps bringing you. 

You tell yourself it’s simply because you hate inefficiency. Because these tutoring sessions are a waste of your time. Because this kid, Eddie Munson, represents the very thing you’ve spent your life outrunning: small-town mediocrity wrapped in false charm and poor decision-making.

He’s from a place like you, maybe worse. 

You know the types — the people who never leave, who get comfortable under fluorescent lights and the fat thumbs of part-time job managers. Who spout ideas of escaping but never actually make it past the state line. 

You’re not cruel. Arrogant, maybe — but, you’re not ashamed of it. While others complained, you calculated and you tell yourself that makes you different, better.

So when Eddie lingers in your mind, it confuses you, which curdles quick into anger. 

Because he shouldn’t. You’ve known each other barely a month. He’s the smoke you’ve spent a long time walking through without breathing in.

 And yet.

You find yourself editing your words to have less of a bite, looking forward to the bitter coffees he brings you, noticing the difference in smiles — dimples = genuine. You hate it, you hate that you notice it all.

You hate that you care.

You read the same sentence in your textbook three times before realizing not a single word has made it through.

——

Eddie’s always been easy to pacify if his hands are busy.

Now, one of them holds a joint that needs to be relit, the other flicking a lighter open and closed as Robin talks in her corner of the couch — something about her girlfriend being allergic to… something. He's lost the plot somewhere near the beginning.

He leans against the arm of the couch he found on the side of the street. The leather still smells faintly of old paper and dust and someone else’s life.

Robin talks like the silence may swallow her whole. Eddie lets her. He lets most people be what they are.

Most people in Hawkins never offered him that kind of grace.

He was always too loud, too much. Had too many opinions and too much hair. Treated like he was bad before he could be anything else.. 

So, he leaned into it.

He learned how to laugh first, joke louder, punch harder when he had to. Learned how to wear defiance like his armor. It was easier than asking for understanding and hoping for mercy.

When Eddie got into college, it felt like a clerical error waiting to be corrected.

It terrifies him in a way isolation never did — not because it’s hard, but because it’s possible. Because, for the first time, failure would be his alone. No fucked-up town to blame, or high school bullies, or conspiratorial adults. So he skates by with minimal effort. 

He pretends not to care. At least then, if he fails, the story stays intact.

By the time he comes to your apartment, you’ve been meeting long enough that it feels risky.

Your place isn’t big. It’s barely more than a living room stitched to a kitchen, but it’s yours — or, at least, what tutoring and hours spent at the library desk can afford. Clean without being sterile, decorated without trying too hard, muted colors, bookshelves organized by subject, and a single plant on the windowsill.

Eddie pauses just inside the doorway.

The guitar case slung over one shoulder, the strap cutting diagonally across his chest — pulling his band tee tight, emphasizing his pecs in a way that anyone with two eyes would notice... He shifts his weight, boots thudding loud against the hardwood. 

“Wow,” he says, low and impressed. “You live like… a real adult.” 

He bends down and flips open the random art book lying on your coffee table, fingers toying with the glossy pages.

You lock the door behind him and immediately regret it. Your eyes drop to his boots — scuffed soles, dried mud caught in the tread — and you can’t help but wince at the faint trail of dirt near the threshold.

He follows your eyes.

“Shit, sorry.” He’s already crouching and slipping them off. He sets them neatly by the door, lining them up near your own, glancing up at you like he’s waiting for your approval.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry we have to meet at my place of residence. I understand this is unprofessional, but I can assure you, this is strictly business.”

The words tumble out of your mouth way too fast. You’re standing stiffly in the middle of the room, socked feet tucked into the plush circle rug, arms pinned stiffly at your sides while your fingers pick relentlessly at your cuticles.

Eddie takes it all in — the tension, the rigid posture, the faint line between your brows he’s come to recognize as I’m barely holding it together. Which is very similar to the face you make when he finds a new way to show you he’s an idiot.

“Uh, okay,” his hands come up slowly, palms out, like you’re a dog that’ll snap after one wrong move. “All good, sweetheart. Really. This is cool.” 

His gaze drifts around again, slower this time, to simply notice. 

“Feels very you.” 

You pause by the couch, spine still straight. 

He chuckles, already turning away, boney fingers grazing the spines of your books.

You scoff, no actual bite. “I’m ready to start whenever you’re done snooping.” 

He grins but backs off, dropping to sit cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table. You plop across from him.

The two of you work for a while, long enough for you to feel you’ve justified the session. Eddie asks questions, actually listens to your suggestions. You don’t correct him as sharply as you used to. The sky darkens, streetlights bleeding in through the blinds, amber lines. 

When his shoulder brushes yours as he leans in to read, neither of you move away. 

However, eventually, like always, Eddie gets bored.

Or curious.

Or restless.

He twists at the waist, reaching back toward the bin of vinyl records tucked beside the media console. His Deftones tee rides up as he stretches, long limbs all angles and buzzing with intent. A flash of skin, the flex of muscle sparks a match low in your belly.

Which means nothing.

“In a Sentimental Mood?”

You blink. “What?”

“Love Duke Ellington,” he says, lifting the record with care. His ringed fingers trace the blocky letters of Ellington and Coltrane’s names, reverent in a way you didn’t expect. 

It’s a shock to see such gentle touch from Eddie. You thought everything about the boy sitting on your carpet was firm, hardened by whatever makes him grip his pencil as tight as he does. You don’t quite like being wrong.

You hum. “Didn’t think jazz was your kind of music.”

“Oh, don’t you worry.” he smirks. “I kneel at the altar of Iron Maiden—”

“That’s definitely blasphemy—”

“But,” he continues, softer now, looking through thick lashes to meet your gaze, “everyone needs a little… softness.” 

His eyes, so sincere, so deep, so terrifying. He looks at you, really looks, as if he’s searching for something. It makes your stomach dip a little more than usual.

You shift under his gaze, suddenly aware of a truth you don’t like; you don’t know who you’re supposed to be for him.

“Right,” you mutter. “I just— I’ve never connected with metal. Or rock. Too,” you pause, “raucous.”

Eddie tilts his head, dark brows knitting the way they do if he’s confused during a session — his silent way of asking for help. 

“Loud?”

“Loud,” you confirm.

His lips press together as he nods, clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Silence is inevitable. You know this and you’ve grown to like it, when it’s yours.

“You play a lot?” you ask, nodding towards the guitar case by the door..

“Pretty much,” he says. “It’s kinda the one thing I’m consistently good at.” 

“That’s not true.”

He looks at you, eyebrows raised, grin crooked — no dimples. “Y’don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say nice things.” 

“Wha— I say nice things a-all the time…”

He holds your gaze. You feel the teasing slip away, replaced by something earnest and disarming. Eddie has a way of making you feel microscopic and as enormous at the same time. 

Heat creeps up your neck. 

“You’re right,” he says gently. “You’re real nice, Sweetheart.”

That word shouldn’t matter. Endearments have always been easy for him. You’ve been on their receiving end since the start of these tutoring sessions, but you filed it away as another tactic — like the eye contact, like the smiles. 

However, this time it makes something deep inside flip and twist. Your eyes widen a bit, and your palms get clammy. 

Fight or flight?

Flight.

“Why do you like music?” you blurt, getting up quick and already moving toward the kitchen. 

You start the coffee pot even though you know you’ll come to regret this when you’re lying restless in your bed. The bitter smell grounds you.

Eddie watches, amused by your sudden movement. “Uh… I guess I like the loud,” he says. “The… raucous.”

A breathy laugh escapes you before you can stop it. You turn just as he swivels to face you.

“I can literally feel you judging me. It’s comin’ in real hot.”

“I’m not,” you reply, setting your mug carefully on its rightful coaster. “I just— I don’t like it. It’s too aggressive.”

“That’s ‘cause you’ve only heard the yelling,” he says. “Not the why.”

You squint and tilt your head, “Enlighten me.”

He gestures towards his guitar. “It’s just… people bein’ honest about how bad shit can get. Y’know, i-it’s anger, yeah— but, it’s also grief. Fear. Wantin’ more than you were handed.”

You study him. “Poetic.”

“You’re bein’ sarcastic,” he says, with a knowing grin. “But it is.”

You exhale,a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Play me something,” you challenge. “Then we’ll see.”

Eddie laughs — his real laugh, dimpled and pitching high right at the end, then freezes. 

“Wait, you’re serious…?”

“Always.”

He grins, canines bared. “Okay. Corroded Coffin. The Hideout. Friday night.”

His brown eyes flick back to you, hopeful and dangerous.

“I’ll see you there…”

——

Eddie doesn’t linger. He never does.

He slings the guitar case back over his shoulder, slips his boots on by the door, and gives you a small, careful wave before he leaves — like he knows staying longer might crack something open neither of you knows how to handle yet.

The door clicks shut behind him and the apartment feels too quiet.

You stand there longer than necessary, coffee forgotten in your favorite mug, staring at the place where he’d been sitting on the floor. There’s a faint indentation in the rug where his weight pressed down, proof that he was there.

You move through the space methodically, the way you always do when your thoughts get unruly. You rinse your mug and cup he drank out of. Wipe the counter. Straighten the couch cushion. Reorganize the records he looked through. 

This is control, this is what it feels like — restoring order, erasing evidence.

But, still, your mind does not cooperate.

You think of the way his fingers moved over the record sleeve, wonder if they would move that gently on your skin. The way he spoke without flinching, yet still watched for your reaction. You think of the way he looks at you sometimes, like he’s trying to fill in the blanks.

You dry your hands and head to your desk, pulling out your planner. Friday glares back at you, pristine and empty. You hesitate, pen hovering.

Friday, 9 PM — The Hideout.

You tell yourself you’re going for anthropological reasons only, academic curiosity, cultural exposure. It’s the same reason you decided to tutor him in the first place. 

You definitely do not examine why your stomach flips when you imagine those same fingers you watch type every Sunday — ink-stained and nimble — plucking guitar strings instead of tapping impatiently against the table.

The week passes in fragments. Half-listened lectures, margins filled with notes you won’t need. And before you know it, it’s Friday.

You stand in front of your closet, arms crossed, absolutely unimpressed. 

Everything either feels too much or not enough — too soft, too sharp, too intentionally “punk-rock”, or whatever. Finally, you settle on something simple, practical.

Still, when you catch your reflection before you leave, keys in hand, there’s a flicker of something unfamiliar looking back at you. Anticipation? 

You arrive early, of course you do.

The Hideout is already loud — instruments rattling the walls, voices layered over one another, your shoes sticking to the floor with each step. You pause, adjusting to the dim lights, the smell of beer and dust and something electric. 

You order a diet Pepsi — something cold and neutral — mostly so your hands have something to do. You drift toward the back, shoulders tight, arms crossed. Standing too close to the stage seems wrong. 

This isn’t your world. You know that immediately, but there’s something satisfying about watching it. People lean into one another to talk, mouths close to ears, someone’s laughing too loud, others already way too drunk. The room breathes, messy and unbothered.

Then Eddie steps out.

Cropped muscle tank. Dark, baggy jeans sitting low on his hips, just enough to fully reveal the angel wings inked there. His hair is loose and wild, catching the light when he moves. 

He looks like he belongs to the noise, holding it captive. The room rearranges itself around him.

When his eyes find you, something in his face shifts. Not surprise, something steadier, anchored. He doesn’t smile right away, just looks. 

The music starts.

It’s loud, it’s rough. It hits your chest before your ears can catch up. You brace for it — for the urge to leave — but you stay. You let the sound wash over you, raw and unfiltered. Eddie moves like this is muscle memory, instinct. His fingers flying, shoulders loose, grin sharp and dangerous.

You don’t watch him the whole time. But every time you do, he’s already looking back.

At the end of the set, the distortion fades and the room settles into cheers and clapping and shouted names. Eddie steps forward again with a different guitar slung low, sweat beading at his forward, pupils blown wide with adrenaline. 

Even still, his fingers brush the strings in a way that quiets the crowd.

“This one’s a bit softer,” he says into the mic, lips so close to the metal grille.

His eyes find you and he’s grinning, wide and boyish.

He starts playing and it’s nothing like what you expect.

It isn’t slow enough to be sad, not quiet enough to be comforting. It sits somewhere in between — restrained, but deliberate. Eddie plays like he’s holding something delicate, like your attention might splinter if he pushes too hard.

Your stomach dips and your chest tightens. Not dramatically, not painful, but enough to terrify.

You inhale deeper than intended. Cigarette smoke and static fill your lungs.

Eddie doesn’t close his eyes for this one. He looks out over the crowd, unfocused at first, until his gaze lands on you. This time it sticks. 

You feel it like a hand pressed to your sternum, firm and insistent.

You look away immediately. Reflex. 

You’ve perfected this disengagement, but you look back. He’s still looking.

The realization ;ands fast and ugly — no swelling music, no cinematic clarity, no change in lighting. Just a twisted stomach and the cold clarity that forces its way into your bones.

This is bad.

Liking someone, let alone Eddie Munson, doesn’t fit anywhere in the life you’ve built. He’s all noise and uncertainty and staying when you planned to leave.

Even still, your heart does something stupid and quiet and irreversible.

Your pulse stutters. You press your fingers into your crossed arms, grounding yourself in soft cotton and bone.

You don’t run, but you don’t smile either. 

You don’t soften. You don’t let your face betray what your body already has.

The set goes well. Better than well, actually.

Eddie knows it the second his fingers stop buzzing and the last chord dies in the air. The room roars the way it always does — bodies pressed together, beer sloshing, someone yelling his name like it means something. In these moments, he feels larger-than-life, untouchable. 

He grins way too big, bows way too deep, lets Gareth clap his shoulder on the way offstage.

But, he’s already scanning the room and nothing else matters. 

He spots you near the bar, back against the poster-covered wall, arms folded, expression unreadable. 

You stayed. Through the loud parts, the messy parts.

He weaves toward you, adrenaline crackling under his sweaty skin.

“Hey,” he says, breathless and a little louder than intended, ears still ringing. “So? Totally sucked, right?”

You smile, but it’s not the one he knows  — not the small, reluctant one that he’s earned over these couple months . This one is careful, practiced.

“You were good,” you say.

Good. 

He jerks back in the slightest, squints a little. 

“That’s it?” he laughs, too quick. “No… devastating critique? No notes in the margins?”

You shake your head. “You proved your point.”

That lands wrong, destroying everything in its path as it falls. Punches him in the gut with the same strength it would when he was in high school. 

Suddenly he’s sixteen again, watching teachers try to hide disappointment, Uncle Wayne pretending not to worry.

“Oh.” he scratches his jaw, the faint stubble biting at the skin under his nails. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

A group of obnoxious men crowd around the bar, and you step closer. 

For half a second, everything feels right again — the heat, the noise, the way the tips of your mary-janes hit the tips of his boots. 

You step back.

“I should go,” you say quickly, eyes already searching for the exit. “It’s getting late, yeah?”

He glances at the clock above the bar. 10:30.

“Studying,” you add, like that explains everything.

“Right,” he says. “Makes sense…”

And he really tries to believe that it does.

There’s something he could say to fix this, he knows there is. Something honest, brave. Something about how he doesn’t want you to run away, that he could see you enjoying the music, that he played everything like you were the only person watching — because, to him, you were. 

But Eddie has always known what would fix things — never had the nerve to say it.

You smile again, distant. “You did great tonight, Eddie. I’ll see you Sunday.”

You don’t wait.

He watches you leave, the door swinging shut behind you, the noise of the bar swallowing the space you left behind. The high drains out of him faster than it ever has.

Gareth calls his name from across the room. Robin’s laughing with a drink in her hand. Life keeps moving.

Eddie stays in that moment  a second longer, wondering when exactly he lost you — or if he can pretend he ever had you at all.

The pullback isn’t dramatic. It never is.

It starts with logistics. 

You still answer Eddie’s texts, just slower. You move sessions back to the tutoring center instead of your apartment. You stop pouring him coffee in the stupid mug he likes. You stop noticing which smile he’s using.

You tell yourself this is discipline.

Liking Eddie, anyone, is a liability. Those cost focus. Focus prevents mistakes. And you cannot afford mistakes — especially not so close to midterms.

So, you double down.

Longer hours at the library. Headphones always in. You sit through lectures without looking at the people beside you. Notes rewritten for no reason.. 

And yet, your mind keeps finding its way back to him.

The way he looked at you onstage, the way your stomach dropped when he held your gaze, the way he sang so close to the mic — like he was telling you a secret.

The exam sneaks up on you because, for once, you’re exhausted.

You sit in the testing hall with your spine straight and your thoughts scattered. 

When the grade posts, it’s not catastrophic. But it isn’t you.

It sits there on the screen, smug and unimpressed. A small, ugly stain. 

Proof that something slipped.

And you know exactly when it happened.

——

Eddie doesn’t do slow.

He’s all loud first impressions, big gestures, crash landings. So the fact that you slid into his life quietly should’ve scared the shit out of him sooner.

Now, he can think back to the exact moment you stopped being background noise to him.

It started with your name lighting up his phone on a random Tuesday night. 

He’d texted a few half-assed questions about thesis statements — followed, quickly, by a rushed apology as he looked at how late it was.

sorry didn’t mean to bug u

u dont have 2  answer rn

You answered anyway.

And then you kept answering.

A month and a half later, he learned the rhythm of your replies — short when you’re busy, longer when you’re tired but forcing yourself to stay up, clipped when a professor pisses you off. He knows when you’re pretending to be fine when your correct punctuation revs up, “keeping it professional.”

Sundays bled together, creating their own special color, until it became common to see you everyday. Tutoring sessions started stiff and ended loose, you stopped sitting so far from him. You didn’t flinch anymore when his knees bumped yours under the table. He stopped apologizing for showing up late because you knew the parking for your building was never guaranteed.

You had his number saved — this one lodged between his ribs.

Soon, you were saying his name like it belonged to you and Eddie stayed embarrassingly desperate to hear it. 

One night, he called you past midnight — voice hoarse and buzzing with boredom — asking about citations like he hadn’t already gotten the answer he needed from Google. You sighed into the phone — that specific sigh, the one that meant you’re ridiculous but I’m still here.

“Are you actually confused, or…?” you asked, voice drifting off, but he knew you were on to him. Late-night phone calls from him weren’t uncommon. Sometimes he made excuses, other times he was brave and told the truth.

Silence. Then, quieter — “Y’hungry?”

The diner sat off the long road by the trailer park, all flickering neon and cracked vinyl booths, open twenty-four hours for hungry truckers. You’d hesitated in the parking lot, arms folded tight, eyes darting like you might get in trouble just for being there.

He remembers noticing your discomfort, filing it away.

Inside, you slid into the booth across from him, knees tucked in, hoodie swallowing you. He ordered for both of you without thinking — fries and three buttermilk pancakes.

You lifted a brow. “I didn’t say—”

“Just trust me,” he said. “Been gettin’ the same thing since I was a kid.”

You talked about nothing and everything over a shared plate of fries soaked in ketchup. Classes. Music. The way Hawkins has never fit Eddie quite right. 

You got looser the longer it went on — his wit cutting through fatigue, letting things slip, eyes lighting up when you forgot to hold yourself back. He noticed when you laughed, really laughed, you always covered your mouth.

When he drove you back, you didn’t get out of the van right away. 

That part stays with him more than anything. The idle hum of the engine, the way both of your hands stayed in your laps, like motion would break whatever it was that hung heavy between you two.

You’d thanked him for the food, for the drive, for… something else you didn’t say.

After that, things shifted.

You let him linger after sessions, let him sit on your floor while you worked at your desk. Let him smoke on your fire escape while you watched, forearms resting on the railing beside yours, the neighborhood holding its breath below.

He didn’t make a move then. 

Not because he didn’t want to — fuck, he wanted to. Wanted to pull you close and fight out how many kisses long your neck is. 

But, things felt fragile, like you would run away if he acknowledged the moment out loud. Like one wrong word would put things back to square one. So he stayed careful. With his hands. With his words. With not asking why you went distant when he looked at you too long.

Now, back against the trailer, cigarette burning low between his fingers, Eddie realizes something. 

He’s never been good at math or literature, but he understands people.

So, he notices before you ever say it.

He knows why you’ve stopped teasing him back, why your corrections sharpened. He can feel it as your spine stays straight, watching him try to understand from the sidelines.

He joked at first.

“Wow,” he said one Sunday, nodding at the empty chair between you. “What, I got cooties or somethin’?”

You didn’t smile and something crawled under his skin.

He tried to tell himself you’re just busy, you're always busy. But it’s more than that. There’s a tightness to you now — shoulders up, answers clipped, eyes flicking to the clock more than the page.

You don’t look at him the same.

He can pretend that you truly have no favorite color, or favorite music, or that you’re “just not a movie person”, but this? Pretending there’s no difference in you when he knows exactly why?

He flicks the ash, exhales slow.

——

Eddie waits for so long, ten minutes past the hour. His legs bounce hard enough to rattle the cheap laminated table. The metal chair squeaks every time he shifts. 

He checks his phone. Nothing. No texts, no half-assed excuses, ‘no running late, sorry!’

Fifteen minutes.

He packs his shit slower than usual, shoves his notebook into his bag like it personally wasted his gas money to come here. The zipper snags and he yanks it harder than necessary. 

He tells himself it’s nothing — people miss things, things come up — but it doesn’t land. 

The thing is, you don’t just miss things. He knows that now.

You reschedule, you apologize in advance, you color-code your life so nothing ever slips. 

By the time he’s outside, irritation has already burned itself down into something sharper, denser. Something that sits heavy in his chest and refuses to move.

So, always a slave to his impulses, he does the stupid thing.

He drives to your apartment, telling himself it’s out of pure concern — you could be sick, could be locked behind the finicky bathroom door your landlord refuses to fix. That part of him is loud enough to sound convincing. 

But, under it, quieter and meaner, is the old fear — people don’t leave loudly. They just stop showing up.

He parks too close to the curb.

He knocks once. Then again, harder, knuckles rapping sharp against the wood.

The door opens a crack, then wider.

Your keys are in hand, on your way out. When you see him, your grip tightens, the metal biting into your palm. Your hair’s pulled back wrong, bun slipping, curls frizzing at the nape of your neck. Your eyes are red-rimmed, unfocused.

Eddie's chest loosens before he can stop it. Relief hits him hard — hot and dizzying — followed immediately by an anger bitter and ugly.

“You missed the session.”

No hey, no are you okay. Straight to the wound.

“I know.”

You don’t give him a lopsided grin, don’t step aside, do the thing where you tilt your head and soften when you realize it’s him. 

 “I waited—”

“Shouldn’t have.”

The words are quick. Clean. You don’t look away when you say them. 

He lets out a short laugh, the sound sharp and brittle. His hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, ringed fingers digging in too hard.

“Right. Sorry. My bad—” He stops himself, drags his palm down his face. “I was worried, sweetheart.”

Your shoulders twitch— just barely — like the word hit something tender. Your mouth tightens. 

“You didn’t need to come here.”

“Well, y’didn’t need to just, fuckin’, vanish either,” he snaps and immediately regrets the edge.

Your eyes flash. “I didn’t.”

"Y'didn't text, didn’t call,” he says, leaning forward without realizing, voice climbing despite himself. “That’s kind of— yeah, that’s vanish-adjacent.”

Silence stretches, thick, uncomfortable. 

You glance down the hallway behind him like you’re considering escape.

 Eddie shifts his weight, fingers curling into the strap of his bag like he needs something to keep him upright. His foot taps once. Stops.

“So, what?” he asks quietly. “You get to decide I’m optional then just— just not say a fuckin’ thing?”

Your exhale is sharp, audible. You step back, finally opening the door wider.

He steps inside, but he can tell this isn’t an invitation, but a forfeit. He’s been let in like a problem that needs dealing with, quietly and in secret.

“You don’t get to show up here like this, Eddie,” you say, arms crossed tight over your chest. You put space between you deliberately, stopping near the kitchen counter like it’s a barrier.

“And you don’t get to disappear without saying a word,” he fires back, voice louder than it’s ever gotten with you, hands spreading helplessly at his sides.

You flinch at his volume and he hates himself for noticing, keeping you comfortable even still.

“I bombed my midterm,” you finally admit, staring at the floor — the same shame you had when you saw the grade, enters and you know it has no plans on leaving.

His eyes soften, filled with so much warmth — a sincerity neither of you can handle right now. Besides, you're tired of pity. Now, the only emotion that feels justified is anger.

“That sucks, sweetheart…” he says immediately, stepping closer. “You— y’coulda texted.”

You scoff, turning away. You kick your slippers off near the door — messy, careless, so unlike you — and retreat deeper into the apartment. Eddie follows, drawn in by instinct, by habit.

In the kitchen, you reach for a mug with shaking hands and feel a hand on your mid-back — still so gentle despite the tension. You move while he uses his long arms to help. You roll your eyes at him knowing exactly which one to grab.

“And say what, Eddie?” you snap, refusing to take the mug from him. Instead, you move to the living room, reorganizing the coffee table as if that’s more important. “So sorry I can’t help you, I can barely get up to pee!”

He closes the cabinet door too hard. Ceramic clinks sharply against ceramic.

“Yes,” he says, following into the living room, voice breaking a bit. “That. That exactly…”

You spin on him, attention leaving the table. The apartment feels smaller with him in it. Crowded.

“This,” you say, gesturing wildly between you. “This is why.”

He frowns, dark brows knitting together. “The fuck does that mean, dude?”

“You take everything too— too personally.” you say, words tumbling faster now.

His shoulders stiffen. His hands curl into fists at his sides, the blunt edge of his nails digging into his sweaty palms.

“You made it personal. You invited me in,” he says, voice rising. He steps closer again, stopping just short of touching you.

“Y’didn’t just help me — you talked to me. You called me. You let me sit on that couch and complain and—” he falters, “—you let me stay.”

Your throat works. You swallow hard. “That was a mistake.”

The words fall heavy and final. 

You both go still.

Eddie’s expression empties. His face goes calm in a way that feels rehearsed.

“Oh,” he says softly, too soft. “There it is.”

You know you’ve gone too far the second his posture changes — shoulders dropping, spine rigid. Too calm, too even.

You shake your head. “I-I didn’t mean—”

“Nah,” he cuts in. “You did, just didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

You fold your arms tighter, chin lifting defensively. You try not to pick anymore at your sore cuticles — a habit Eddie noticed very early in the sessions. “You don’t understand what it’s like to have everything riding on this, Eddie.”

He laughs, loud and sharp. 

“You think I don’t?” he asks, finger jabbing at his chest. “You think I’m doin’ this shit for fun, sweetheart?”

You look at him — really look — and decide to finish it.

“Wouldn’t be surprised. You don’t take anything seriously.”

The words hit like a punch. It’s like you reached into the late-night conversations, the things he trusted you with when the lights were off and the world was quiet, and threw them back at him.

Eddie’s face twists, hurt flashing hot and fast across his eyes. “Fuck you.”

“Am I wrong?” you challenge. “You’re late, you’re never prepared, you coast through everything like none of it matters.”

All the nights, the stacks of books, the missed band practices. All of it flashes through him at once.

“It matters to me.” he says, voice low, eyes gone flat. “You know that.”

A beat.

 “...You knew that.”

“Well…”

That’s it.

“Y’fucking— you used me.” he says, the words ripping out of him, wiping his hands on his pants.

“That’s enough,” you say, stepping forward and pressing your palms against his chest, gently moving him back toward the door.

“Why?” he snaps, stumbling a half-step. “‘Cause I’m right?”

“You don’t know me.” you say, voice ice-cold.

“I know you’re terrified,” he presses. “And I know I scare the fuck outta you ‘cause I don’t fit into whatever neat little future you’re clawing your way towards.”

“You… you don’t scare me, Eddie.” Then quieter, breaking, “I just don’t have room for this, f-for you.”

The final blow.

Eddie nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that now.”

You both stand there, staring at each other, realizing at the same time this has crossed a line two people don’t come back from.

He turns. The door slams behind him, the sound sharp enough to rattle the frames on the wall.

You don’t move.

And in the quiet that follows, the truth settles, undeniable.

This didn’t break because it was fragile.

It broke because neither of you knew how to touch it without getting cut.

Gareth invited Eddie to some house party of some friend of some guy in some class of his, and he almost doesn’t go.

He’s already sitting on the edge of his bed, boots on, one of Wayne’s old work jackets half-zipped, the weight of two joints and a lighter in his pocket, when the thought hits him sideways—

What if she’s there?

It’s been a week since the blow up. Seven days of saying your name only in his head. Of not texting. Of not driving past your place. Of pretending the quiet isn’t some harsh punishment.

He tells himself the odds are low. You hate everything a house party stands for. You hate the noise and bodies and dim lighting. You hate losing control. It’s why you cut him off so cleanly, like a dead leaf.

Still, he goes. Staying home feels worse.

The house is already pulsing when he gets there. Amber light washes everyone into the same warm blur, bass rattling the floor, someone on the porch screaming lyrics off-key. Eddie takes a pause just inside the door, letting the sound hit him full in the chest, grounding himself in it.

The party goes the way parties usually do for Eddie. He smokes mystery weed in a room full of people he’s going to ignore in class next Monday, watches as Gareth tries (and fails) to do a keg stand, flirting with girls with wild hair and boys with cropped shirts.

Eventually he drifts to a corner with shitty beer and a better view.

He’s mouthing the words to a song his friends would absolutely clown him for knowing when he sees you.

He’s not sure it’s you at first. Just a flash of movement on the living-room-floor-turned-dance-floor. Loose hair. Bare shoulders. A fake, saccharine laugh that doesn’t belong in such a pretty mouth.

His stomach drops before he can beg his brain to come up for air, drowning in whatever was in that bong.

It must’ve been laced because Eddie Munson is watching you dance. You’re dancing. Really dancing. Loose-limbed, reckless, hips moving without restraint, head thrown back as a girl next to you spins you clumsily. Your eyes are unfocused, lined with smudged black, your smile wider than he’s ever seen, lips glossy around your bright smile. Eddie knows they must be impossibly sweet.

His first thought is stupid and visceral: She’s fucking beautiful.

His second sobers him: Something’s wrong.

He threads through the room slowly, eyes never leaving you as if the second a bright flash catches his attention, you’ll be gone. Some idiot steps behind you mid-laugh and you don’t even notice. You stumble slightly, catch yourself on the stranger’s chest.

His hands linger on your waist.

Eddie’s jaw tightens.

You’re surrounded by people who don’t know you. They can’t possibly know you shiver slightly whenever you’re touched suddenly. They don’t know how you like your coffee. They don’t know the way your shoulders hitch whenever you’re complimented.

He knows.

He gets close enough now to hear you, still keeping his distance — your voice is pitched higher than usual, words tumbling out fast and loud over the music. You seem sharper drunk, somehow. 

You say something that makes the guy beside you laugh hard, amused. Eddie sees your brown knit together, confused at why this guy was so tickled. Eddie knows that if there was no alcohol involved you’d feel you were being laughed at.

He hates him on sight.

——

Eddie’s mistake is thinking he sees you before you see him.

You feel his gaze more than anything, like a pressure on your skin — not leering, not ogling like the guy behind you. Once you feel it, you don’t turn right away. You don’t need to.

Your lips curl around the rim of the can you’re holding. You tilt your head back and finish it.

When you finally look, he’s exactly where you expect him to — near the wall, orange light making his features darker, eyes locked on you like his vision has narrowed down to a single point. The look on his face isn’t anger, even though it should be. He should hate you.

No, it’s concern sharpened into something closer to panic.

The music swells suddenly, bass rattling the floor, sweaty bodies surging like a tide. Someone bumps into you hard enough that you stumble, laugh, let yourself be carried with it. When you look again, Eddie’s gone — swallowed whole by moving bodies, hands in the air, floor shaking.

You let yourself drift away from all the chaos.

It’s colder outside than you expected. The night air bites at your bare arms, grounding and sharp, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You dig through your bag with clumsy fingers until you find the cigarette you took from someone’s pack inside. You don’t smoke, not really, but tonight is full of things you don’t do.

You hold it between your painted lips and turn to the nearest guy on the porch.

“Got a light?”

He steps closer than necessary, drink sloshing in his hand, eyes dragging over your face and frame with lazy interest. You decide not to care. That’s kind of the point.

The flame flares then disappears.

Eddie’s hand closes over the lighter mid-flick, snapping it shut with a practiced hand.

“I got it,” he says.

The guy bristles, puffs out his chest. “Hey, asshole! That’s—”

“Hey,” Eddie cuts in, voice even, deceptively calm. “Why don’t you head back inside.”

It’s not threatening. It’s not over-the-top, or loud. It’s sure in a way that doesn’t make room for argument. It reminds you of how he talks about music.

Which you need to erase from your mind, quickly.

The guy hesitates — clocks Eddie’s posture, your eyes locked on the back of Eddie’s head — and decides it’s not worth it, scoffing before he retreats.

“What the fuck was that?” you snap.

He takes the cigarette from between your cold fingers and lights it, cups the flame against the wind. Holds it out to you.

You don’t take it.

“Don’t do that shit, Eddie,” you say. Your voice is tight, clipped. You’re drunk, but still controlled where it counts  — his presence sobered you up more than the cold air.

“Don’t do what?” he asks.

“Act like you can decide who gets access to me.”

His jaw tightens. “That guy wasn’t—”

“I don’t care.”

Eddie exhales slowly through his nose and pockets the stolen lighter. 

He nods once, a small movement, like something clicks into place.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Y’re right.”

That surprises you. Eddie never surrenders this easily, teasing you until you concede and give him a laugh. But, that was before. Things are different now.

Now, he steps back. Gives you space. The cigarette trembles slightly in your hand now as you finally take it, inhale too hard, cough.

“I’m not trying to ruin your night, sweetheart,” he adds. “I just wanted to make sure you were good.”

“I’m fine.” you say automatically.

He doesn’t push, doesn’t challenge you,

“Yeah,” he says. “I see that.”

And, like always, Eddie’s opened you wide and you’re unsure of what to do with what’s been exposed.

——

He drinks after that. Not recklessly or dramatically. Just enough to take the edge off the way his thoughts keep circling you like a bruise he can’t stop pressing to feel the hurt. He dances, lets strangers pull him close. Leans down to whisper in their ears, throws his head back, bares his throat as he exhales smoke toward the ceiling.

He looks good doing it and you notice. Of course you do.

You spent so long keeping tabs of the micro-movements — his dimples, the way his eyes soften when he laughs. That doesn’t disappear just because you want it to.

From the edge of the room, leaning against a bookshelf, you watch him move like the party belongs to him now — jeans low on his hips, shoulders relaxed, eyes dark and blown wide with adrenaline and weed. Someone’s fingers hook into his belt loop and their mouth presses to his jaw.

Your stomach twists, nausea gripping tight. You ignore the feeling and down another drink.

The problem is, you don’t unravel like others when you drink. You never get soft and pliable, but brittle. Wound easier, edges sharper. Everything you’ve been holding in presses too tight to your ribs.

You try to talk to people — a girl with glitter on her eyes, a guy from your sociology class that always smiles at you, an old roommate — but your focus keeps slipping. The noise feels too loud now, the air too thick.

The hallway to the bathroom is narrow, packed, people pressed close. Someone laughs in your ear. Someone refuses to move even though you say ‘excuse me.’ Someone spills beer down your front.

You freeze.

It’s subtle. To anyone else, it looks like hesitation, embarrassment.

Eddie sees it for what it is and he’s at your side in seconds.

“Hey,” he says, low and firm, hand closing around your wrist. “Cmon.”

His warm hand, sweet eyes, his presence makes this all too much.

“Don’t,” you protest weakly, trying to pull away.

Eddie gets you through the crowd and out the front door before you finally yank free, eyes blazing. 

“I don’t need you to fucking babysit me, Eddie!”

“I— I know,” he says, leaning down to ensure the two guys making out on the lawn can’t hear. “But, sweetheart, you’re not okay.”

“You don’t get to decide that!”

He steps even closer anyway, wind blowing his curls into his face. The rocky pavement under your shoes is going to drop any second now.

“Maybe, but I am deciding to take you home,” he says. “You can hate me for it tomorrow.”

You laugh, wild and broken. “God, you’re so fucking infuriating.”

He scoffs, back turned to you as he walks to his poorly-parked van, keys jingling in his hand. “And you’re gonna end up puking in some random’s bathroom if you keep this upt,” he shoots back.

“Why do you even care?” you spit.

Eddie stops in front of the van, the distance large between you. His face is tight, eyes drooping and tired.

“Get in the car.”

“No.”

“Please,” he pleads, voice breaking on the word. Something in his tone cracks through the haze and you stomp to the car.

——

You’re angrier in the van. Quieter, but still a mean-drunk.

You sit stiff in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out the window like you’ll combust if you look at him.

“This doesn’t change anything, fix anything,” you mutter.

“I’m not tryin’ to fix shit,” Eddie says tightly. “I’m tryin’ to get you home in one piece.”

Silence.

“I know y-you’re not—” he stops himself and you take a coin from the pocket in the door, feeling the cool metal between your fingers. “I can see you’re not doin’ too well right now.”

You’re so focused on the cold on your skin and watching the houses get further apart as he drives, that the warmth falling down your cheek makes you flinch. You quickly reach up to wipe the tear. This is why you don’t drink — your body actively ignores the red lights blaring in your head.

You exhale, watery and thick. “I hate this,” you whisper, worried your voice will crack if you speak any louder. “I hate feeling like this.”

You don’t know exactly which feeling you mean. The feeling of all the bad decisions you made tonight sloshing around in your stomach. The feeling of Eddie’s admiration whenever your eyes meet? The anger that flares up when you think about the grade on your midterm? All of the above?

The confession hangs in the air of the van — heavy, ugly, and real.

Eddie grips the steering wheel harder, the old leather twisting on his skin.

“Yeah. I know,” he says. “I know.”

The rest of the drive is dipped in a dense silence.

——

You barely make it inside your apartment, too prideful to hold onto Eddie for stability. Deciding to just deal with the floor getting further and further from you.

Eddie moves through your space like he remembers it — lights low, shoes off, careful hands. He watches as you sit on the bed — shoulders slumped and eyes heavy like you just ran a mile — then presses a glass of water into your hands and sets ibuprofen on the nightstand.

“You should change,” he says gently, because he’s perfect.

You nod, already sagging sideways like the bed is pulling you in.When he comes back, you’re asleep.

He hesitates — then pulls one of your sleep shirts from a drawer full of them, some of which you folded while he complained about MLA formatting. He slips it over your head carefully, leaves your party clothes underneath, and covers you with the throw at the end of your perfectly-made bed.

You open your eyes a bit and watch as he lingers for a second too long, musses with his curls, and exhales.

The last thing you see is him closing your bedroom door before sleep pulls at the back of your eyelids.

You wake slowly. Your head aches — not splitting, just dull and persistent, like when you bite too hard on the inside of your cheek and prod at it with your tongue. Your mouth tastes like smoke and shitty seltzers. Your limbs feel wrong, weighted, foreign on you.

You blink and look around, still on your back.

Ceiling, familiar crack near the corner. Morning light leaking through blinds you forgot to close.

You look down and your bare legs are staring back. You sit up too fast and immediately regret it, palm flying to your temple as the room tilts. The other hand feels around on the sleep shirt you don’t remember putting on yourself. You feel the scratchy material of your party clothes underneath and let out a relieved sigh, glad Eddie didn’t see the cotton panties you’ve had for a while now.

Eddie.

The name surfaces before the memories do.

You swing your legs off the bed and stand, swaying slightly. As you replace the clothes from last night with something from your laundry pile — shirt wrinkled, skirt twisted uncomfortably and pushed up — the mirror catches you halfway across the room and you freeze.

You don’t recognize the girl staring back.

Mascara smudged faintly beneath your eyes, lashes sticking  together in clumps, hair tangled and frizzed, mouth slack with guilt. Your shoulders are slumped in a way you never allow. 

You grip the edge of the dresser, breathing shallow.

Get it together.

You splash water on your face in the bathroom, rinse your mouth, brush your hair back, and wince at the reflection. 

The apartment is quiet when you step out.

Then you see him.

Eddie’s sprawled on your couch, boots off, jacket draped over the arm like he meant to be gone already. He’s half-curled on his side, one arm slung over his eyes, hair a mess against the throw pillow. His chest rises and falls, slow and even.

He stayed.

Your chest tightens.

You clear your throat and he doesn’t stir.

You take a step closer. The floor creaks.

His arm drops from his face instantly. He sits up too fast, hair falling wild into his face, eyes bleary but trying to be alert. 

“Oh,” he grumbles out, voice rough with sleep.”Hey,”

You stand there, frozen between the couch where Eddie sits and the coffee table, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt.

“Why are you on my couch?”

He rubs his face, exhales. “Couldn’t lock the door.”

“Didn’t wanna leave you alone like that,” he adds, quieter.

You nod slowly, absorbing everything.

“...Thank you.”

Silence settles — awkward, heavy.

Eddie glances up at you, then away. His foot taps once against the rug, stops.

“You okay?” he asks.

You laugh softly, humorless. “Define okay.”

He grimaces, lets out a knowing chuckle. “Fair.”

You move to the kitchen, start the coffee pot without asking. Muscle memory.

“Why’d you stay?” Your question cuts through the noise of the coffee dripping into the pot, gaze still focused on the bottom of the mug you pulled out.

“Uh—” he clears his throat, adjusting on the couch. “W-well, I don’t have a key, so—”

“—No, no. I got that part, Eddie.” you chuckle and grant him with a quirk of your mouth, an almost-smile. “But, like…”

You cross the kitchen to stand at its doorway, leaning against it like it’s a helpful hand. You can’t bring yourself to look at Eddie, choosing to flit your eyes across your apartment.

“I don’t remember everything,” you say. “But, I remember enough. ‘N I— I was not being nice.”

He shrugs on shoulder, the other braced against the back of the couch. “You were drunk.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

You take his silence and that warm grin on his face as an apology, but you know there’s so much more to be sorry about. You pour the coffee into your mug with shaking hands. Eddie notices. Of course he does. He stands, slower now, like he’s trying not to spook you, and hovers uselessly near the doorway.

“I shouldn’t have said those things.”

He hums and you turn back to him, mug in hand. The cold, hard edge of the counter grounds you under his soft gaze. Even in the morning, after a night like last night, Eddie manages to be the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Which things?” he asks. He’s not making this easier for you and you want to hate it.

“About— about you not caring. About you being… too much.”

His jaw works. He swallows, then turns his head.

“Y’weren’t wrong about everything,” he admits. “Just, y’know, the parts that mattered.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” you say suddenly, setting the mug down beside you and folding your arms across your chest.

“I kinda figured,” he says gently, with that grin you’ve only seen directed at you.

You look at him. Really look.

He’s still wearing last night on his face — dark under-eyes, chapped lips, curls less defined and falling into his eyes. Even still, he looks beautiful bathed in the morning light.

“I haven’t been doing okay,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I hate how much effort it takes just to stay afloat. A-and when I start slipping, I get fucking terrified. And— and when I get scared, I get mean.”

He nods slowly, letting you take the lead, filling the silences. 

“I shouldn’t— I don’t want to be like that with you.”

He inhales, sharply enough for you to hear it through the thick silence.

“You’re not,” he says. “Not usually.”

You hum. “But I could be,” you insist. “I will be again, at some point.”

“Probably,” he says. Then, softer, “I’m not exactly easy either, sweetheart.”

A small laugh escapes you — and it’s real, despite everything.

Eddie shifts his weight, hands sliding into his pockets like he doesn’t trust them loose.

You swallow hard. “I push people away before things get messy and I’m sorry. ‘M so sorry, Eddie.”

Your eyes sting. He steps closer — he’s in your space now, bringing his warmth and big, brown eyes with him. He smells like smoke on fresh linen, a mix of you and him. Before you’ve registered the distance getting smaller and smaller, he’s got you trapped, forcing you to look up at him — his hands press into the edge of the counter you’re leaning against, enveloped between his hard chest and the granite.

“It’s okay,” his gaze flicks to the flyaways that are definitely sticking up wildly around your hairline and he reaches up. You can smell his soap beneath the faint ghost of smoke on his clothes. His lips twitch, eyebrows raising. Asking to touch without words.

You nod and his palm against your cheek feels like a sparked match, the soft scratch of his callused palms and coolness of his rings tethering you to the now.

“Y’wanna know what I think, hm?” your eyes flutter shut quickly at the low rasp of his voice, the press and hard-lines of his body against yours. His eyes are flitting across your face, taking in all the features he didn’t let himself notice before.

You nod.

“I think you’re scared of wanting.”

The words land softly. Dead on. You nod again.

He hums and runs the tip of his nose against your neck, inhaling the sweet smell of skin, of you. You lick your lips to keep in the noise you want to let out. He’s so close to you, you’re entangled with his puffs of breath that end their journey on your cheeks and his left hand that hasn’t stopped feeling the softness of the old shirt you’re wearing.

“Y’don’t have to be scared. You can tell me what you want.”

You nod, but he takes the hint that you’re not really listening. He pulls away, hands heavy on your waist, making your eyes flutter back open. His brown ones are staring back at you and, for once, you don’t want to fight the smile that takes over.

“What do you want, sweetheart?”

“I want you.”

The confession hangs there, fragile and terrifying. But, you feel your chest release with the words you’ve been wanting to say for the last couple of months. His breath catches and his eyes soften, lashes thick and long.

That’s all it takes.

He kisses you like he’s been holding back for months — because he has — but there’s nothing rough about it. No rush. Just intention. His mouth warm and soft against yours, moving slow at first, like he’s making sure you won’t pull away.

You don’t. Even while you both figure out how you best fit together. It’s clumsy and perfect — his rings getting caught in your hair a few times, teeth clinking, you giggling into his mouth.

But, soon, you both melt into it. Fingers fisting in the front of his shirt, grounding yourself in the solidness of him. He exhales against your lips, a quiet sound that sends a shiver down your spine. The counter now warm against your back.

When he deepens it, it’s subtle. It’s a tilt of his head, a firmer press of his hand at your waist, thumb holding your chin as his tongue dips to lick at your bottom lip — asking to be allowed in.

Your breath stutters and he takes the opportunity to get a taste of you.

Your hands explore now, emboldened by the sounds he’s making against your mouth. One slides up his chest, feeling soft strength beneath cotton, the other threading into his hair. He makes a low sound when you tug, involuntary, like it surprises him too.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

You grin and kiss the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, feel his pulse jumping beneath skin. His hands tighten at your waist and drag down to squeeze your hips — like he needs to be sure you’re real.

When he finally pulls back and you take your hands out of his hair, you’re both breathing heavily. Foreheads pressed together. The kitchen feels smaller. The ringing in your ears louder.

His thumb brushes under your eye, gentle. Doting in a way you’ve never experienced.

“I've wanted that for a while,” you admit. You smile, soft and unguarded. Your thumbs dig softly into his dimples as he smiles down at you.

He moves in to give you a gentle kiss on your cheek, then the other.

“What else have you wanted?” he asks, mouth pressed against the sweet spot behind your ear. His deep voice vibrates against your skin, tickling, sending electricity from your feet to your damp core. Your eyes flutter shut and you have to keep yourself from stuffing your face in his shoulder.

“I— I want you to touch me,” you whisper like it’s the only thing you’re certain of.

“I am touchin’ you,” he quips, looking down at his fingers that play with the hem of your shirt. You tremble slightly at the tiny touches of his skin on your thighs.

You roll your eyes, no actual bite behind it. “Not what I mean, Eddie.”

“Mmh, kinda need you to be a bit more specific then, huh?”

“I want,” you drag your nails down his abdomen and through the hair that leads to where he needs you most, until you hit his belt. You hook your fingers through the belt loops and pull his hips closer to yours, feeling him grow harder behind the denim. “I want you to touch me, Eddie…”

You repeat the words, slower, drunk off the way he watches your mouth move around the words.

His pink tongue comes out to swipe at his bottom lip. His pupils blow wide and black — all silent permission to touch, to take the lead.

“Can we go to your room?”

——

Heat thrums low in your belly, boiling you alive. Your hands have gone clammy, the ringing in your ears replaced with the sounds of your anxious breathing.

This is what you’ve wanted for so long, but now that Eddie stands before you — his belt hanging off your desk chair, skin flushed a pretty shade of pink, back to the closed door of your bedroom — you don’t know how to speak, how to exist like this.

“Can I take this off?” he asks quietly, almost a mumble. It registers late, but you force yourself to nod. 

Inhale. Exhale.

His fingers are drawing little shapes on your skin over the fabric, thumbs pressing into your waist. The kitchen where you just were is only a few feet away, but now everything feels different from then — you can feel his heartbeat, the way his hands shake a bit. He’s just as nervous as you.

But, like always, he’s braver than you. He leans in despite the tremble in his breathing, locking you in so the only thing you can see, smell, feel is him.

“I need you to use your words, baby.” The endearment sends a ravenous ache through your core. Without a second thought, you know your panties are soaked with need. You can nod your head, but your words are failing you. You can’t help but feel stupid under his gaze — absolutely dizzy with desperation. For the first time, you revel in the emptiness and look to Eddie to tell you what to think.

“Can I see you?” he asks. His hands have slid up under this stupid shirt you’re wearing, rough against your waist. If he looked down he’d be able to see you almost half-naked, but he doesn’t — his brown eyes stay locked on yours, not sneaking a peak of your exposed skin before you grant him permission. He’s always been a good listener.

“Yeah— Yes, take it off.”

He tips his head to the side, — canines sharp and eyes hungry — running his lips along your cheek, down to your jaw, and planting a soft kiss there. The sweet kisses meant to act as a distraction from him lifting your shirt up, up, up. He can tell you’re not used to being so exposed in front of someone. The way air puffs past your lips, wet with saliva from your incessant licking, the way your hands flex at your sides. 

“Fuck,” you follow Eddie’s gaze and see him locked on your naked breasts, the weight of them and how they rise and fall with your breath. The cold air of the apartment pebbles your nipples. Your head bobs to his mouth and Eddie takes the hint. 

His hands are on the side of your face in milliseconds. His lips find yours, but this kiss is different — hungrier, needier. Eddie has let his greed take over, consume him. You can taste cigarettes on his lips, on his tongue is mint from the gum he always chews.

“Eddie…”

“Y-yeah, I hear ya,”

“Gonna take such good care of you,” he practically purrs, letting his fingers go down to play with the waistband of your panties. His lips skirt down from your neck to your chest, leaving kisses like burnt embers on your skin.

Large hands squeeze at your tits, feeling the weight of them in his hands. You let out a breathy sigh and push your thighs together, trying to find some relief since Eddie’s wanting to take his time with you. His lips follow his touch and he takes your right nipple in his mouth — so warm, almost burning white.

He gets lost in the motion, tasting the salt of your skin, you think he may have forgotten his earlier promise of taking care of you. Your hands find their way into his hair, pulling slightly. “Eddie…”

When he pulls away, a line of spit connects his swollen lips to you. The thread dazzling in the light distracts you, such a contrast to the dark hue of the bud. Eddie moves his long fingers to the back of your neck and you're reminded of the way those nimble digits dance on his guitar — until, your head is pulled back, your eyes focused only on his. His touch is anything but rough. In fact, its tenderness has started a fire low in your stomach. You need him to quell it for you.

The quiet desperation breaks into something more primal, and you find yourself letting out a breathless, “Please.”

“So polite,” his words are slurred as he kisses down your body. You count each press of his lips to your skin, raw and burning — twenty kisses from the dip of your clavicle to your hips and Eddie is on his knees. 

If you had no dignity you’d beg. Beg for him to lean in, lick, bite, taste. To open you up and find out what color you are on the inside. But, before you can, his hands are skirting up your legs and pushing at your weak knees. 

You’ve forgotten everything — how to speak, how to move, how many steps there are from where you stand to your bed. Your back hits the downy comforter and a small gasp escapes your kiss-bitten lips. 

Eddie squeezes at your thighs, silently asking to actually see what’s being covered by the gray cotton of your panties. You accept. His pale skin against yours is too pretty, his eyes blown too wide to deny him of anything. 

He brings his big hands to your mound and squeezes. You throw your head back in ecstasy at the first touch of where you need him most — his thumb grazing your clit, cotton pressing into your soaked lips.

“Fuck.” You don’t think he notices the noises he’s letting out and it makes everything hotter. You know Eddie often doesn’t censor himself, — his mouth gets him in trouble — but it’s different to be the reason expletives fly.

“Can I take these off?” He asks, finger pressing at your clit. A whimper escapes and you refuse to believe it came from your mouth. 

He chuckles, “I’ll take that as a yes…”

“Don’t be a smartass, Ed—” the cool air hits your wetness and, all of a sudden, finishing your sentence is so not important.

You see him pocket the thin piece of fabric and decide to make fun of him later. Right now, the only thing on your mind is his tongue on you. You're squirming as he pets your wet pussy, avoiding where you need him most.

“Y’want my mouth, honey?” Hot puffs of air hit your needy clit as he talks. You nod eagerly and the feeling of his tongue spreading your lips, a wet noise bouncing off the walls of your room as he does. 

He continues the soft licks until you’re a mess, letting out quiet whines. Until, his tongue flattens — licks turning into broad strokes from your entrance to your clit. 

“Fuck, Eddie!” Your hand leaves your mouth to grip at his hair. You finally cry out, loud and unfiltered. He smiles against you and you’d like nothing more than to see his cocky smile against your cunt. But, looking at him now feels more daunting than anything that’s happened.

Eddie’s always been good at knowing what you want… and then making you do the complete opposite. “Look at me.”

He places a kiss over your twitching pussy, “Wan’ you to look at me, honey.”

Your head feels like it’s filled with lead, your neck not strong enough to hold it up. But, you do anyway and you’re met with the most beautiful view. His eyes are low — stirred coffee, polished tiger's eye, dangerous. His pink lips are no longer chapped, your juices making them glisten in the warm light of your favorite lamp. His pretty curls swirl around your fingers, shoulders broad and hands big as they grip at the softness of your thighs. You’re so fucked.

“There ya go,” he mumbles, eyes closed and mouth dipping back to your cunt.

You watch as he slides his middle finger into your hole, its length the cause of your rising arousal more than the width. He watches you take it all in, eyes flitting from the absolutely pornographic look on your face to the way your greedy pussy sucks his finger in.

You can hear his praises — y’so pretty, so wet f’me, fuck - so good — but, it sounds far away, muffled like you’re underwater. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if you found holes in your comforter from the grip you’ve maintained. The peak of your orgasm is getting closer — blurred lines turning into a more obvious shape as another finger joins Eddie’s middle, curling up. The sounds of your dripping cunt gets louder. You know you should be embarrassed, but the look of admiration on Eddie’s face quells that feeling.

He looks absolutely enamored, like an atheist witnessing a miracle. His hand presses at your lower stomach and you gasp. You’ve never come with a partner and, especially these last few months, giving yourself an orgasm has felt nothing short of an impossible feat. 

However, now you feel yourself tense up, almost forgetting to breathe until you hear Eddie’s voice in your ear, raspy from overuse. 

“You’re almost there, baby.” You can do nothing but let out a pathetic ‘mhm’. 

“I know,” he coos and licks the outside of your ear. “Let go. Make it good f’me, hun, mhm~”

The pressure of Eddie fingers in your pussy, his thumb on your clit, and his hardness rutting against your hip — all of it, is too much. You paw at his wrist, almost warning him of your orgasm. 

But, he doesn’t need it. He knows you’re about to come and he’s ready to watch the string break, to watch you come down from it all.

You can hear his own voice pitching up as you do, praises turning into low groans of pleasure as if he can feel everything you can. His eyes never leave you, even as he spills into his boxers.

“Fuck, ohmygod,” Your chest rises and falls with the power of your breath, hands petting at where your nails were just digging into Eddie’s arm. 

“You’re insane, Munson.”

“Bet y’wish you stopped being so stubborn a long time ago, huh?” He whispers in your ear and you roll your eyes. Along with the strength to lift up and playfully shove Eddie came your usual attitude.

He’s back on you within seconds. You can taste the heady mix of your cunt and mint on his lips as he sloppily kisses you, licking into your mouth, this time without asking for permission. You drag your hand from his chest to his crotch.

Instead of being met with the hardness you felt only moments ago, the denim of his jeans is damp. He came in his pants.

“Dude…”

“Sorry,” he says against your lips, mouth quirked up in a mischievous smile.

You get up to throw your sleep shirt back on, chuckling at his dopey grin as he sits on your bed. 

“Do you like me or something?” You ask jokingly, but you and he both know what this question really means — “Do you still like me? Still want me?”

Only three steps and he’s right in front of you, hands groping your soft skin under the shirt. You didn’t notice until now, but in only seconds you missed his touch.

“I really like you.” He affirms, nose brushing against yours. “‘N gimme, like, five minutes ‘n I’ll show ya how much I like you.”

“You’re an idiot.”

a/n: dude this is so long, but i luv so. also do ppl still fw this guy or...

thx for reading!!

— luv always,

juno ⋆˚꩜｡+

[weasleywinchester]

Ooo such a good build up 😍

[everybodylovedcontractors]

share 6 of your favorite fictional crushes:

Thanks for the tags: @katyispunk @time-for-my-weekly-spanking

npt: @buckstattoos @baronessvonglitter @inept-the-magnificent @lemon-ice-pops @daltoncharm @djarins-cyare @axshadows @weasleywinchester @future-sobright-itsburning @acockius @paradiselady19 @thoughtfullypinkgiver @jedi-in-crocs and anyone else who would like to. 💜

[weasleywinchester]

Thanks for the tag @everybodylovedcontractors 💙💙💙

[dearwalker]

Next door - Bucky Barnes x Reader

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Word Count: 2.9k

Description: You thought you were being quiet when you touched yourself. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault he could hear everything from his bed next door every single time. And when you moan his name out loud, he’s done pretending he doesn’t hear.

Tags/Warnings: Smut. Menace Bucky is back on this one. Fem!reader. Bucky spying on her. Mutual masturbation. Oral f!rec.

Note: this is literally just Bucky being feral about a helpless doll next door, he just has to step in. Enjoy lovelies 🫶🏼 also I’m making a John Walker version of this.

Masterlist

It wasn't his fault. His room just happened to be next to yours, beds pressed against the same wall. A thick wall. But it wasn't his fault he had enhanced hearing, so he just couldn't help it. Couldn't help hearing the nights you gave yourself over to pleasure.

And fuck, he listened. Every single time.

He learned every sound you made. He could tell when you were already worked up, getting yourself off in just a few minutes. Other nights where you would drive yourself to the edge, again and again, dragging it out for hours.

Hours he spent with his cock in hand, back pressed to the headboard, leaning towards the wall so he wouldn't miss a single wet, filthy sound your fingers made.

And then other ones, rare, where you couldn't quite get there. Frustrated groans. The creak of the bed as you shifted restlessly. He could even picture the sweat dripping past your furrowed eyebrows, when your fingers just weren't enough.

Nights where he fought everything inside him, that feral instinct to tear the wall between you and show you how it feels to be fucked right.

Tonight was one of those nights.

He wasn't expecting anything, he never really did. He'd taken a hot shower, put on a pair of boxers and sat on his bed with a book in hand. His back rested on the headboard, legs crossed over his ankles. A warm, cozy light coming from the lamp on his nightstand illuminated his room. The place was quiet, the only sounds disrupting the silence were his fingers flipping over the pages as he read, and the occasional chuckle the story provoked.

But then he caught it.

A faint, almost inaudible whimper slipped from your mouth on the other side of the wall. He froze in place, just like he always did, like it was somehow still a surprise. Like he didn't expect to hear you again. Like he knew it was wrong to listen. To want to listen.

But he did. Every damn time.

He snapped the book shut in his hands, dropped it over his lap, and instinctively leaned closer to the wall, to your side of the bed. He listened, focused hard, until he could finally hear that familiar sound of slick fingers sliding in a desperate rhythm. A breath got caught up in his throat, when you moaned, and blood rushed to his crotch.

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling himself harden against the hardback cover of the book he had completely forgotten about. He sighed deeply, shoving it aside, and reached to switch off the lamp on his nightstand.

He knew what came next, what he was about to do. He knew it was wrong, dirty. But somehow, being swallowed in complete darkness made it easier to pretend it wasn't.

Like if he couldn't see himself, then maybe he didn't have to feel guilty.

His hand slipped into his boxers, gripping his swollen, painfully hard cock. He pulled it out and immediately started stroking at a fast pace, no buildup, no teasing this time. Just tight, large punishing pumps of his fist to the sounds that came out your mouth. His head dropped back to the wall, eyes closed to block out everything but you.

To try to feel you.

He swore he could even smell you, the arousal, the wetness between your thighs, the sex emanating from your skin as you fucked yourself with your fingers like there was no one else to do it for you. Like he wasn't next to your room, stroking his cock to your whimpers like a fucking pervert.

Like he wasn't willing to split you open if you just said the word.

So he just kept stroking, up and down, cause it was the only damn thing he could do when you were unknowingly putting on a show for him.

But after a while passed, he noticed you just went on and on, but it wasn't edging. Not this time. It didn't bother him, he knew he could go for hours if he wanted to, but you? He knew you weren't getting there.

He knew those frustrated sighs escaping your mouth, when you paused because your fingers were probably cramping from pumping in and out without getting anywhere. That soft thump against your mattress when you hit the bed desperate.

It wasn't fair, he thought, you deserved to see white, to come so unbelievably hard that you screamed without a single care if the entire team heard.

He heard you stop, chest probably rising up and down, panting, as a groan escaped your lips. He stopped too, dick resting on his palm as he waited for your next move.

"Come on ... please" You mumbled to yourself, words muffled by the wall separating him from completely ruining you.

Every fucking part of his body twitched to that plea. Fuck. You were lonely, you needed someone.

You needed someone to fuck you right.

He takes a deep breath, restraining himself with whatever is left of his will, whimpers invading your room as you began moving your fingers once again. He restarts with you, harder, sloppier this time, like he's frustrated too because if you're not coming neither is he.

And then, in the middle of the moans, he hears something else, it's not just incoherent sounds, you're whimpering someone's name.

"B-b ... Bucky"

Shit. Holy fucking shit. His name? he couldn't have heard that right.

He stopped stroking himself, body rising up from his seating position to kneel on the bed, left ear to the wall, hands on either side of his head. He held his breath, closing his eyes, part of him wishing he misheard you, the other part craving to be right.

He heard more moans, but in between, there was something else. Slurred B's. He was sure.

"B-buck ... Bucky please just like that baby"

Shit. You were fantasizing about him. Out loud. About his head between your legs, about his tounge eating you out while his fingers wrecked you.

You wanted him. You needed him.

His legs moved before he could think with his brain instead of the cock he shoved back into his boxers. He took long strides to his door, metal hand messing with his hair like that would do something to take away the heat on his face or bring his heart rate back to normal.

Suddenly he was out of his room, in front of yours, chest heaving like a lunatic in heat. He shook his head, it was too late to back away now, so fuck it, might as well try it. His hand knocked against the door, instantly making you stop your little session.

You sat on the bed all flustered, quickly wiping your hand on a small towel you had tossed to the mattress in case you made a mess of yourself. Which quite frankly you were doing, before someone decided to interrupt your sacred self love time.

Who the hell is knocking on your door and what the hell do they want right now?

You let out an exasperated sigh, finally getting up from the bed, the oversized shirt on your body falling down to cover the drench between your legs. You threw the towel to a hamper, taking a deep breath before reaching for the doorknob.

A gasp caught in your throat the second you opened the door. There he was. The man whose name rolled out your tongue so painfully easily.

Bucky.

Standing right there, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and his dog tags on his chest. Jaw locked, face visibly on edge. His hair was a mess, the front strands sticking to a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His eyes were dark, exactly how they looked in your little fantasy just minutes ago.

Shit. He didn't know, he couldn't know. Right?

Bucky was having his own fight inside his head. When he saw you open the door, pupils dilated, your rapid heart rate thumping on his ears, all agitated and ... kind of glowing. Glowing in that arousal I'm-fucking-myself sheen. He had to fight every urge in his body that told him to wrap his hand around your neck and pin you to the ground to make you scream in the hallway, so everybody in that floor knew what name you were pleading to in your room.

"B-Bucky?" You blurted out, eyes darting around nervously.

He almost laughed at that. Why were you so shy now when you were praying his name just minutes ago?

"Are you okay? Is it a nightmare?" You shifted your tone, eyebrows furrowing. Figured that must be the reason of his unsettled expression.

He did let a chuckle out then, shaking his head as he slowly pushed himself into your room, closing the door behind him, backing you up like he was cornering a prey.

"I guess you could say I was having a nightmare, doll" He growled, voice deeper than you've ever heard before. "One where you desperately called out my name, all helpless and needy, and I wasn't here to help you"

Your legs threatened to buckle when you realized what he meant. He'd heard you moaning his name, like a freak.

You'd fantasized about him before, you did it every single time your fingers traveled down to your thighs, but his name had never left your lips then. However, this time, you were so frustrated, so swollen from teasing, rubbing, pushing and not getting anywhere, that his name just rolled out your tongue like a plea, like a call for help.

The back of your legs hit your bed, making you stumble, but his arms were quick to catch you. Your hands hit his bare chest for support, grazing the dangling metal tags, looking up at him with wide eyes and a hint of embarrassment washing your features.

The huge bulge pressing against your stomach didn't help either, too warm and solid to ignore.

He lifted his metal hand to cradle your face, you instinctively leaned into his cold touch closing your eyes, almost purring. He took a deep breath, this wasn't about him, this was all about you. He planted a kiss on your forehead, making you open your eyes at the gesture.

"You don't have to be ashamed angel, not when you were calling my name so sweetly" He said, too softly, like he wasn't about to ruin your life. "And I think it would be real fucking rude if I didn't give you what you were begging for"

You bit your lip, his chest was fire against yours even through your shirt, the cold vibranium hand in your cheek was keeping you grounded, but you weren't sure how long your composure would last under his touch.

"Are you gonna let me make it better for you, doll?" He asked, in mock sweetness.

Cause he already knew the answer, he'd already decided you weren't going to sleep until your legs were shaking.

You nodded, desperately, you were too flustered from the haze, too frustrated with all the bottled up tension in your body. You barely had time to blink before he pushed you onto the bed, flat on your back, sinking to his knees in front of yours. He bunched up the shirt up to your waist, big hands dragging your thighs apart, the cool air hitting your wet skin made you gasp.

"Shh, I know angel" Bucky mumbled against your skin. "Let me take care of you"

His hot breath ghosted its way up your legs, trailing wet kisses that made it hard to maintain eye contact with him, when your head threatened to fall back in pure bliss. He slowly went higher, like he was not only teasing you, but himself.

Something inside him went feral the moment he finally caught the sight of your glistening pussy. Something he had pictured before, all those lonely nights in his room.

"Fuck me... look at you doll" he groaned, spreading your legs even wider, his firm grip pressed the soft flesh of your thighs. "You thinking about my mouth on this pretty little pussy? That what got you dripping all over yourself?"

You nod shakily, hips twitching when he leaned in, hot breath grazing your soaked folds.

"I just, I-I couldn't..." You tried to explain, but he was already shaking his head.

"I know, doll" He cut you off, placing a quick, teasing kiss on your clit, making you whimper. "I heard you, I know every single sound you make. When you're close, when you don't want to let yourself go, when your fingers don't cut it anymore"

Your back arched, trying to grind up against his lips again, beard tickling your skin, but his metal arm wrapped around your thigh and held your hips flat to the mattress.

"Nuh uh, stay still for me dollface" he warned. "You move again and I stop. You hear me?"

You nodded rapidly, chest heaving with anticipation. You were becoming undone and he hadn't even started yet.

"Good girl" He praised, placing another kiss in your bare pussy, this time letting it linger for a few seconds.

He draws back satisfied when he hears your moan, and licks his lips to let the taste of you sink into his mouth.

"Now, good girls aren't supposed to play with themselves like that. So fucking messy with no one to help them" He shook his head, with a devilish grin. "Not when a man willing to break them is next door"

"B-bucky ... please" You begged, this was taking too long, you were dripping over the sheets.

He grinned wider, now this is the way you were moaning his name earlier.

That was all he needed.

You lose it the second his mouth touched you. It was so warm, greedy all over you, groaning into your skin like he was the one getting off from it.

"Sweetest fucking thing I've ever tasted, angel" he mumbled, lips dragging up to your clit, sucking it into his mouth until you cried out. "How the fuck did I go this long without it? Without kicking that door and showing you what is like to be pleased properly"

Your hips lifted involuntarily at his words, thighs shaking, but he wasn't having it. His vibranium arm pinned you in place, cold palm heavy on your lower belly, sending you into overdrive. "I said hold still" he growled, before diving right back in.

He was sure he could bust into his boxers just from hearing you become undone under him. This time there was no wall muffling your sounds, your scent, your wetness. This time he had you moaning so loud under his touch, he was sure no one in that floor needed enhanced hearing to know what was happening in your room.

"Bucky...f-fuck, I can't" You cried, unable to control your feet kicking next to his head, but every time your hips jerked he just grunted and pressed down harder.

"Yeah you can" He growled. He let you go briefly to hook your legs over his shoulders and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed until your pussy was even deeper into his face. "Gonna hold you down and make you take it, doll"

Your back arched, trying to escape the overwhelming pressure of his mouth, but he just tightened his grip and kept going. Bucky's tongue worked heavenly over your clit, and when you thought it couldn't get any better, he slipped two fingers inside, curling just right, like he memorized every sound you made through the wall and translated it into his hand.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling tight, and he moaned at every tug, while he kept fingering, licking, sucking, groaning into you like he needed every drop of your pleasure. Like he was fucking addicted.

"C'mon, angel" he whispered, agitated breaths hot against you. "Let me hear it, let me hear what it sounds like when I make you come"

"B-bucky" His name was the only thing you blurted out, body trembling, ragged breathing.

"Come on my tongue, doll" He begged, too drunk in your sweet taste. "Soak my fucking face. Show me who this pussy belongs to"

That was all you needed to let yourself go. Your vision blurred as your orgasm hit, ripping through you so hard you pushed his hands and head away but he kept you pinned, kept licking through it, like he wasn't done until you were sobbing. He only stopped when your legs were shaking uncontrollably, pussy clenching his fingers, and your breath came in broken gasps, eyes lost on the ceiling.

That drove him to the edge too.

He wiped his beard with his right arm, before yanking his boxers down, cock springing free, thick, leaking, heavy in his hand as he wrapped his fingers around it.

"You did this, angel. Look at me" He leaned over your body, his metal hand reached behind your neck, lifting it slightly. "Look what just tasting you does to me"

You were still dazed, eyes blinking to focus yourself on him.

He didn't even need his hand to come, so he used it to hold himself above you. He straddled your shaking body, placing his cock over your stomach with a wet slap, sliding against your soft skin while you were too wrecked to move, just whimpering again and again under him. He grabbed your hand and put it over his cock, to push himself deeper into your skin.

"That's it, dollface, just lay there and take it. Let me use this sweet body to finish" He grunted, hips jerking forward, desperately seeking for that release he'd sought after in his room.

You were breathless, overwhelmed by the weight of his cock on your stomach and it’s width under your hand, while he panted like you were the only thing that could save him.

After a few more pumps, he finally came hard with a groan.  Thick, hot white landed on your stomach in long, messy streaks. The first spurt made you flinch, the second had him cursing under his breath, hips jerking uncontrollably as he emptied himself on you. His chest heaved as he watched it drip down your skin, and a proud look flashed across his face like he just marked what was his.

The warm fluid felt almost comforting, running down the side of your leg as you still twitched every now and then, trying to remember how to breathe again. 

Bucky falls onto the bed beside you, panting, with that painfully arrogant smile like he didn't just come from rubbing himself to you.

“Next time …” He whispered low in your ear, wrapping his arms around you. “I’m not stopping until it’s dripping out of every hole you have”

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

reblogs and comments are always appreciated, thank you so much for reading 🫶🏼

[weasleywinchester]

Woo 🥵🥵🥵 exactly was I was looking to read 🔥

[wheresarizona]

Sometimes you tell @devineconjuring you wanna get a Javi P tattoo, but you don’t know what to get, and she suggests the WILDEST thing that makes you go 👀👀👀, and you get said tattoo:

(The tattoo artists made fun of his little butt 😭😭😭)

[weasleywinchester]

I LOVE THIS

[magicalqueennightmare]

Nothing Will Change

(Again a Takeshi gif cause Rick ones are in short demand)

Rick Flag X Meta!Marine Reader

What starts off as a friends with benefits situation between you and Rick becomes so much more

Violence, cursing, sexual situations

"Insubordinate" "Overbearing" 

"You disobeyed a direct order!" "Yeah because it was a stupid fuckin order!"

You and Rick stood in the center of the plane, glaring at each other as you argued while the remaining members of the team watched in amusement. He crossed his arms over his chest and you purposely mimicked his posture, hearing Harley bite back a giggle. "I'm your superior officer and over this team!" "Well good for you! I'm the mother fucker that got us out of there and back on this damn plane!" "You took a stupid risk, corporal!" you bristled at him at pulling rank . "Fuck you Flag! What you call stupid I call worth it. It got done, didn't it?" 

Contrary to how it would seem to a bystander you and Rick were actually damn good friends off the clock. He was a fucking sweetheart under that tough exterior and you trusted him with your life. You really did work well together just sometimes you butted heads on missions and he wanted to treat you like he did the squad which meant he expected to bitch you out with little to no push back. You turned to head towards the back of the plane, planning to sit right near the drop doors so you'd be first off. "Easy marine" he muttered and you spun on your heel.

"You may outrank me Colonel but don't think for a minute I am your subordinate on this fucking team" you waved a hand around the plane where Blackguard, Harley, Mongal and about a half dozen other residents of Belle Reeve sat "They answer to me as much as they answer to you, most of them answer faster to me than to you" you covered the few steps between the two of you to be standing right in front of him, never mind that you had to look up to meet his eyes "I respect you Rick, I really do but sometimes you're simply a fuckin asshole"

A beat of silence fell before one by one the squad started hooping and hollering knowing Rick would never tac more time onto them for something so trivial despite the glare he shot their way as you raised an eyebrow and lifted your arms out "See Colonel? You may outrank me but it appears they prefer the corporal" 

"Fuck Rick" you gasped, clutching to his shoulders as his hips snapped up into yours, driving himself deeper inside of you with every roll of his hips. Your fingernails dug into his flesh, head dropping over onto his neck as light sobs of his name mixed with praises and curses fell from you.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, one hand moving to brace yourself on the headboard behind him as another orgasm slammed into you. He didn't slow down, didn't give you time to adjust before he was pulling you tight to him and turning the two of you so his weight was pining you to the mattress, he hiked your left leg up further around his waist to give him a new angle as his fingers found your clit, intent on wringing another orgasm out of your already spent form.

"I can't Rick. Fuck, I can't" you pratically sobbed. He slowed his thrusts slightly, hand stilling but fingers staying in place as he leaned down to catch your lips in a kiss that was so damn gentle compared to how hard he was fucking you it made your head spin. He licked into your mouth almost playfully then moved to kiss down your jaw and to your neck before biting the soft flesh there "You can't take anymore baby?" you shook your head weakly and he laughed "But where's my little smartmouthed marine?" "Rick please" you moaned when he rolled his hips deeper into yours. "Where is she, sweetheart? The one who couldn't listen to orders? The one who loves calling me an asshole?" 

When you didn't respond he slammed his hips roughly into yours, accentuating every word with a snap of his hips "Where's.that.marine?"  you felt your eyes roll back in your head as another orgasm started to build and Rick chuckled darkly "Well I'm be damned honey looks like you had another one in you after all" 

When his fingers curled against your clit again the orgasm slammed into you fully causing your legs to lock around his waist and your walls to squeeze down on his cock. "God damn darlin" he growled, forehead pressed to your chest as he chased his own release. You felt his lips connect to your skin, sucking dark marks on your flesh just below where your clothes would fall so no one would see. Your nails dug into his back as he moved up to kiss you "Feel so fuckin good baby. You've been so good for me" he praised and you felt your walls clench around him. His eyes fluttered shut, a smirk forming on his lips "You like that sweetheart? Like hearing you're my good girl?" 

You could feel his thrusts start to falter and knew he was so damn close. You hadn't even felt another orgasm building so it took you by surprise when his teeth grazed your earlobe right as you fell over that edge. "Fuck, squeezin the hell out of me baby" he growled before burying himself inside of you with one final thrust. You felt when he came, thick spurts of cum coating your walls and dripping out of your overworked cunt.

--------------------

The only sound that filled the room was both of you working to get your breathing back to normal and the light kisses he was leaving across whatever patch of your skin he could reach. "Guess you were a little more pissed at me than you said?" you teased, running your fingers through his sweaty hair and down his broad back, tracing scars and the marks from your nails. 

He lifted his head to look at you and you could see the worry in his eyes "Did I hurt you?" you shook your head "No Rick but tell me the truth" he kissed the base of your throat and you knew he felt you swallow hard at the action "You could've gotten yourself killed" "We're called the suicide squad. Kind of our thing, isn't it?" you joked and was rewarded with those hazel eyes full of fire glaring up at you "Very fuckin funny. Next time just listen to me. I hate arguing with you and pulling rank" "Especially when you lose?" you joked and he dipped his head down to bite down on your breast just hard enough you gasped. "Dammit Flag!" He gave you a broad grin "You behave and I'll behave" 

You shook your head "I promise that as long as your orders doesn't mean I have to stand on the sidelines and see a mission go sideways for no good reason besides I may get killed I'll listen to them" he dropped his head back down to your chest "You're fuckin killing me. Your legs feel like showering yet?" you nudged at his chest "If a big asshole would get off me" he lifted his head and gave you a smile that made your heart flip "You weren't complaining a few minutes ago about me being on top of you"

--------------------

This thing between you and Rick had started as a way to blow off steam. Neither of you had energy or time to date and definitely not to keep up pretenses of a relationship outside of work. He was someone you trusted to not hurt you plus the added benefit that you knew each other was clean of diseases and he couldn't get you pregnant from documented precautions you'd taken.

It was enjoyable, Rick was fucking amazing in bed. You'd never had anyone like him before who actually seemed to draw as much, if not more pleasure from giving than receiving. You spent most of your time together anyways so the friends with benefits idea was easy to wrap your head around after a conversation that set ground rules.

If either of you found someone you wanted to pursue it was over. If you stayed overnight whoever's house it wasn't slept on the couch. You didn't let it bleed into your work relationship or your friendship because you were too important to each other. You were honest with each other and most importantly and the one you were having a harder and harder time with looking in the eye was if you started to catch feelings you needed to tell the other person.

You couldn't tell Rick you were starting to feel more for him than the friend that you had mind blowing sex with for numerous reasons. Hell he didn't know the biggest secret you carried and you could only imagine the betrayal in those hazel eyes you loved so much when the day came that he found out. 

You'd hold your heart close at hand so when that day came the crush would maybe be a little cushioned or so you hoped. 

---------------------

You were half asleep when you heard your bedroom door creak open and rolled over to see Rick leaning against the doorframe with a grin "Mornin" "Mornin" you repeated with a smile. He held up a coffee mug in his hand so you held your arm out which caused him to laugh "So damn independent until she just woke up and she wants coffee" he walked over to the bed and waited until you'd pushed yourself up into a seated position to hand you the mug. You took a tentative sip and damn near moaned, Rick always made the best coffee. 

He raised an eyebrow before a smirk slipped onto his face "I haven't even touched you this morning but I'll take the compliment" you rolled your eyes and stared at him over the brim of the mug "If you're waking me up, Waller called you and will be calling me.." before you could finish the sentence your phone started chiming. You cut your eyes at Rick and he nodded, mimicking locking his lips before sitting down on the edge of the bed while you answered the call.

You answered the phone on the second ring "There's a briefing at ten. I already spoke to Colonel Flag. I expect both of you to be in attendance, Corporal, understood?" "Yes ma'am" You replied then the phone went dead in your hand. You rolled your eyes "She's always such a fuckin peach" 

Rick laughed and leaned over to place a gentle kiss right over your pulse "I gotta get going. I don't wanna roll in with the same clothes I left in. I'll see you there?" You nodded "See you there. Thanks for the coffee" "Anytime sweetheart. Anytime" he replied before standing up and walking out of your bedroom. 

You sat there and listened to his footsteps as he grabbed his jacket and slipped his boots on then walked out your door, smiling to yourself when you heard him lock the handle lock before shutting it behind himself.  You let out a deep breath then kicked your blanket off. Best not to keep Waller waiting. She was a bitch on a good day, let alone when she'd gotten impatient.

----------------------

When you pulled into your parking spot Rick stood with a shoulder leaned against his truck waiting on you to park your jeep. While the two of you made sure to never come into work together you always seemed to unconsciously wait on the other to actually walk into the building.

Once you'd shut your door and started walking towards him he pushed off his truck and took a step towards you "So, any idea on what we're walking into?" you asked and he shrugged "With Waller? You and me both know there's no telling" a laugh fell from your lips because there had never been a truer sentence spoken. 

You fell in step next to him as you headed towards the front entrance. Whatever it was, you could handle it, right?

---------------------

You and Rick shared an office, it made sense considering you were at ARGUS very little and what time you were there it was either reporting to Waller or doing paperwork. Of course it was a little crowded with two desks shoved into it but it was better than either of you having to share space with anyone else or having to have a desk out in the bullpen with Waller's office flunkies.

The two of you managed to make it into the office, sit down your belongings and sign into your computers before Waller's secretary Christina knocked on the door "Colonel Flag? Corporal Y/L/N? Miss Waller wants to see the two of you in her office" you opened the door and smiled at her "Christina, We've both told you to just call us Rick and Y/N. You don't have to use ranks or our last names" she smiled "Yes ma'am." before scurrying away

You glanced over your shoulder at Rick "How the hell is she working here again?" he shrugged "No clue on that one sweetheart?" you narrowed your eyes and his own widened "Sorry Y/N" you shook your head but laughed "You southern men" he held the door open with one hand so you could walk open, a smirk slipping onto his face when you barely had to duck "Let's go see if we're in trouble"

Waller's office was at the far end of the building, away from everyone else's. Normally the door would be closed along with the blinds being drawn but Christina must have told her she was successful in summoning the two of you because the door stood open and you could hear Waller's voice along with another woman's. Rick must have clocked the other voice as well because he glanced down at you with a questioning look. You shrugged but continued walking, letting him take the lead since that's what Waller would expect.

When Rick knocked at the open door her voice drifted out "Come in" you followed Rick into the door, clocking another woman standing with Waller. She was probably around your age, long honey brown hair that was done up in a pretty updo with light makeup and the bluest eyes you'd ever seen.

Her pantsuit looked freshly freshed and more than likely tailored to her. She smiled broadly when she saw the two of you, even when you both unintentionally fell into standing at attention until Waller gave an almost imperceivable nod. Once you and Rick eased your posture Amanda introduced you both in turn before waving a hand towards the woman "This is Kristin Jameson. She's a leading scientist in meta and mutation studies"

You felt your heart stutter when Waller's eyes flickered towards you, only Rick's voice saying "Pleasure to meet you ma'am" keeping you grounded enough to manage "Nice to meet you ma'am" she smiled "Miss Waller has assured me Belle Reeve and ARGUS has a lot to offer to my studies and my upcoming lecture in DC"  You could see the amusement in Amanda's eyes when you swallowed hard as Rick asked "She studying prisoners?"

"Among others" Waller replied and you nodded sharply before she said "The two of you are to assist her in any way she needs as you have working relationships with a lot of Belle Reeve" "Yes ma'am" you spoke first, managing to keep your voice steady as you spoke, hoping like hell Rick wouldn't notice anything was off and quickly felt your heart fall when you realized his eyes were firmly on Kristin "You're dismissed for now. I'll let you know when she needs an escort or assistance"

You nodded and turned to walk out, hearing Kristin say it was nice to meet you both and Rick returning the sentiment. You couldn't be bothered to worry about it.You had to ignore the aching feeling in your chest at noticing how Rick's attention had been on her because of how Waller had been looking at you. Damn her. She'd do anything to prove she had the best tools at her disposal no matter who got hurt.

Rick caught up with you before you could get all the way back to your shared office which given how much longer his legs were there really wasn't a surprise there. "What do you think that's about?" he asked, watching you as you walked straight to your jacket and slipped it on despite having been warm just moments before. "Don't know" you spoke more to yourself than to him. 

He nodded towards your jacket "You good? I can turn the heat up?" you shook your head as you sat down in front of your computer. You had two stacks worth of paperwork to go through and your stacks were small compared to Rick's. "And heat you to death? No, I'll warm up in a few" you replied and he nodded slowly, a lazy smirk working its way onto his face "Unless you want body heat to warm you?" you cut your eyes up "I'll shoot you" and was rewarded with one of his laughs that made your entire body warm. You loved when he genuinely laughed, especially when considering most of the time only you were allowed to hear it. It felt like a part of him reserved only for you. "Just sayin" he shrugged.

So far Kristin had been around for a couple weeks and she'd yet to approach you about anything other than escorts to the prison. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad. Maybe you could get through this with your head and heart intact. You walked around a corner after delivering a stack of finished work to Christina and felt like you'd been dipped in ice water when you heard that same sound that normally warmed you to the core, Rick's laughter. This time it wasn't at your teasing or Boomer busting his ass falling off the ramp of a plane, no he was standing next to the coffee pot talking to Kristin. He was turned facing her and the way she was looking up at him made your stomach churn.

Why hadn't you seen it before? June. The one person Rick had let claim his heart. Genius, gorgeous and the exact same type of woman as Kristin Jameson. You'd been so concerned about her for other reasons you hadn't realized she was perfect for Rick but from looking at how they interacted there was a good chance they may have started to figure it out for themselves and that thought made you want to vomit. Fuck, you fucked up. If Rick got with Kristin, you'd have to be happy for him but you'd never be able to look him in the eyes again because he knew you too well. He'd know something was wrong and then you'd lose him for good.

You hadn't realized your attention had been so focused on them until you slammed into Anderson headed to the copy machine and papers went everywhere.

"Shit Anderson! I'm so sorry!" you muttered, crouching to help him collect the papers. He smiled at you "No problem but are you ok? I've never seen you so distracted besides that time Harley caught those squirrels and let em loose in Belle Reeve and you had to help catch em" you laughed at the memory of that chaos "Yeah, no I'm good. Maybe I'm going a little stir crazy? too much calm?" he shook his head "My dad always said marines were a different breed" you raised an eyebrow "Wasn't your dad a marine?" he nodded "Yeah" you laughed and handed him the papers you picked up "Sorry about that again. I'll watch where i'm going" 

You hadn't noticed your little debacle had earned Rick's attention because when you straightened up Kristin was gone and Rick was watching you. "You ok?" he mouthed and you nodded "Perfect" before turning on your heel, where you were going you weren't sure considering your office was a shared space but you needed to catch your breath without being within touching distance of Rick.

"You doing anything tonight?" Rick asked, perched on the edge of your desk. You barely glanced up from looking over the team list for the upcoming mission "Sleeping?" he reached for the file in your hand and took it before you could snatch it back. When you cut your eyes up at him the smile he gave you made your heart flip, god why had you ever thought you wouldn't fall for a man like Flag? The tact pants he wore hugged his thighs and legs beautifully and that damn black t shirt clung to his biceps and shoulders in a way that very well would've had any woman drooling and you were not exempt.  When he realized he had your attention on him he laughed "She does still have eyes! Been so long since I saw em I was startin to worry darlin" you rolled your eyes and held your hand out "Can I have that back Rick?"

He shook his head "Only when you tell me what I did to piss you off" you ran a hand across your face "Nothing Rick. It's just been a lot with babysittin the scientist, finding out we have an upcoming mission and oh yeah if we don't die on that mission we have to go play Waller's good little pets in D.C. nothing I love more than that" he nodded slowly "Then come over or let me come over. I miss spending time with you" 

You raised an eyebrow and saw a blush color his cheeks which considering the things the two of you had done, was short of comical "Not like that Y/N! Well I mean I wouldn't tell you no but I mean just spending time together, movie or dinner something like that. Catch our breath and talk without it being around files or team lists" oh boy this was it. Him telling you he wanted to pursue Kristin. Fuck, how were you gonna get out of this? "Maybe after the mission?" you offered and saw the way his shoulders dropped "The mission is still three days away" 

You nodded "We need to prep. Make sure we're as ready as we can be cause god knows Amanda isn't ever gonna tell us everything we need to know" he studied you for a second before finally saying "We promised to be honest with each other when we first became friends. I can tell when you're lying to me but I'm gonna pretend I can't and say ok sweetheart because that's what you want me to say. Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know I'm not gonna judge you and I'm always gonna have your back" "I know Rick and I will, I promise. This mission and everything just has my head a little crooked" he pushed himself up off your desk, standing to his full height before leaning over to place a kiss right under your right ear "I'll be here waiting to help you get it back straight whenever you'll let me" then passed you the file back before walking over to his own desk.

You looked up at him and he smiled before turning to his own work. You just had to get through this, right? 

Getting through it was easier said than done as it seemed. You were used to missions going a certain way or well what happened before missions. The suiting up, the debrief and the roll out to collect your team. 

You hadn't expected Kristin to still be at ARGUS. You hadn't known Waller had given her a desk or well maybe you had and buried the information but when you spotted her when you walked out of the debriefing you forced a smile onto your face. You were a lot of things but rude for no reason was not one of them.

You gave her a small nod and headed for transport telling Rick over your shoulder you'd meet him at the air strip. You looked back in just enough time to see her and him talking and felt your heart drop when he leaned down to say something in her ear. A mission was good. You could focus on something besides your heart breaking.

You slammed into the door leading outside and bit your cheek when the cold wind slammed into your face. Fuck, you'd forgot your jacket. No way were you going back inside. Maybe there would be an extra one in the squad's gear. You rubbed your hands across your arms and headed for the truck waiting to take you to pick up the team.

---------------------

You stepped out of the transport truck and locked the door into place so everyone could file out. Luckily it was the usual suspects so no one needed to hear the rundown about the implants in their necks or how much time they'd get off their sentences. 

No one had an extra jacket and you hadn't wanted to take Boomers bomber jacket or Harley's cropped leather one that they'd offered off their own back so you stood with your arms tightly crossed while they one by one unloaded from the truck then headed for the plane where Rick stood talking to the pilot. 

You hadn't looked his way since you stepped out of the truck. You were being childish. You'd known this day was coming. Rick Flag was a good man, anyone could see that. You couldn't hold it against Kristin even if you wanted nothing more than to.

Once the last member of the squad was off the truck and walking up the ramp of the plane you closed the door and slapped it "We're good!" The truck rumbled away so you took a deep breath before following the team.

--------------------

You tried to walk past Rick considering the pilot had even headed on-board to start the takeoff process but his hand shot out and wrapped around your right bicep.You cut your eyes at him and saw he was holding your jacket out with his other hand "You forgot this"

"Thanks" it was barely a mutter but you got it out. You took the jacket from him and he dropped your arm to allow you to slip it on. You could feel your arms start to thaw slightly as soon as the jacket was covering them. He nodded and looked up towards the plane then down towards his boots "Now's not the time. I know it but what is going on with us? We aren't ever this out of sync" 

You shrugged one shoulder "We're good Flag. Don't worry, please" you didn't want his focus to be split when you knew bullets would be flying in no time. He held your gaze and took a step closer, effectively eliminating what little distance had remained between the two of you and using his height over you to his advantage. His voice was deeper than usual when he spoke, his accent bleeding out "That right there is how I know we're not. Outside of joking you ain't called me Flag when we've been alone in years now"

You swallowed hard, ignoring how his voice made your entire body feel like a flame was licking across it. It was going to be hard to get over him. You raised your eyes to fully meet his and saw a bit of a smile threaten his face before it quickly fell when you asked "Did ya tell Kristin bye?" You saw the confusion spread across his face and used the opening to slip past him onto the plane. 

------------------------

"WHEELS UP IN FIVE" You hollered to the pilot as you took your seat next to Harley. "Yes ma'am" the pilot replied as Rick finally walked up the ramp and sat down across the walkway from you, his eyes drilling into you but you refused to look at him. You had to focus on this mission. 

Harley bumped your boot with her own and you looked at her "Where'd ya find ya jacket?" You nodded towards Rick "Our fearless leader brought it to me" you could see the muscles in his jaw clench at your words. You never referred to him as team leader because you ran the squad together but Waller had introduced him as leader to Kristin. 

"Awe that was sweet of ya Flag" she laughed and he nodded, eyes never leaving you "I'm less of an asshole than given credit for"  You didn't want to be the first to break eye contact but knew you had to. The squad would get restless if you and Rick were arguing before takeoff. When you let your eyes drift to Harley she struck up a conversation about getting you a jacket to match her own. You half heartedly listened because while normally you actually did enjoy her company your attention was currently on the set of eyes you could still feel on you. Yeah this was going to be a long mission.

-----------------------

You were pinned down with Harley and two bodies of fallen squad members. This shitty mission had gone from bad to worse. "Corporal, report!" Waller's voice echoed through the com in your ear. You met Harley's eyes, both of your chests heaving with every breath "Sorry, kinda busy right now. Check on Colonel Flag and I'll report soon if I'm not dead" You clicked the button on your com so you could hear chatter but they couldn't hear you. A bullet whizzed right past Harley's ear causing you both to flinch. You eyed the doorway that was separating you from getting the hell out of this. The only problem? Someone had to get it open. Easier said than done when every time these assholes even thought they saw either of you they started shooting.

"Toots, you know I love ya but I think we may be screwed" you huffed out a breath, forming a plan that was really really bad but the only option you had. You dug the two computer drives out of the pocket of your pants and held them out to Harley "Keep these in one piece and when I say go, get that damn door open. That is your only focus, not me, not bullets. Understood?" She tucked the computer drives away but looked confused "How are you gonna block em?" You gave her a tight lipped smile "Just trust me Harls and if we get outta this I'll make sure this one is twenty off"

She nodded and slid to the edge of the half fallen wall you'd taken shelter behind. You checked the automatic rifle in your hands, along with the two 9mm you carried. All you had to do was buy her twenty seconds tops. "Now" you breathed, stepping out to draw their fire.

You heard Harley's boots hitting the floor as she ran and the sound of the chain on the door giving way but couldn't turn your attention from the hail of bullets. You thought you were clear and had gotten lucky. Three were down, two had been called back to pursue Rick's half of the team. You made the mistake of glancing back to ensure your footing was clear and felt a bullet tear through your right side, just above your hip. 

Harley screamed your name as you stumbled, hand clutching your side but you shook your head "Dammit move Quinn!" her eyes went wide when she saw how much blood was gushing from between your fingers. "Flag's gonna kill me" "Flag will be fine" you told her from between gritted teeth. You needed to get somewhere secure to dig into your med kit but with Harley here, there was no way she wouldn't want to help. "Just help me move, please" you begged and she moved to your left side, throwing your arm over her shoulder. 

The two of you ran sloppily through the halls, clearing the corners as best as you could until you came to what appeared to be a janitor's closet. "This'll work" "Work for what? You're gonna bleed to death!" she nearly squealed and you shook your head, feeling dizzy from the movement and blood you'd lost "No I wont. I just need you to trust me and to know I can trust you" "You can trust me" she helped you into the closet and down into a sitting position.

You fumbled twice for your med kit before her hands covered yours "Tell me what to do" you leaned back against the wall, closing your eyes against a rush of pain "We need bandages, forceps to dig out the bullet and a few of the pyro packs that are in there" "pyro packs?" she asked and your eyes flew open to glare at her "Ok ok" she dug out the metallic bags that read "Caution. Burn Risk" and looked them over "What now?" you swallowed twice "Open them up" she did as you asked, being careful to not let the material touch her skin before looking up at you. You smiled "Now's time to dig the bullet out" she shook her head "How about I go find Flag! Or we call him over the coms? That man would fight this whole place to get to you"

You shook your head "No time. You're who's here" she nodded and grabbed the forceps. You managed a smile "It's gonna hurt me but you're not. Dig in,find the bullet and snatch it out. The moment the bullet comes out, put the entire contents of both bags directly into the wound. Don't question it. Then bandage it up" She swallowed loudly then nodded "Fuck, I wish someone was here to hold your hand" you laughed "I got it Harley. Just do it" you leaned your head back and closed your eyes as you felt the cold forceps touch the edges of the wound followed by the excruciating pain of Harley trying to secure the bullet "You got it" you breathed and she pulled it out. 

You heard the metallic twang of it hitting the floor before she poured the heat pack into it. You let out a breath at the familiar warmth flooding your system. Your entire body relaxed into itself as that gene inherited from your grandmother kicked in. You could feel the muscles and flesh that had been shredded by the bullet begin to knit themselves back together as Harley taped a gauze over the wound that had already stopped bleeding. Her eyes widened at the lack of blood "Wanna tell me what that was?" you shook your head "And Rick doesn't find out I got shot" she held your gaze and a silent understanding passed. You smiled weakly "Give me a few breaths then I'll be able to get on my feet. Blood loss is a bitch" "Even to someone like you?" Harley guessed quietly and you nodded "Yeah, even to someone like me"

--------------------

By the time you were able to get your feet under you Rick was screaming across the coms "GOD DAMMIT Y/N. WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"  Harley winked at you and hit her com "Easy Flaggy. We got a little pinned down. We lost the two new kids" "Fuck. Are you two ok?" you hit your com "We're good Rick. Retrieved what we came for. See you at evac?" he took a deep breath after you spoke and his voice was a bit more gentle when he said "Yeah. See you at evac" 

When you and Harley burst out the building you made a run for the chopper where Flag stood outside of. He smiled slightly when he saw the two of you then his eyes trailed down to the blood soaking you and it quickly dropped. You stopped to let Harley get on board and he snatched you close enough you could hear him over the rotors "What happened to you not being hurt?" you glanced down and shrugged "Who said this is my blood? Now light this bitch up and let's go home" 

You squeezed into the chopper between Rick and the pilot, watching as the building beneath you all burnt to ash once you were high enough to detonate. You could feel sleep tugging at you, a side effect of healing a wound that would've killed any other human but you couldn't sleep yet. You still had to get to the plane home. You felt your eyelids flutter but shook your head to resist and knew Rick noticed when he moved close enough his shoulder was right in place with your head that all you had to do was barely lean over to be resting against it.

You wanted to resist but fuck you were tired and he was so warm, your body craved the extra heat to help replace the blood loss faster..before you knew it he was waking you up to move from the chopper to the plane and once again on the plane you let yourself fall asleep against him again...if he was ending the intimacy between the two of you once you made it home you could enjoy it now plus the added bonus that you would have replinished the lost blood and not be weak for the debrief with Waller.

Harley curled up to your back like a cat and for once you didn't try to stop her, whether she knew you needed to raise your core temp or she was just tired you didn't care. It was a cocoon of warmth that lulled your aching body to sleep.

----------------------

You followed Rick through the halls toward Waller's office. While he'd been signing everyone back in at Belle Reeve you'd managed to change your shirt at least, fuck your dry cleaner got half your salary at this point. He kept eyeing the blood that stained your pants and you hoped he hadn't figured out from the spill pattern that it had indeed come from you. The bandage itched like crazy which meant the skin was mended or almost. You had luckily found a dark enough colored shirt no one could tell the bandage was there.

Once you walked through the bullpen you were glad to see Kristin at least wasn't there. You weren't sure if you could keep up being polite. You followed Rick into Waller's office and stood back while he went through the basics of the missions and handed over the computer drives and other files that had been recovered. She listened, stoic as always then dismissed the both of you. 

You walked slowly behind Rick, fighting the urge to scratch at your side. You knew he would probably hold you to the whole getting together after the mission like you promised, but you hoped he'd let you off the hook for the time being.  When the two of you hit the parking lot before you ever had a chance to shiver his jacket was draped across your shoulders. You looked back at him and he shrugged "Yours was soaked in blood Darlin" you felt your heart flip at how gentle his voice was. "Rick, I don't want to talk tonight, please"

You headed for your jeep but before you could get the door open he caught your arm and spun you around so your back was to the side of the jeep and he was as close as he could get without invading your personal space, one hand resting just over your head on the jeep and the other hovering above your hip "No, I think we need to talk. Your choice whether it's here or your place" you swallowed hard at the warmth radiating off of him. How the fuck did this man smell so damn good after a mission like that? You wanted to bury yourself in him. "My place" you finally said after a moment and he smiled before leaning down to let his lips brush against your neck "Good girl" you shivered lightly before shoving against his chest "Go get your truck! We both need a shower!" he groaned "Damn, I can't shower with you after missions. You try to fuckin cook me" "Cry baby" you teased before gently shoving him again "Now go, I'll meet you there"

-----------------------

You stood under the stream of the shower watching the pink tinged water spin down the drain. Damn, you'd had more blood on you than you'd thought. After washing your hair and body, your fingers found the new scar decorating your side. If it was on anyone else and you were asked how old the scar was you would say at least a couple weeks, old enough that the skin wasn't still soft and sensitive but still new enough it was a light pink color. Maybe it was better that Rick was ending things, at least you wouldn't have to explain weird scars anymore. If he touched you like this there's no way he wouldn't notice the scar and you weren't sure you could play it off as him just having never noticed it. 

You heard a knock at your door and knew it was Rick. You sighed and turned the water off before grabbing your robe. You'd let him in then get dressed. If he insisted on having this conversation tonight he could very damn well wait in your living room while you got dressed. 

When you unlocked the door and swung it open his eyes trailed down your body and a look passed over his face that made a different kind of heat roll through you. No, you weren't going there. "Well damn sweetheart, I'm overdressed" he teased and you rolled your eyes, running the towel in your hand over your hair "Very funny. I just got out of the shower. I was caked in blood" he nodded "Yeah, that's what took me so long to get here" he leaned down as if to kiss you but you side stepped. At his confused expression you pointed towards your bedroom "I'm gonna go get some clothes on. Want to pour some of that whiskey Simon sent me for my birthday?"  

If you were having your heart ripped out you needed something strong to keep up a front and god bless your sergeant he always sent you a bottle of the good shit every year. Rick nodded and headed for your kitchen while you made a beeline for your room. You could hear him opening cabinets but focused on finding comfortable clothes. After a while you decided on a tank and sleep shorts. The tank was tight enough no bra was required. After running a brush through your hair you took a final look in the mirror then took a step into the living room. Rick looked up from where he'd been leaning against your kitchen counter apparently watching your bedroom door. He'd kicked his shoes off and his jacket was across the back of your couch. The way he looked at you made your skin flush, you had to reel it in. He was too important to lose because he no longer wanted to sleep with you.

You walked across the floor to him and he held out a glass tumblr of the whiskey. "Thank you sir" you whispered before downing almost the entire thing in one gulp. His eyes widened slightly. "That kind of night?"  You scoffed "You could say that" he was still sipping on his glass and a part of you had an urge to grab his and down it just for the burn of it. You tapped your nails along your glass "What was so important Rick?" you asked looking up at him and he laughed "Always straight to the point with you"

You shrugged "Well I mean no point in beating around the bush here" you gulped down what was left in your glass then sat it down. He swallowed his then reached for your hip, pulling you closer to him "C'mere. I've missed being alone with you" you let him pull you against his chest but braced your palms against the hard muscles to keep some distance between you even as he tried yet again to kiss you and you turned your head "Did I do something wrong? I don't think I broke any of the rules" he asked, settling to kiss the top of your head as his hands settled on your hips.

You laughed lightly "You did nothing Rick but I know what you want to talk about" he pulled back to look down at you and he looked uncertain? "You do?" you nodded "You're my friend Rick, probably one of my closest friends if not closest anymore. You're important to me and I wouldn't want to lose you but I ain't really a fuck me goodbye type. You don't fuckin want me? cool. You want Kristin? I get it, she's your type but I don't have to like it nor do I have to see it flaunted in my face so if I'm distant for a while don't take it personal" He took a step back, untucking himself from around you. 

You watched as he shook his head, running a hand down his face before he looked at you and laughed. The noise still managing to wrap itself around you despite being at your expense "You've been jealous?" "No I haven't" you argued and he took a step closer, whispering your name. 

You shook your head "I knew what this was from the start" "Still not answering the question" he took another step and you unintentionally took a step backwards "She's a scientist and gorgeous" he nodded "Yeah" a flame of anger flickered through you at him admitting it that easily and to your face.  "I knew whatever this was wouldn't last from the moment we met her" you breathed and he took two steps towards you which caused you to take two steps backwards and you cursed when you felt your back hit the counter. He planted a hand on either side of you, palm flat down on the counter and leaned down to speak into the shell of your ear "Still avoiding the fact that you've been downright mean to me because you've been jealous"

You turned your head slightly to meet his eyes, trying to ignore how close your face was and how you'd barely have to lean in for your lips to find his "Yes! Ok? Fuck you Rick! I've been fucking jealous! For so long I've been at your side, leading the squad and dealing with Waller's bullshit, having your back and you having mine. I've been in your bed, you've been in mine and I fooled myself into thinking just because I wouldn't want anyone else that you wouldn't either and now I have to sit back and watch you be with her and pretend that it's not hurting me to not lose you completely so yes I am fucking jealous that she'll have you. Happy?"

His eyes studied your face for a heartbeat and you could feel your heart stutter. Normally you could read Rick's emotions fairly easily but this was once you had no clue what was going on in that head of his. After what felt like too long he laughed again, lighter this time before closing the distance between the two of you. The first brush of his lips against yours drove reason out of your mind. You knew it was a bad idea, a clean break healed easier but fuck you needed this man like you needed air.

His hands moved to your hips, easily picking you up and sitting you on the counter so he could step between your legs. His tongue slipped past your lips, teasing yours as he swallowed the moan that escaped you. Your hands tangled themselves in his hair, tugging gently. When the need for air forced the two of you apart he moved from your lips to kiss down your jaw then to your neck. One of his hands slipped between your thighs, cupping your clothed core as he bit down on your pulse point then sucked the skin into his mouth. a broken sob of a moan that was somewhere between a praise and a curse falling from your lips. 

When your brain caught up to the fact that he was marking you, visibly you shoved a hand against his chest "Rick, stop" he froze the moment the words left you,hands moving off your body and lips leaving your skin. His broad chest was heaving as he looked down at you through heavy lashes "What's wrong sweetheart?" it took you two times to manage to get enough air in your lungs to actually form coherent thoughts "What kind of fucking response is marking me?" he grinned "I thought a clear enough one" he leaned in again to brush a gentle kiss against your lips "I don't want Kristin. I haven't wanted to talk about her. I want you. I only agreed to these damn rules because you freaked after the first time we slept together and I couldn't stand the idea of you running away from me" 

You swallowed hard, this was Rick. The best man you'd ever met, the only man you'd ever truly could imagine something with. "You want me?" you asked in such a small voice you flinched. He pushed your hair back out of your face, hand cupping the back of your neck as he kissed your forehead then the tip of your nose then your cheek before his lips found yours, a lingering kiss full of every promise he couldn't put words to "Every part of you" you felt a twinge of guilt when you thought about the parts he didn't know about. "Rick, I.." he cut you off with another kiss before saying "Darlin, anything you want to tell me you can but please let me take you to bed. I've never got to go to sleep with you in my arms and wake up with you there" you nodded slowly and started to climb off the counter but instead he pulled you into his arms giving you no choice but to wrap your arms around his waist "I can walk Rick!" you squealed and he nipped at your throat "I prefer this" 

-----------------------

You were half asleep with Rick's head laid on your bare stomach. Even after so many times of the two of you sleeping together he'd treated you like this was the first time, exploring every inch of skin. You were spent from how many times he'd pushed you to that brink and over so you were currently just enjoying the feeling of him exploring the body.

He kissed passed your navel and you felt him still right before his fingers grazed the new scar on your right side "Baby where'd this come from?" you tried to control your heart rate because you knew he could hear it from where he was laying. You leaned up slightly to look and shrugged "I'm not sure honestly" his lips trailed across it "It wasn't there the last time we had sex" You laid back against the pillow, trailing your fingers through his hair "Are you sure?" when you cut your eyes back down at him he was giving you that "Cut the bullshit" look "Fairly certain I've kissed every inch of you multiple times" you shrugged "I honestly don't know Rick" he finally nodded before making his way up your body.

When he got to your lips he kissed you gently before pulling you over to lay across his chest. Your fingers traced the mark he'd insisted you give him to match the one he'd planted on your neck "What about Waller?" you asked and he scoffed "That bitch sees us as tools, weapons. As long as we're effective she doesn't give a shit. Hell she'd probably he thrilled to have more shit to hold over our heads" 

You shook your head "Yeah, I don't like the idea of her using me to make you jump through hoops" he smiled before brushing his lips against yours "She's had the power to do that for a lot longer than you think" "Oh" you said quietly and he nodded "Don't worry, we'll handle it as it comes. Now let me hold you since I've never been allowed to" you laughed and turned to tuck your back against his chest. He pulled you as close to him as he could before placing a kiss to your bare shoulder "Get some sleep. We can handle the crazy tomorrow" 

If Waller noticed a shift between you and Rick she didn't comment on it. Your work dynamic didn't change, hell it shocked you to realize a lot of your dynamic didn't change. Had you and Rick been a couple and you were the last to realize?

You were finishing up paperwork when a knock at the office door made you look up to see Kristin standing there "Hey" you spoke and she smiled "Hey" she cut her eyes at Rick who looked busy at work but you knew he was listening to every word then back at you "Can I buy you a coffee so we can talk?" you felt your stomach knot but nodded nonetheless. You stood up and grabbed your jacket off the back of your chair, walking around your desk. You tapped Rick's on the way by "Want me to bring your usual back?" he looked from you to Kristin, a silent ask of if you were ok in his eyes. You gave him a smile so he nodded "Yeah. Thanks" 

You turned to Kristin and smiled "Your car or my jeep" she shrugged "Your jeep is fine by me" you waved a hand towards the exit "Then let's go. Any excuse to leave that Waller wont blow a coronary about is fine by me" when she laughed a part of you felt bad about how much you'd disliked her when you thought there was something between her and Rick "Can't blame you there. I'd offer for you to bring Colonel Flag but I think you'll want this conversation to just be the two of us" ok that made you nervous but you both knew she couldn't say anything further in the building so you nodded "Rick's a big boy. He can amuse himself while I'm gone"

---------------------

You sat across from Kristin, staring down into your coffee and trying to process what she'd just told you "So the military is doing what exactly? experiments with meta and mutation genes?" she nodded "They're trying to form better soldiers. Find better mutations to see if humans could develop them,from the medical records Amanda released on you, how your blood has healed the squad even without them knowing..they're going to want samples before the lectures in D.C" 

You nodded slowly "How much blood? Are they going to try to drain me here?" you could feel yourself start to panic, not for yourself as much as the fact that you knew if they came for you the three most important people to you would be willing to die to save you,Rick of course along with Sergeant Simon O'Reilly and Staff Sergeant Johnny Moore. Not to mention if they knew of your genes they may know of Johnny's.

"I've made a deal for one vial of bone marrow and that is it. That was the best I could do, I'm sorry. I never meant for my research to be bastardized like this" you could tell she meant every word so you reached across the table to gently take her hand in yours, squeezing it lightly "Thank you for fighting for me and for not exposing me to Rick before I'm ready" she nodded and in turn squeezed your hand "If it's any help, if it was me,no matter how bad of dealings I'd had in the past nothing could change my feelings for my wife. I've seen the way Rick looks at you. That man worships the ground you walk on. He won't be angry at you for who you are but he may be angry for you feeling like you had to hide who you are from him all this time" you knew she was right but you were so deep now how the hell were you supposed to get out of the hole?

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JM: Fuck the government 

SO: Video call asap luv

The moment you rolled over and checked your phone you knew that Johnny had been cornered about his genes as well. While you had a healing mutation he carried a different type, he found at a young age he could manipulate time around him. Slow it down or speed it up. Made him hell on the battlefield. "Fuck" you cursed under your breath, forgetting Rick was in the bed with you until his arm encircled your waist and his lips brushed the base of your spine "Somethin wrong?" his accent was always heavier when he just woke up. You turned to place a quick kiss on his lips "No baby. Johnny and Simon just got into some shit and need me to call em" he chuckled "Always pulling the men in your life outta the fire" you winked over your shoulder at him "Someone has to" before slipping out of his bedroom and out into the living room.

You hit the buttons on your phone and within a few seconds both Simon and Johnny's faces were on your screen "There she is" Simon spoke first, his irish accent making your lips quirk up. Johnny leaned closer to his phone "Hold on now. That isn't your place" you felt your face warm when both of their eyebrows shot up. "Has our little spitfire got herself a boyfriend?" Simon chuckled and you rolled your eyes "Wasn't there a reason for this call?" Johnny nodded with a grin "Yeah but we can get to that in a minute" you shook your head "No, now" they both laughed then went into telling you how Johnny had gotten the call about a vial of bone marrow having to be given. "Yeah, I did too," you whispered. "Are we fucked?" Johnny asked and you shrugged "I hope not? I've got to escort Waller and the leading scientist to DC for the lectures behind the science so maybe I can dig more" 

Simon grinned "Good, we'll be there too" "Really?" you asked with a  matching grin because you hadn't seen both of them together in person in years. "Yeah, someone has to represent the corps considering someone got pulled over to the redacted sides of things" Johnny teased and you shook your head "Please Moore, once a marine always a marine" "You better remember that" he laughed then he whistled to get Simon's attention and you knew what they were thinking before Simon ever asked "So, who is this mystery fella that got our little lassie to settle down?" 

Before you could say anything the bedroom door opened behind where you stood in the center of the living room and Rick walked out behind you, shirtless. Johnny and Simon both spoke over each other "Good morning Colonel Flag!" the shit eating grins on their faces made you want to stab the both of them considering you could just give them blood and heal them afterwards. He looked from you to the phone before nodding "Simon, Johnny" 

Rick stopped to kiss your cheek "I'm making coffee" then headed for the kitchen. You finally looked back to your phone screen to see Simon had his arms crossed and Johnny was shaking his head "We need to discuss a dowry" "I want to know his intentions!" "Goodbye boys! See you in D.C!" you laughed before hanging up the call.

Rick leaned against the counter when you looked up and motioned towards your phone "They're gonna be in D.C?" you nodded and he smiled "Might not be that bad then if you get to catch up with them" you shook your head with a laugh "Or may be worse, with them there is no way to tell" 

----------------------------

The day you went to give the bone marrow you were grateful for the healing you possessed because that shit hurt. You were still limping slightly when you got back to the office but Rick was luckily at Belle Reeve handling something about someone trying to make an army of possums. When you walked into your office you realized it was warmer than normal and a coffee was sitting on your desk, still steaming. A box sat next to the cup of coffee and when you opened it there was a small thing of what looked like hand cream inside with a note from Kristin "This is a more diluted version of what's in your pyro packs. It'll help" you smiled and sat down gently in the chair, wishing like hell you could help Johnny because he'd be in pain for a few days from this shit at least.

By the time Rick got back your hip was a dull ache and you'd turned the heat down in the office. He closed the door behind him and shook his head "Twenty six" you laughed at how tired he looked from chasing giant rodents over how he normally looked after missions. He walked around your desk and leaned down to place a gentle kiss to your lips "Your physical go ok?" you nodded "All clear for another year" he smiled "Good to know" you hated lying to him but how the hell did you bring it up in conversation now?

D.C. was gorgeous as always. The lectures were being held in a nearby conference hall that was so far locked down you were surprised the guest list didn't require a dna scan to get in the front door. Day one was casual, meaning you and Rick were both in suits. The skirt you wore hit just above your knees and you'd caught Rick being distracted more than once and had to remind him that the two of you were supposed to be looking the part of guards for Waller, that was why she'd allowed your holsters to be worn in plain sight.

His hand skimmed your lower back and he whispered in your ear "Something about you in a skirt and armed is just beyond sexy" you shook your head with a laugh "Easy soldier. We have time for that later" you just hoped Waller had nothing else up her sleeve. Johnny and Simon had landed about an hour after your plane but you hadn't met up with them yet, you hoped to see them soon but Waller had to dismiss you and Rick for you to be able to socialize anyways.

The two of you walked in behind Waller, you on her left and Rick on her right. She headed for the front of the room so you trailed behind like good puppies. She greeted an older gentleman who eyed you "Amanda" she introduced both you and Rick by rank. the older gentleman nodded to you both "Colonel, Corporal" 

The next two hours went pretty much like that until the blessed time came that she disappeared into meetings that you nor Rick had clearance for so you were dismissed until summoned. Rick cut his eyes at you considering you were still in the conference hall "Well we got a couple hours" you felt a smirk pulling at your lips until you heard an accented voice say "Nope, if she's not busy you gotta share her" you turned to see Simon and Johnny walking towards you. 

"Simon!" you greeted, pulling him into a hug first then when Johnny pouted letting him go to pull the other man into one as well. You looked them over and couldn't help but laugh. Both were around Rick's height, Simon maybe had an inch on him. Johnny had dark black hair and bright blue eyes while Simon had honey brown hair and the darkest green eyes you'd ever seen. Both were decent looking men and despite the suits they were clearly being made for them they looked so damn uncomfortable it was pathetic.

Johnny held onto your waist and looked over your head at Rick "Flag. Treating our girl well?" he nodded "Of course" Simon winked at you before saying "I think we should all go to lunch while you two are free. Me and Johnny want to have a talk with Rick" you spun out of Johnny's arms to playfully glare at him and he laughed "C'mon lassie, think the colonel gonna scare off that easy?" Rick cleared his throat and when the three of you looked at him he waved towards the exit "Let's go get lunch" then reached for your hand. When you let him take it you heard Simon chuckle "oh he's gonna be fun"

They'd known Rick for a while now but knowing him as your partner versus knowing him as your boyfriend? That was two very different experiences. You shot a look over your shoulder at Simon "Behave Sergeant" he winked at you "Don't worry luv. If he can hold up under you me and Johnny wont phase him"  

---------------------

"Oh I absolutey did fuckin not!" you laughed, tossing a mozzarella stick at Johnny across the table. He was currently embellishing a story about one night when your unit had gone for drinks in Germany and a bar fight had ensued. Rick cut his eyes at you, a grin pulling at his lips "I don't know baby, sounds like something you'd do" you mock gasped then looked at Simon for backup "A little help here Sergeant?" he shook his head "You're on your own luv" you tsk tsked "Three men like yourselves ganging up on a defenseless woman" that made all of them bust out laughing "You're a lot of things, defenseless ain't one of em"  Rick teased pulling you closer so he could place a kiss on your temple.

Simon gave you a look at the action and you felt yourself warm even before he reached for your hand "C'mon Corporal, let's go pay the tabs" Rick passed you his card before you could ever reach for your own and Johnny made an approving sound before you glared at him and he raised his hands in defense "I said nothing!"

You followed Simon across the little bar and grill the four of you had chosen, waiting for him to ask. He managed to wait until the waitress came back with your receipts "Have ya told him?" "Told him what?" you decided on the innocent route but knew that would fall flat "About your.." he paused when someone passed by before deciding on "diagnosis" you didn't meet his eyes and that was answer enough "How the hell have you kept it from him this long?" you shrugged "It hasn't been easy believe me and that was before I started sleeping with him" 

He shook his head with a laugh "How did that come about anyways?" you shrugged again "Shit happens?" this time he was the one to shrug "Foundation of some of the most solid relationships right there. I may be overstepping but can I ask, do ya love him?" you opened your mouth to deny it then closed it back when no sound would immediately come out. Did you love Rick? When a few seconds passed with you neither confirming nor denying he put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed gently "If he cares about you as much as I believe he does it won't matter to him. Didn't matter to me when I found out about you or Johnny"  you nodded slowly "Thanks Si" he smiled "Anytime luv" before the two of you headed back to the table.

---------------------

For the next few days whenever you and Rick weren't at Waller's beck and call you ended up making sure to carve out time in your day for Simon and Johnny. You hadn't realized how much you'd missed them. You and Rick had just made it back to your room from a bar with them when you finally decided on having enough liquid courage to tell him the truth. 

You watched him close the door and lock it as you slipped your shoes off then walked over to where he stood, leaned back against the door, watching you with an unreadable expression "Rick?" he seemed to break out of whatever trance he'd been in and smiled before pulling you into his arms. "I'm glad to see you having fun catching up with your guys sweetheart. I can tell they missed you and you missed them: You nodded, letting your hand trail down the front of his shirt to begin working on the buttons of it "I want to talk to you about something important" His hands covered yours, stopping you from disrobing him any further "Are you transferring from ARGUS?" "What?" you froze at his question because even if you wanted to you couldn't for five more years and even then you'd want him to leave with you. 

He slipped his shirt off and tossed it onto the bed before crashing his lips against yours in a kiss that was hungry and rushed. You kissed him back, trying to pull him closer until he suddenly broke away from you "If you want to transfer I'll support you, it's just..:" he trailed off and leaned down to place a kiss on your neck before continuing "I love you and I want you to be happy but I can't pretend it won't hurt to be away from you"

You damn near stumbled back from him in shock and wanted to kick yourself for how defeated he looked "I'm sorry. It's too soon. I shouldn't have sprung that on you and I'm not wanting a response I just wanted to tell you" he ran a hand through his hand and moved to step around you "I'm gonna go shower" your hand moved to grab his before he could get too far past you "Rick, wait"

The moment he turned you pulled him into a kiss. He hesitated at first then gave in quickly, his hands moving down to grip your thighs and lift you into his arms. You wrapped your legs around his waist, breaking away from his lips to kiss across his jaw and down his neck before finally saying "I love you Rick and as much as I miss them I'm not leaving" the smile he gave you made your heart jump "Really?" you nodded and he leaned his head over on your neck "Thank god" then caught your lips in another kiss before walking you over to the bed and gently laying you down on it before climbing up your body, slipping your shirt off and leaving a trail of kisses as he did so.

When he got back to your lips he smiled "In that case can whatever you needed to tell me wait? Because the way these jeans fit has had my dick half hard all night" a laugh fell from you that quickly turned into a moan when he rutted his hips down into yours to prove a point "It can wait"

Unfortunately for you it seemed fate saw fit for Rick to find out one way or another.

You stood next to Rick, both of you studying the room around you. The highest value targets in the free world were currently in attendance so nerves were a bit high to say the least. Simon and Johnny were working the north exit while the two of you were covering the south. A few more teams were set up throughout but you didn't trust any of them the way you trusted your guys.

So far you'd heard three lecturers drone on and on along with a few people that were definitely on Waller's christmas card list. You would be glad for the next three hours to be over. You were just about to crack a joke to Rick about the man currently on stage when one of the other team's voices cut through your com "We've had a security breach. Level one evac" 

"Fuck" you and Rick both swore as you moved in unison. Each team of guards had been assigned four targets each to move. You had Waller, Kritstin and two more. Once they were secure you would come back and help as you were needed. You spotted Johnny and Simon herding their targets towards the stairwell leading up to the helipad as you grabbed Kristin and pushed her in front of you. "Move" Rick took point going up the stairwell with you guarding the rear.

Once your targets were loaded and gone you headed back down, meeting Simon and Johnny halfway. "What is this shit?" you asked and Johnny met your eyes "Extremists for humankind purity" Fuck. That was a hate group targeting anyone with mutant or meta genes and there were civilians here. "Fuckin assholes" Rick cursed and Simon smirked slighlty "Lets show em Flag" Rick nodded so Simon looked at you "You with Johnny, Flag with me"

Rick looked at you "Stay safe" you winked at him "Always" then bumped your shoulder to Johnny's "Like old times. Lets get it" 

----------------------------

You fell into a rhythm with Johnny so damn easy it was like no time at all had passed. You could feel the pull of his power simply because you knew what to look for but it helped the two of you to clear civilians out faster and take enemies down easier. The banquet hall looked like a fuckin war zone and that description was a little too accurate for your liking. 

You saw Simon and Rick take another group out and was about to call an all clear when you saw a barrel blast half a second before a bullet tore through the air towards you. Johnny was too far away to slow it so you were helpless but to feel the consuming burn which was so different from the one that healed you as it ripped through your abdomen and came out the other side. Johnny took out the shooter and was to your side in a heartbeat pulling you into his lap. You saw a few grazes on his arms and what looked like a knife slash on his face. Your hand shakingly moved to your stomach, a gasp of pain leaving you when you touched the wound "Fuck, it hurts Johnny" "I know baby. I know" he was already stripping his shirt off to hold pressure. "SIMON" he screamed as Rick and Simon came running in. Rick screamed your name and fell to his knees at your side "What the fuck happened?"

Your eyes moved to Rick's face and you saw tears threatening to fall "It's ok Rick. I'm ok" he shook his head "Sweetheart" Simon shouldered him out of the way "Move Flag" Rick's eyes turned hard "I'm not leaving her" Simon moved to pull you out of Johnny's lap and into his arms "Then you'll be what kills her and I'm not losing her either. We know how to save her. Now on your feet and lead us to her luggage or get the hell out of the way" Rick looked to you, tears working their way down his face and you nodded, grimacing from pain "Trust them" "Follow me" Rick told Simon before heading towards the stairwell leading up towards the rooms, all three men taking three steps at a time.

----------------------------

Rick argued you needed a hospital. Simon argued him and Johnny could help you just fine and you told him that they could so he was pacing the room, watching Johnny dig through your med kit and throw different things onto the bed next to where Simon had laid you. Simon ripped open four metallic bags and Rick watched as he poured them directly into your gunshot wound after ensuring there were no bullet fragments in, your screaming during that time had nearly made him kill both men. He could hear your teeth grit from where he stood, even when you whispered something to Johnny who whispered something back before finally sighing and leaned down to let you wipe your  blood soaked fingers across his face and the grazes on his arms. What the fuck was going on? 

You could imagine what was going through Rick's head but you were focusing on not dying at the moment, then arguing with Johnny to take enough blood for where he'd been grazed and sliced. Eventually Simon gingerly bandaged your stomach then looked over at Rick before looking back at you "We'll be nearby luv" You grabbed his hand "Thank you" he smiled "Always"

You tried to push yourself up into a sitting position and Rick moved to help you, being careful of your stomach. You noticed his hands shake slightly, "Y/N?" he was looking at your bandage. The bleeding had already stopped. You smiled slightly "I meant when I said I love you Rick, please know that" he sat down slowly on the side of the bed to not jostle you before taking your hand "And I meant it when I told you I love you but what's going on" You swallowed hard before saying "I have a meta mutation gene"

"Healing?" he asked and you nodded "The packs are called pyro packs, they force my core temperature to rise high enough to jumpstart the process. As long as it's not my heart or head and I get help fast enough I can heal from an injury" "The scar on your side" he spoke and you grimaced "I got shot on the last mission and talked Harley through the first aid"  

He nodded, running a hand over his head "So Harley knows?" you shrugged "Kind of?" "Who definitely knows?" he asked in a small voice so you took a breath before saying "Waller, Kristin, Johnny and Simon." he nodded slowly "Can I ask why you didn't trust me?" when you finally looked at him your heart crumpled "I didn't want you to look at me differently" 

He reached for your hand and when you let him take it his shoulder sagged slightly "You're still you. There's nothing that would change that to me. I just don't know why it took something like this for you to tell me" 

You felt tears start to slip free from your eyes and he quickly brushed them away "Don't cry darlin. Please don't cry" you leaned into his touch "Do you hate me Rick?" he shook his head "Never. You hear me? Nothing could ever make me hate me, especially not something like this" you smiled as he leaned closer and brushed a gentle kiss onto your lips before pausing "How many times have you healed me?" you grinned with your forehead against his "More times than you probably want to know" 

He laughed and pressed another kiss to your lips "You'll have to teach me how to take care of you" "I will" you promised and he smiled against your lips "Good, because you're not getting rid of me that easily Corporal" you laughed before saying "Nice to know because I kind of want to keep you Colonel" 

[weasleywinchester]

Ugh I love that you’ve written Rick as a sweetie pie (because he for sure is)

[drabbles-mc]

Hands All Over

Rick Flag x F!Reader

Based on the request from @beardburnsupersoldiers: could you do #11 (“I bet you think you’re real cute letting them put their hands all over you. We’ll see how cute you look later when I get you home.”) with Rick Flag??? (Prompt is from This List)

Warnings: 18+, language, smut, jealous Rick

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: my requests are closed but i have been thinking about this in the best way ever since you sent it in and i finally finished it tonight so I'm sending it out into the universe. I'm forever unwell about this man but i hope you enjoy!!!! xo (as always this is unbeta'd af but it's made with love)

You were purposely ignoring the pissed off look on Rick’s face as he stared at you from across the lot. It was early still. The guards hadn’t even rounded up everyone that the two of you needed from Belle Reeve yet. The usual suspects had been brought out first, people they knew weren’t going to put up much of a fight even if they wanted to. It was a short list, and seemed to get shorter all the time whether it was because they kept shaving years off people’s sentences, or because there were almost always a couple team members who didn’t make it home at the end of a mission. Turnover was constant, but it wasn’t as though Belle Reeve was ever going to run out of inmates.

Regardless, it left you and Rick out in the lot with Harley, Peacemaker, and Captain Boomerang. Over the next few minutes you were sure that others would slowly start to trickle out, people with no real clue about what they were getting roped into.

The reason that Rick was giving you the glare was two-fold—he was pissed off about what he was seeing, and he was also pissed off that he couldn’t even try to say anything about it. The first part was your fault, really. But the second part? That was just as much on Rick as it was on you. Maybe if you two had taken the time to ever actually talk about what your deal was, situations like this wouldn’t have him reacting quite so obviously. As it stood, Rick was too stubborn to start the conversation and you enjoyed stirring the pot too much to start it yourself.

So, there you were, leaning back against the transport vehicle you and Rick would be loading everyone into soon enough. Your back was braced against it, one boot on the ground, the other resting back flat against the large tire. Your arms were crossed in front of you as you looked at Boomerang. He was closely mirroring your stance as he stood beside you. You might’ve been vaguely aware of how close he was standing, but judging by the clench in Rick’s jaw it was just about the only thing that he was aware of.

Boomerang had always been a little more comfortable around you than he should’ve been. You figured out pretty quickly after meeting him that trying to fight him on it all the time was not only exhausting, but it wasn’t effective. So along the way the two of you found your middle-ground. You were fine with it, the banter and jokes that definitely wouldn’t be workplace appropriate at any other job, but even without looking at Rick when it happened you knew that he wasn’t a fan.

“C’mon.” Boomer nudged his shoulder against yours. “How many more missions till I can take you out?”

You laughed and rolled your eyes. “Bold of you to assume that the only reason you can’t take me out is because you’re currently in prison.”

He pretended to be offended and hurt by the comment. “That ain’t very nice, now is it?” He paused as you laughed. “Got some boyfriend on the outside, then?”

Turning your head to look at him, you said, “Why would I have to—”

He held his hands up in mock surrender. “Or a girlfriend. Don’t matter.”

You chuckled. “I never said any of that.”

He stepped away from the truck. Turning on his heel, he stood so that he was facing you head-on. “By the time I’m outta here, sweetheart, I’ll win you over.”

Even though you knew it wasn’t ever going to happen, you still found yourself smirking at the concept of him trying to woo you. Whatever that meant to him. “Always good to have a goal.”

There were a few beats of silence as he looked around the lot. You could tell that he was starting to get a little antsy, Harley too from the sounds of it as she chattered away at one of the new recruits that had been brought out. This was always the longest part. Briefing everyone was quick, and the rides to the mission locations went by fast because of the commentary flying around amongst everyone. Waiting for everyone to get chipped and brought out got to be a drag after a while.

Boomer was feeling it, pulling out one of his boomerangs and fiddling with it passively in his hand the way a child would fuss with a toy. Arms crossed over your chest, you nodded towards the item in his hand. “Not getting that out just because I said you couldn’t take me out, right?”

His grin split wide enough to catch the glint off his gold tooth. “’Course not.” He fiddled with it for another second longer before pointing at you with it. “Ever used one’a these?” You shook your head and he switched so that it was laying flat in his upturned palm, hand out to you like a peace offering. “Wanna try?”

“Boomer—”

“Give it a shot! ‘s the worst that could happen? We’re the Suicide Squad anyway, right?”

No matter what your rebuttal was, it wasn’t going to be good enough for him. Using your foot that was braced against the tire, you pushed off the side of the truck. “Fine. Only because I know I’ll never hear the end of it from you.”

He was practically cackling as he set it in your hand. “Might make a bad guy outta you yet.”

The two of you weren’t even being all that loud but the words were grating against Rick’s ears halfway across the lot like he was trapped in an echo chamber. The internal conflict of enjoying the sound of your laughter versus knowing that you were laughing at something that Harkness said had him rooted to the spot. If he clenched his jaw any tighter he was liable to chip a tooth.

First it was listening to the two of you shooting comments back and forth, your indirect denial of having someone on the outside. He was frustrated with that even though deep down he knew that even if you’d said you were with someone, it wouldn’t have stopped Boomerang. Deeper down still, he knew that he’d never said anything to you about the relationship between the two of you, but it was easier for him in that moment to forget that small detail.

That was frustrating enough, but then he saw the way that Boomer was so quick to put his hands on yours, how comfortable he was shifting the two of you so that he was standing behind you. It didn’t matter that you wouldn’t take the man seriously in a million years, that no matter the innuendo or the offer he wasn’t ever going to win you over. In that moment, Harkness was closer to you at work than Rick ever would be. And you were smiling and laughing about it.

Not nearly soon enough, the last of this round’s Task Force X were brought out to the yard. You’d managed to get one mildly successful boomerang throw in, and Rick had stopped just short of giving himself an aneurysm.

“Alright,” he barked, more anger in his words than necessary as he walked towards the truck, “everyone load up. We’ll brief on the way.”

You stood back watching as they all filed in. There were murmurs, quick exchanges as everyone tried to get situated in the cramped space. You tried to stifle your chuckles as you heard Harley riling everyone up as they got strapped in.

Unsurprisingly, Boomerang was bringing up the back of the line. Before stepping up into the vehicle, he stopped right beside you. You could feel the humor dripping off his words as he motioned for you to get in before him. “Beauty befor—”

Rick gave him a harsh shove between his shoulder blades, cutting him off in the process. “Get in the fuckin’ truck,” he grit out.

Boomerang’s entire face contorted in annoyance and offense for a moment. He looked over his shoulder at you as he climbed into the vehicle. “When’re you gonna stop lettin’ that one tag along?” He gestured to Rick.

Rick’s brows were pinched together as tight as you’d ever seen them. “Harkness.”

It was all that had to be said. He slipped into the back of the transport with everyone else. You were still looking at the now-empty door, unaware of the look that Rick was now giving to you. There were plenty of things that he wanted to say to you, do to you, right there in that moment just to prove a point but he couldn’t.

You started to speak. “So how—”

All the words flew right out of your head as Rick’s hand clamped tightly down onto your shoulder. Catching you off-guard he easily pushed you, pinning you between him and the side of the truck. One of his legs was slotted between yours. He was leaning in close enough for you to feel his breath against your skin when he spoke.

His voice was painfully low. “I bet you think you’re real cute letting him put his hands all over you. We’ll see how cute you look later when I get you home.”

You were so off-kilter that you couldn’t even come up with the witty responses that you were in the habit of giving him. He’d never put himself in such a close position with you at work before. You knew him well enough to know that being friendly with Boomerang would get under his skin a little bit. If only you’d known how much—you would’ve done it a hell of a lot sooner.

The digging of his fingertips even through your shirt had you locked in place. It was exciting as it was nerve-wracking, especially since there was a truckload of prisoners just a mere flap of metal away from you. You and Rick had always had different definitions of the term reckless, and this was about as reckless as it got for him. He tried so hard not to let his personal life bleed into the job, and yet here he was. You loved knowing that you could have this effect on him if you tried, even if it was making your knees nearly knock together in the moment.

It could’ve only been a couple seconds that had passed, but you felt like the silence had been stretching on infinitely when you finally managed to try and speak up. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he cut you off. There was the slightest twitch in his hand on your shoulder, a clue that he wanted to put it somewhere else but he stopped himself. Not feeling quite reckless enough for that yet.

“I—”

His voice seemed to drop even lower in volume, not that it dulled the sharp edges of what he was saying to you. “Don’t play dumb now.” He finally released you and stepped back. A professional amount of space existed between you once more. “Let’s go.” He started to walk towards the driver’s side. “We got shit to do.”

You gave yourself until the door on the other side of the vehicle opened. Then you took a deep breath and got yourself swung up into the passenger seat. There were bigger things to worry about for now, and you decided that those bigger things were why you still felt a slight shaking in your legs.

There was never such a thing as a simple mission with Task Force X. Even when things were pitched to you and Rick as easy, or simple, or in-and-out missions, they never seemed to play out that way. You chalked it up to the squad, and also to Waller never giving anyone a straight answer about anything. That usually covered your bases.

This time you had the additional layer of problems stemming from Rick’s attitude for the day. He wasn’t ever warm and fuzzy with the team, but the last time you saw him walking around with such a noticeable chip on his shoulder was back in the days of Midway City. Only this time his frustration wasn’t about the whole team, it was about one team member in particular. Or two, if you included yourself in the count.

Your team didn’t have the luxury of ascribing to the, “no man left behind,” mentality. But even so, it didn’t mean that no one could try at all. And who knows, maybe if someone who wasn’t Harkness had taken a bullet to the thigh, Rick would’ve reacted differently. You didn’t get to find out.

Rick had brushed past him, determined to get to get everything over as quickly as possible. His lack of concern was met with a slew of angry, vulgar remarks from Boomerang, and perhaps rightfully so. You stopped to at least help the man get to his feet, even if you weren’t going to be carrying him or acting as a human crutch for the rest of the mission.

“Flag,” you chastised as you caught up to him.

“What?” he snapped back, matching your tone.

You let your voice drop to just above a whisper. Loud enough for him to hear over everything happening around the two of you, but not so loud that the rest of the team with you was going to catch it.

“You said we’ll sort it at home, so let’s sort it at home.”

He shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? So you’re trying to tell me that there’s nothing different about—”

“That’s exactly what I’m tellin’ you.”

The sound of gunfire up ahead stopped your conversation then and there. You knew that once the chaos had died down, the two of you would get right back into it. There were just more pressing matters to deal with at the moment, like the people pointing their guns at you.

There were no other major injuries to anyone else on the team. A few bumps and scrapes but it looked like Boomerang was the only one who was going to be taking a trip to the medical wing. He would’ve been looking forward to that if it wasn’t currently being preceded by Peacemaker carrying him back to the transport vehicle. No matter how much he struggled and swore, he wasn’t able to break free. It was a comical sight, seeing him draped over Peacemaker’s shoulder—everyone else was getting a kick out of it even if Boomerang wasn’t. Him and Rick.

Rick didn’t say a single word to you the entire drive back. Even when everyone was getting unloaded and sent back to their cells, it felt like he hadn’t even done so much as look at you. It was something that any other day you wouldn’t have noticed, because that’s just how it was when you were both working. But it felt different this time, tense in a way that it didn’t used to be.

He only spoke to you in the parking lot by your cars because you asked him a question that he couldn’t give a yes or no answer to. He didn’t even look at you as he answered it, instead looking down as he dug his keys out of his pocket.

“Yours or mine?” you asked.

“Yours.”

You waited for follow-up commentary that never came. You waited for him to pick back up the argument from earlier, or for him to reignite the jealous streak that he’d had going earlier still. But he gave you nothing as he unlocked the doors to his pickup.

With a roll of your eyes, you followed suit and got into your own car as well. If he wanted to keep stewing on all of this until you both got back to your place, you’d let him. You didn’t bother waiting for him as you peeled out of the parking lot and made your way home. It wasn’t as though he would be lagging that far behind you.

You’d just stepped into the shower at your apartment when you heard the heavy sound of his boots on the floor. You heard them pause outside the bathroom door, and for a moment you found yourself holding your breath and waiting to see if he was going to come in with you. The hesitation had you thinking that he was thinking about doing just that. But then the footsteps continued. The breath you’d been holding came out as a disappointed sigh.

When you were done with your shower, you weren’t expecting to walk into your bedroom to find Rick sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed in his work save for his boots that were set just off to the side of him, but there he was. His hands were wrapped around the edge of the mattress, head tilted down as he stared at the floor.

“Shower’s yours if you want it,” you said, letting it announce your presence in the process.

That got him to look up at you. His expression wasn’t giving much of anything away, but as his eyes raked up and down your body you caught the way that his jaw clenched. His fingers gripped onto the blanket that covered your mattress just a little tighter as he took in the sight of the stray droplets of water still clinging to your shoulders and neck. Your skin warmed at the realization.

Seeing that he made no move to get up, you walked over to him. You stood between his legs, the rough fabric of his cargo pants a stark contrast to the softness of you skin, legs left exposed by the towel wrapped around you that barely reached the tops of your thighs. He swallowed hard, eyes crawling their way up your body to your face. Now he was in the position of having to look up at you, a position he didn’t find himself in very often. Even though his eyes gave him away, he tried to keep his unbothered façade in place.

“Still not talking to me, then? Came over just to give me the silent treatment in my own home?”

He remained silent, and you were wondering if it was because he was stringing together what it was that he wanted to say, or if he just couldn’t get the words out. Either way, you were painfully curious as to what was going to happen next.

“C’mon,” there was a playful lilt to your tone as you went to cup his face with your hand, “don’t—”

You stopped yourself short when he reached up and grabbed tightly onto your wrist. It didn’t hurt. He’d never hurt you. But his grip was tight enough to prove a point. Your jaw snapped shut as he held onto you, preventing and continuing to keep you from being able to touch his face.

“He doesn’t get to touch you like that,” he finally said, each word spoken low and deep.

His voice, his words, the look on his face, it all sent a wave of chills over your body. The same feeling you had outside the transport earlier, that feeling of being rooted to the ground beneath you, came right back. You couldn’t even bring yourself to reach out and touch him with your other hand.

Your voice came out quieter than you planned. “It wasn’t…” You trailed off as he lowered your hand that he was holding, his grip loosening off your wrist as he started to slide his hand up the bare skin of your arm until it was on your shoulder.

His fingers curled over the curve of your shoulder. “No one gets to touch you like that.”

You took a breath, determined to get a full sentence out this time. “I guess I didn’t think it would bother you so much.”

Whatever snarky, angry response you had been gearing up for, he didn’t deliver. Instead, he pulled you closer, your small step turning into a stumble as your hands landed on his shoulders to brace yourself. His hands instantly went to your waist, fingers digging into the plush fabric of the towel that was wrapped around you. He didn’t break his gaze the entire time.

His tone was even, almost dangerously so. “It did.”

The stubborn part of you was drawing in a breath to tell him that you weren’t sorry, that you weren’t going to apologize, that maybe if he’d just taken the time to talk to you about how he felt or what all of this was maybe the two of you wouldn’t be in this situation. But before you could even get yourself to utter the first syllable, he tightened his grip on your hips and quickly turned the both of you so that you landed on your back on the bed with a surprised yelp.

It took him no time at all to move you both so that you were in the center of the bed. One hand firmly cupped your jaw as he pinned his lips to yours in a heated kiss, a kiss that had you all but melting into the comforter of your bed. Your palms flattened against the planes of muscle across his chest for the briefest moment before you balled the fabric of his shirt into your fists. You pulled him closer to you, as tight as you could manage as you laid beneath him.

He gave into it for a moment as his tongue slipped past your lips into your mouth. You moaned at the sensation, his tongue on yours, the way the tips of his fingers were starting to press harder into your jaw. You were about to loop your legs around his waist, lock yourself to him, when he pulled away from you.

You were gasping for breath, fingers still gripping his shirt as he pulled back. Bringing his hand away from your jaw, he brought both hands to the top edge of the towel you were wearing. His fingers wrapped around the hem of it, he finally pried his gaze away from your face. He peeled the towel open, letting both sides of it fall away from you, leaving you completely exposed. His tongue ran along his bottom lip as he drank in the sight of you lying beneath him.

The rise of his chest as he pulled in a deep breath was impossible to miss. Your hands moved from his chest up to the sides of his neck, fingers interlocking at the nape of it as you pulled him back down into another kiss. He gave in without a fight, leaning his body weight onto you as he kissed you, hands racing down your sides, of your hips and onto your thighs.

His lips strayed from yours, dragging along to your jaw and down to your neck, leaving small, quick nips along the way. He moved down to your chest, lips and tongue teasing as they traveled over your breasts, pulling one taut nipple into his mouth and sucking on it in a way that had you whimpering and squirming in pleasure beneath him before he moved and repeated the process with the other.

“Rick,” his name fell from your lips, needy and breathless as you tangled your fingers into his hair. It was the only thing you could get yourself to say as he sucked a mark into the plush skin of your breast.

He kissed his way down your stomach, peppering a trail of kisses across your hips before moving down to your thighs. His teeth grazed along the soft, sensitive skin on the insides of your legs, the sensation making you drape your legs over his shoulders out of pure instinct.

His lips grazed over your folds, enough to feel how wet you were, not enough to give you any relief because of it. You tried to lift your hips and he immediately slid his arms and placed his hands so that they were pinning your hips to the bed once more. You whined, hands tugging at his hair.

Then you felt his tongue running up your slit, teasing you in a way that had you shuddering beneath him. You tried to pull him closer with no success, resigning yourself to his whim now. He might not have been able to say or do anything before, but he was the one in control now.

He kissed your core, tongue darting out until he switched and wrapped his lips around your clit. You moaned as his tongue ran over the nerves, causing your thighs to clamp around either side of his head.

“Fuck, Rick,” you moaned, grip on his hair loosening just enough to lightly drag your fingernails along his scalp. “Don’t stop.”

You felt one of his hands move from your hip and for a moment you were worried that he was going to stop just because you had asked him not to. You lifted your head up off the mattress, looking down at the sight of him nestled between your thighs. The way he looked had the breath getting caught in the back of your throat. Then he opened his eyes, looking up at you with his mouth still pressed to your core. You opened your mouth to try and say something when you felt two of his fingers pressing lightly against your slit. He covered them with your slick before pushing them into you, not breaking his eye contact with you as he did. The moan you let out had him tightening his grip on your hip, sucking harder on your clit as you writhed beneath his touch.

When he felt the way your thighs began to tremble, starting to clench tighter around him, he picked up the pace even more. Even though it was muffled, he could still hear the string of curses you let out the closer you got to your climax, the desperate way you said his name as you begged him to make you cum.

Seconds later your walls tightened around his fingers, your hips bucking up off the bed as you came. He worked you through it, his fingers and lips coated in your release as he refused to let up. He kept going even when your hands were pushing his shoulders, whining from the overstimulation. Your legs trembled as they hung limply over his shoulders, unable to muster up the strength to pull him closer or push him away.

You let out a trembling breath when he pulled his fingers out of you. He pressed one more kiss to the inside of your thigh before crawling his way back up your body. Without a beat of hesitation he caught your lips with his, tongue instantly running over yours allowing you to taste yourself off of him.

The friction of the rough fabric of his pants against your sensitive, naked core had you whining into his mouth as he kissed you. Still, instead of pushing him away, you started to undo his belt buckle. The second he pressed his body flush to yours again you’d felt how hard he was. Now you just wanted him inside you.

Undoing the button and zipper on his pants, wasted no time pushing both his pants and his underwear down off his hips in one motion. Rick barely took the time to kick them the rest of the way off before pushing into you.

The low moan of pleasure that he let out turned into your name as he bottomed out inside you. He pressed a harsh, needy kiss to your lips before letting his head drop into the crook of your neck. He gave you a couple long, slow thrusts to adjust before picking up the pace in a way that communicated all of his desperation for you. Your nails sank into his shoulders as he pounded into you, just looking for something to keep you tethered as you started to see stars behind your eyes all over again.

He nipped at your neck and shoulder as he pulled your legs so that they were looped tighter around him. He buried himself inside you, coaxing you along when you whimpered out that you were going to cum again. He pressed a kiss right below your ear, the praise he was whispering to you, calling you his, was enough to send you tumbling over the edge. He fucked you through your orgasm, his thrusts beginning to falter as he felt your walls clenching around him. A few more sharp snaps of his hips had him spilling inside you.

He collapsed against you, fighting to catch his breath as his hear rested against your chest. He could hear the fast beat of your heart against his ear, and you could feel the quick breaths he was taking as he looped his arms around you. His touch was soft, gentle in a way it hadn’t been just moments before.

You rested one hand on the back of his head, the other between his shoulder blades. You idly toyed with strands of his hair as you let your eyes close. Neither of you said anything for a few minutes, instead choosing to revel in the silence and the closeness that came with it. It also gave you each a little while longer to catch your breath.

Eyes still closed, you spoke up, your voice soft but light. “So, you wanna talk about it?” you asked with a quiet laugh.

He was still laying on your chest. You didn’t know for sure but you were willing to bet that his eyes were closed too. “About what?” he replied in a half-mumble.

You dragged your fingers up and down his spine, pressing through his shirt. “Oh, so we’re just going to pretend you haven’t been angry and jealous all day? Gonna pretend that’s not where this came from?” You kept your tone upbeat enough so that it wouldn’t descend into an argument. That wasn’t what you were looking for.

It worked, too, because it got him to let out a laugh. “Wasn’t all day.”

You shook your head, would’ve rolled your eyes if they were open. “You’re such a pain.”

“And you’re not?” he joked right back. He lifted his head to look at you, which got you to open your eyes. “You gonna try and sit there and pretend you weren’t doing that shit to get under my skin?”

You smirked, giving a half-hearted shrug. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

“Why wouldn’t—”

“Oh, c’mon, Rick. We’ve been doing this song and dance for how long now? And we…you never…” You reached up to drag your hands down your face. “We’ve never talked about it. I figured that was your nice way of saying…you know.”

He frowned at that. “Oh.”

You laughed, letting your head drop back to the mattress again. “Good talk.”

He chuckled, pulling away from you just enough so that he could shift and lay beside you. It was easier to look at you that way as he propped his elbow and rested his head in the palm of his hand. “I never said anythin’ because I figured you knew.”

You rolled onto your side to face him. “Knew what?”

His other hand tenderly grazed along your cheek, the callouses on his fingers not feeling harsh in the slightest. “How I feel about you.”

You leaned into his touch. “I’m not a mind reader, you know,” you said with a small laugh. “And, you know,” you placed your hand over his, “you’re not exactly the most open book.”

He cracked a small grin. “No?”

You laughed. “No.”

He was still smiling as he dragged the pad of his thumb along your cheek. “Well, now you know.”

You nodded. “Now I know.”

He pulled you in close to him, tucking your head beneath his chin. You settled into him with ease, the way you had so many times before. He held you tight enough so that you could feel his heartbeat thudding against the side of your face.

He pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head before saying, “Harkness ever puts a hand on you again though, I’m chopping the fuckin’ thing off.”

You laughed, patting his chest in a joking, reassuring manner. “Sure you are.”

Suicide Squad Taglist: @garbinge @artemiseamoon @words-and-seeds @thrnlvr (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

[random-thot-generator]

Ghost decides after one blind date that you're going to be his.

>>>>>

Simon isn't used to dating. A quick hook up in the loo, sure. A drunken one night stand? He's had too many of those to count. But proper courting? Hell, it's been years, maybe a decade, since he's taken a bird out on an actual date.

It's probably going to be a disaster, but he gave Johnny his word he'd go out with his bird's best friend, so he can't back out now. He'll just have to grit his teeth and power through it.

His sour outlook for the evening is forgotten the second he sees you walk in with Johnny's bird. You're no tipsy tart on the pull, like the birds he's used to dealing with. You're a proper lady, dolled up nice for your date with him. It makes his chest feel tight when he gets a good look at your pretty face and nervous little smile.

His usual gruff manner is obviously not going to fly with you, so he quickly tries to recall the mannerisms he's seen his captain use around women. He gets to his feet with Johnny when the two of you reach the table, trying his best to look less intimidating.

Johnny introduces the two of you, and Simon melts inside when he takes your soft little hand in his for the first time. His brain goes fuzzy, dark eyes glazing over, and he's not sure what he says when he greets you, but it earns him a smile.

"It's really nice to meet you, Simon," are the first words you say to him.

Your voice is soft and sweet, and the way you say his name? Oh, he's gonna need to hear more of that, and often.

For the first time in a long time, Simon's worried about what someone thinks of him. He's worried he'll put you off with his harsh manner. So, he minds his words and gentles his tone. He slows his steps to match your pace and tucks your small hand at his elbow to keep you close and safe. He's holding doors and pulling out your chair. He compliments your dress and hair.

And when your heel catches on the sidewalk and you stumble, he doesn't bark a laugh or say something mean, wouldn't bloody dream of it. No, he catches you before you fall, and all that softness in his hands makes something shift in his brain. You're such a fragile little thing, delicate as spun sugar. You need a big nasty mutt like him to protect you, take care of you, and he's more than willing to do the job.

When the date is over, Simon sees you home, and you kiss him on your front stoop. It's not all groping hands and tangling tongues. It's a gentle press of lips, his big hands cradling your face, the sweet intimacy making his eyes flutter shut. He's floating when he finally gets back in his truck and drives himself home.

Instead of going to bed, Simon begins to formulate a plan of strategy. He figures it'll take a few more dates before you invite him into your flat, and several more after that before you invite him into your bed, then eventually into your life. It might take months, even a year or more. That's alright, though. If his years in the military have taught him anything, it's patience.

Simon knows how to play the long game. He'll go at your pace, let you get used to having him around, then make himself indispensable to you. No one will treat you as good, meet your every need and desire the way he will. He won't stop until he is your world, your reason for being. Your everything.

And when enough time has passed, he'll claim you completely as his. He's going to put a ring on your finger and a baby in your belly, then tuck you away safe and sound in one of those cute country cottages he looked up online. You'll be his little missus, and he'll be your tamed beast, keeping his teeth and claws hidden but at the ready.

By the time he arrives at your flat the next evening for your second date, he's already got your engagement ring in his safe at home and the names of your future children picked out.

And when you text him the day after to invite him for dinner, the new name he replaced yours with pops up on his screen.

It says 'Missus Riley', of course.

-

[devil-in-hiding]

[softiedingo]

ⓘ this user is obsessed with pedro pascal characters

[geminiwritten]

dr. dreamy ; bones

fandom: star trek

pairing: bones x reader

summary: it’s been a while since you’ve been laid, and it’s starting to affect your mood so jim offers his help before quickly realising that you’re still hung up on a mysterious ‘mr. dreamy’ from your academy days… but he soon finds out that the man you’ve been in love with for the past five years is, in fact, the enterprise’s best doctor

notes: did somebody say hyper-fixation? also, if you haven’t noticed already, i have a favourite formula… i wrote this while sick, so apologies if its crap, but let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing and horny

word count: 4173

The turbolift halts when it reaches the deck on which the upper-most access to the warp core is located. Your steps are sluggish, and the lace on your left boot is about five strides from falling untied, but you don’t really care to fix it even as you feel your boot go lax. Your heel begins to slip in and out of place just as you reach the door to one of the larger maintenance rooms.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Scotty asks as soon as he sees you.

You shrug, “just tired.”

“Too tired to remember where you’re s’pposed to be?” he stops you from picking up the spare pair of gloves from the bench, “first aid trainin’?”

A vague memory fights its way to the front of your mind, and you recall being ordered by Jim to attend the annual first aid training course that at least two crew members from each division were required to attend.

“Why me?” you sigh, “why can’t you be the first aid officer, or-or Ayden?” The young brunette lieutenant who was half-concealed behind a large metal tank pokes his head out.

“Because,” Scotty says, dismissing Ayden with a wave of his hand, “the capt’n requested you specifically, and I know he’s a bit of bastard sometimes but he’s still our capt’n.”

“He just wants me to suffer because he has to,” you grumble.

He chuckles as he grips your shoulders and physically turns you back toward the door, “I doubt you’ll be sufferin’ much, lassie, I heard the CMO himself is runnin’ this one.”

Your feet forget their steps and you stumble before catching yourself on the doorjamb. “W-Why is Bones running it? Isn’t he busy? He never does this kind of thing,” you say as you turn back to face Scotty.

He shrugs, “capt’n’s orders, I guess. Now go before you’re late.”

Keep reading

[weasleywinchester]

I LOVE this

[weasleywinchester]

Save Yourself - Ch. 19

Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Oh For One So Pure

Series Summary: “I promise.” Those two words would trap you in a life you never wanted. You are an artist, a hunter, a Winchester. And yet the pain in Dean’s eyes as demanded you live the life he wants you live, you couldn’t say no. You met the Winchesters by chance, found out they were real people. And you figured it was a once in a life time thing, but then Dean called you, and so did a new job. Both leading to the life you wanted, a family that didn’t begin or end in blood and a once in a life time love. And he said leave it and him behind, forget. But you can’t. Chapter Summary Jack is gone. Well, you know exactly where he is; with Mary in what you’ve all agreed is the Apocalypse world. Do any of you know how to get there? No. But what are Winchesters really good at? Distracting themselves with hunting. When Donna calls in a favor for hunting down a possible not-so-supernatural creep, the three of you practically leap through the phone. But this case, and the multiverse problem none of you know how to untangle, bring up some dormant feelings about what it means to be a hunter… and even more about what it means to be a Winchester.

Warnings: Cannon typical violence, some fluff, some sad feels

You’ve been a Winchester long enough to have seen some crazy shit. And you’ve been a Supernatural fan long enough to know all the crazy shit. And when Donna called in a favor to find her niece, you kinda hoped it would be the most black and white monster case you could find. And as expected it was not. Finding a black market ebay for body parts wasn’t something you thought could exist. But if there’s a market, someone will always be there to fill it.

“I can’t believe you’ve been through this.” You grimace as Doug’s temporary fangs disappear.

“At least everyone here has souls.” Dean looks over at Sam, who purses his lips together as if he wishes he could forget that whole incident. Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you quickly silence it.

“That’s the fourth time it’s rung.” Dean comments, raising a brow at you.

“Becky. I missed the last two meetings.” You confess. You were normally pretty good about warning her when you’d be busy with a hunt; but everything with Jack being so unpredictable…

“Call her back, we should be back at the bunker tomorrow.” Dean gives your hand a squeeze. You nod and walk out into the brisk night air.

“Hey, sorry about the last couple of weeks-”

“THANK GOD YOU’RE ALIVE!” She shouts into the phone. “I thought the worst when your phone kept going to voicemail.” She lets out a long sigh, taking a few deep breaths.

“I could see that.” You chuckle.

“Don’t give me a heart attack like that!”

“I’ll do better in the future.” You hold up your hand in surrender. “But what’s up?”

“I have a few design projects I thought you could brainstorm on… And Sera’s been asking about the possibility of continuing the Supernatural books?” Her voice goes an octave higher at the mention of the books.

“Send me the ideas for the stuff to design-”

“Doug, wait!” You hear Donna yell.

“I’ll get back to you about the books-” You reach for the door to go back inside when it swings open and Doug runs into you.

“Doug?” You frown as he gathers himself. “Becky, I gotta go.” You abruptly hang up, lightly grabbing Doug’s shoulder. “Hey, what’s the rush?”

He stops, looking at you over his shoulder.

“Why do you stay?” He whispers, the defeat clear in his voice.

“Well, I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave Donna high and dry-“

“Why do you stay with Dean? Knowing about the– the monsters?” He corrects. The panic rolls off of him like a fog, tendrils curling and whispering for you to get lost in it. 

“What do ya mean?”

“Your husband fights vampires, werewolves… monsters! Things that aren’t supposed to exist! How can you stay?” He harshly whispers, as if saying it too loud makes it any more true. You stare blankly at him; sure you’ve seen plenty of people shaken after their first encounter with the supernatural; but Doug? He’s had to have seen gruesome stuff in his time on the force.

“It’s his job,” you frown, “It would be the same if he were in the military or law enforcement.” You watch as he recedes into his whatever panic storm is happening in his mind. “Are you ok? Did you talk with Donna?” You place a hand on his shoulder, his whole body deflating at your touch.

“I wanted to be a cop to help folks. I didn’t sign on for monsters.” He looks off into the distance, the recent horrors he just witnessed clearly dancing in front of his eyes.

“That’s all Dean and Sam do, save people.” You smile, leaning forward until you catch his gaze. “They unfortunately didn’t have a no monster option. It’s also why Dean gets three hours of sleep a week, can drink a liquor store dry and has enough trauma that any regular person would go insane.”

“And you’re ok with that?” He scoffs, shaking his head at all the terrifying possibilities about what your words mean.

“I didn’t marry him because I think I can fix him. I love him, as he is.” You shrug, watching the thoughts churn in his head as he tries to figure out the next move. “You’re really going to give up Donna because she fights monsters?” You haven’t spent nearly as much time with Donna as you like, but the one thing you know for sure if you both will hang onto your husbands no matter the price.

“I don’t think I’m strong enough.” He whispers. You sigh, pulling him into a hug.

“She thinks you are. And so do I.” You squeeze him tight. “Can I tell you something?” You ask as you let him go. He gives you a small nod, wiping a tear away. “Leaving Donna won’t make the fear go away. It won’t stop you from looking at every person differently. It won’t change the fact that you know what lurks in the dark. But trust me when I say that having her by your side is better than any future without her.” He studies you for a moment, brain calculating all the scenarios.

“Does Dean feel that about you?” He whispers. 

The question punches you right in the gut. It should have been a simple answer. A yes of course he does, that’s why we're married. But your mouth feels like it’s full of sand. Every moment where Dean has pushed you away, told you to leave, to forget, comes rushing to the forefront. And here you stand. Telling Doug he should stay; that he should want to stay. But you have no evidence that it would be good for him; that he could continue on with his life as normal. The one thing you learned being with Dean is that you were involved with the family business whether you wanted it or not. It’s just how it went being close to a hunter.

The motel door creaks open, Sam and Donna making their way to the car.

“Ready sweetheart?” Dean asks, taking your hand.

“Ya.” You smile at him, giving his hand a squeeze as you turn back to Doug. “Talk with Donna, she deserves that. You both deserve to make a decision together.” You give Doug a small smile, letting Dean guide you to the car.

_______

One thing nice about driving with the boys is you could boot Sammy to the front and sprawl out in the back. Dean even keeps a little blanket in the trunk for you. Leather seats are three things: cold, hot or sticky. Can’t have baby makin you uncomfortable sweetheart. You smile at the memory as you stare at the back of Dean’s head. The rain gently thumps at the windows, Sammy’s fingers clacking against the keys of his laptop.

“You were a little tough on Donna back there.” Dean states, keeping his voice low to not disturb you.

“What?” Sam frowns, the clacking coming to an abrupt stop.

“Just sayin’.” Dean shrugs, taking in a deep breath. He couldn’t believe he told Donna to let Doug go; Sam, telling her to let the love of her life go. 

“Was I wrong? I mean, when has knowing us ever worked out for anyone?” His eyes flick to you as you roll to face the back of the seat.

“(Y/N)?” Dean shrugs.

“What?”

“It’s worked out for (Y/N), according to her.” Dean clarifies.

“Oh ya, I bet she always dreamed of falling in love with a guy who constantly tells her she can’t be a hunter because she could die. And who constantly makes life altering decisions for her.” Sam deadpans.

“We save people, Sam.” He points out. Save tons of people, every day, every year. That has to count for something.

“Yeah, we also get people killed, Dean. Kaia, for instance. She helped us and she died for it. And the list of (Y/N) getting hurt or almost dead isn’t exactly short.”

“Hey, look, I know you’re in some sort of a—” 

“No, no, no, don’t – don’t… You keep saying I’m in a dark place, but I’m not, Dean. Everything I’m saying is the truth. It’s our lives. And I tried to pretend it didn’t have to be. I tried to pretend (Y/N) would be safe, that we could have Mom back and Cas and – and help Jack. But we can’t. This ends one way for us, Dean. It ends bloody.”

The three of you sit in silence. Dean always told you he would go down fighting; it always seemed to be the hand he was dealt. He just never actually died, so you both had agreed that maybe that’s not the true end designed for him. But Sam giving up on the happily ever after? That was just as bad as you giving up…

“You’re the reason she holds on so tight.” He whispers, seeing Sam turn toward him out of the corner of his eye. “You told her to always keep fighting; to fight for the life she wants, to fight for me. I was prepared to let her go years ago. Prepared for my soul to ache for the rest of my life.” He accuses. “But you’re the one who said to not give her up. To fight for her. Why –”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have.” Sam interrupts. You shift in your seat, moving your blanket to muffle the sound of your heart breaking.

_______

One would think spending their whole life fighting everything that lurks in the dark would make it uncomfortable. But as Sam lays in the pitch black of his room, he feels calm. He’s embraced the fact that he lives in the dark, like some creature waiting for whatever fight is next. No searching for something to hold on to, for hope about the future.

God was no better than any other supernatural being, Mom and Jack are as good as dead… After tossing and turning he gets up, easily making his way down the hall in the dark. He stops at your studio door and listens; he can hear the faint clicking of your keyboard accompanied by a faint static noise he can only assume is music. He gently pushes the door, you’re bopping your head along to whatever’s coming through your headphones as you mess with a project on your computer.

He lets his eyes wander around the room; it’s filled with fabric, blank canvases, half painted paintings, partially done costumes and a large wall of books. This room is very much you; warm, inviting and filled with things that make you happy. It was often a safe space for him, both when you were in it and when you weren’t. You both had many late night conversations about anything that came to mind, talked through a lot of the darkness he carried with him.

“Geezus Sammy!” You jump out of your chair, nearly knocking over your water bottle. “Scared the tarts out of me!” You move it out of arms reach and slide off your headphones.

“Right, sorry.” He frowns. You tilt your head to the side, walking over to him and gently taking his hands in yours.

“You ok?” you ask. He gives you a curt nod, eyes looking anywhere but at you.

“Whatever happened to that painting, the one with the two hands holding onto each other?”

“It’s here, haven’t got around to hanging it up.” You pull it out from a stack that’s leaned against the wall, putting it up on your easel and sliding the fabric sheet off to reveal it.

“Always keep fighting.” Sam mumbles, his fingers gently tracing the words. It’s written dozens of times in the background, your perfect sloppy writing making it feel like you’re telling him to do just that.

“Sammy!” You yell over your shoulder in the general direction of his room.

“Ya?” He yells back.

“Come here!”

He pads down the hall, standing in your doorway.

“Need you to hand model with me.” You wave him over. You take one hand, having  him wrap his fingers around your wrist while you do the same. “Now pull.”

He pulls, a little too hard, and you ram into his chest.

“Not that hard Sammy!” you giggle. 

“Ok, ok… not that hard. Got it.”

He huffs in amusement at the memory. It seemed silly at the time but it’s moving to see your hand holding him up, keeping him from slipping away.

“Why is one side written upside down?”

“Because love flows both ways.” You rotate the picture so now his hand is holding yours. You slot your hand into his, leaning your head on his arm as the two of you study it.

“What if holding on was the mistake?” He asks.

“It wasn’t.” You can feel him shift against you. “I didn’t walk into this life blind Sam.” You bite down on your tongue, praying the tears not to slip down your face. “I-”

He pulls you into his arms, squeezing you tight. He has always pulled you closer; pulled you into the hunting life, into his brother’s life, into his own life. Selfish. It was the only word that came to his mind. He always thought that karma would follow through. That every single monster he and Dean put in the ground would let them have just a sliver of something good. And he was hoping it would be you. But maybe Dean was right this whole time, you’ll only end up hurt or dead.

@deansqtpie

@supraveng

@winchestersgirl222

@fantasy-myth1

@laycblack

@urgirlarrielle

@akshi8278

@arctusluna

@malindacath

@lyarr24

@flamencodiva

@havesaltwilltravel

@deansbbyx

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Series Master List

[beardedmrbean]

Reblog to give your followers some cheesy garlic bread

[find-the-beauty-within]

The person I reblogged this from deserves to be happy

[priincessolivee-deactivated2025]

I tried to scroll past this. I really did

[wheresarizona]

but now I’m your daisy

summary: It’s a random Thursday in the middle of spring, and Joel has a surprise for you—a surprise that’s an hour away from Jackson on horseback, that he insists on blindfolding you for.

pairing: Joel Miller/gn!reader (reader has smaller hands than Joel)

rating: T (No y/n, AGE GAP (unspecified, reader is an adult), Grumpy Joel Miller, a lil Possessive Joel Miller, FLUFF, it’s so fluffy, established relationship, kissing, purposely annoying Joel until he snaps at you, Joel being secretly romantic, MARRIAGE PROPOSAL (it’s so cute), cussing, did I mention fluff? Joel being so in love, Joel being the best dad to Ellie)

word count: 2.5k+

a/n: This can be read as a standalone or in the same universe as ‘but I would die for you in secret.’ An anon requested a ‘fluffy cute fic with an age gap (No smut)’ for Joel, and this extremely cute idea came to me that I wrote in one night. Shoutout to @littlemisspascal who loved the snippets I sent her, and thank you to the love of my life, @juletheghoul for betaing!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

but I would die for you in secret - Masterlist

“Are we there yet?” you ask for the thirteenth time in the span of an hour.

It’s the perfect spring day with the temperature outside not too hot and not too cold, the air feeling a little crisp when it fills your nose. The sun’s warmth is hitting your back, and you’re sure that if you could see the sky, it’d be a beautiful, clear, cerulean blue—you can’t see, though, not with the bandana over your eyes as you sit astride a horse, Joel on his own next to you holding his reins and yours to lead you.

His sigh is long and loud, and you can picture perfectly without having to look at his annoyed expression.

“No,” he growls. “The same damn answer as the last dozen or so times you asked.”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me—you haven’t spent an hour literally in the dark with no idea where the hell you’re going.”

“And I’ve told you it’s a surprise,” he rumbles.

“Well, are we close to this surprise?”

He sighs again, and you just know he’s got the fingers of his free hand pressed to his brow. “I swear, you’re just as bad as Ellie—neither of you seems to understand what a fuckin’ surprise is.” He takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “Now,” he says calmly, “I don’t know why you’re purposely pushin’ my buttons—”

“You ate the last of the ice cream last night,” you interrupt. “The ice cream I worked hard to make that I was excited to eat as a late-night snack.”

“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me—how many times do I have to apologize? I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were savin’ it, and had I known, I wouldn’t have eaten it. Will you please forgive me?”

“Did I annoy you enough that the thought crossed your mind to take us back home?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t because you love me so much you’ll put up with my shit?”

“Yes.”

“Then I forgive you. Can I ask a question that has nothing to do with the distance we are from the surprise?”

He lets out a relieved breath, and his tone softens. “Of course, honey.”

Without fail, every time he calls you a sweet endearment, you melt a little, feeling so soft you might turn into a puddle.

You’re smiling. “What made you choose today to surprise me? It’s kinda random that it’s a Thursday, and you didn’t wait for the weekend when we’re usually off.” You taught at the school, and Joel did whatever he was assigned each day; lately, it’s been a lot of patrolling.

“Do you know what today’s date is?”

The question makes you think because you do know the date, and it’s not your, his, or Ellie’s birthday; it’s not a holiday that you’re aware of, either, and frankly, you’re not quite sure what the significance is.

“I do, but what’s so special about it?”

“What were you doin’ last year around this time?”

“Um, what was I doing? Wait, it’s around when I moved to Jackson.”

“That’s right, and who’d you meet a little after you arrived?”

“A lot of people.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes in exasperation. “Baby, when did you meet me?”

“Like two, three days after I moved into the house across the street from you.”

“And what happened when we met?”

The memory makes you smirk. “I seduced you—my sexy, way older, single dad neighbor.”

“That’s true—I was gone on you from the moment you batted those pretty eyes at me, and who were you romantically involved with from that day forward?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “You.”

“Was there anyone else?” It’s a harmless question he knows the answer to and is honestly humorous even to be asked.

You snort. “Why would I have wanted to be with anyone else when I had you? No, of course not, and you were very clear that I was yours and only yours, even if nobody else knew for quite some time.”

Your relationship with him was a secret for many months because he didn’t want Ellie to know—he was worried she wouldn’t take it well, but she ended up being completely fine with it and had figured out the two of you were a thing, pretty much from the beginning.

“So, it’s a year from the day you became mine,” he says, “why would I be takin’ you somewhere special?”

The realization slams into so hard you gasp.

“Are we celebrating the anniversary of when we first met?!”

It’s clear in his voice he’s smiling. “We are—I know we did things ass-backward, and I wish I could’ve courted you properly from the beginnin’, but I consider that first time we met as the start of our unconventional relationship.”

Warmth is spreading through your body at how sweet this is.

“Oh my god, Joel—if I could, I’d kiss you right now!”

“Well, you’re in luck, my love, ‘cause we’re finally here.” Your horse comes to a stop, the animal snorting as its front hooves shuffle in place. “You can look.”

You lower the bandana, and your eyes widen at what’s in front of you: it’s a meadow of colorful wildflowers—the lush green grass overshadowed by the yellows, pinks, purples, whites, and blues blooming thickly everywhere, tall pine trees lining the edges, and snow-capped mountains towering high off in the distance.

You’ve never seen anything so beautiful, and it takes your breath away.

There’s movement out of the corner of your eye of Joel getting off his horse, and you’re too focused on taking in all of the scenery, seeing butterflies fluttering around and birds gliding through the air.

“Well?” he asks, and you jolt at his voice coming from the opposite side of where he was initially. “Sorry for spookin’ ya, baby.” He rubs a hand along your jean-covered thigh, and your head tilts down his way. Joel’s eyes look hopeful, and a small smile is on his lips—he’s wearing a red flannel and has a rifle on his back, the light breeze causing some of his gray strands of hair to dance atop his head. “What do you think?” he asks.

Your answer is to get off the horse, Joel’s hands immediately grabbing onto your waist to steady you as you swing your leg over the back of the animal, one foot landing on the ground, then the other—you spin around, throwing your arms around his neck, and crush your lips to his, swallowing his surprised sound. He’s automatically hugging you to him, and you never feel safer than when he holds you, knowing without a doubt he won’t let anything happen to you and will protect you with everything he has; you’d do the same for him and Ellie, the two most important people in your life.

When you break apart, your breaths come out a little heavier, and with the way he’s gazing into your eyes, you can clearly see his love for you shining through.

His hand caresses your cheek. “A good surprise?” he asks.

Your mouth is grinning as you nod. “The best surprise and worth an hour in the dark.” You hold his face as you lean in, placing loud, smacking kisses over his stubbled cheeks, along his jaw, on his chin, and lips. Joel chuckles at your enthusiasm, and you end with a peck to the tip of his nose.

“There’s more,” he says.

Your eyes go big. “What do you mean there’s more?”

“Let me tie up the horses, and I’ll show you.”

He moves away to do as he said, using ropes to tie around each of their two front legs to hobble them and keep them in place, allowing them to graze.

Joel isn’t kidding about there being more: he removes a blanket roll from his saddle that he spreads out on a patch of grass, and from his backpack, he takes out containers with strawberries, apples, cheese, some smoked meat and to drink, a bottle of apple juice made in Jackson.

He sits on the blanket, his long legs out in front of him, the food on one side of him, his rifle, and your shotgun that’d been holstered in a scabbard attached to your saddle within reach on the ground. He makes you giggle as he pulls you down into his lap, sitting sideways across it, his arms wrapping around your middle, while your hands go into the hair at the back of his head, his eyes locked on yours.

Something hard is poking you in the ass. “Is that a flashlight in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” you ask with a wag of your eyebrows.

Joel huffs out an amused breath as he gets his hand under you and pulls his sheathed hunting knife off of his belt, tossing it next to the rifle and shotgun.

“Better?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes.” You kiss his cheek. “Much better—thank you.” You stare at his handsome face and brush his messy bangs off his forehead—Joel grabs your hand, keeping his gaze on yours as he kisses the skin on the inside of your wrist, leaving behind tingles where his lips touch.

“If Ellie knew how secretly romantic you are,” you say, “she’d give you even more shit than she already does.”

His eyes roll, and he holds your smaller hand in his bigger one, pressing it to his heart.

“Wanna know a secret?” he asks.

“Always.”

“She avoids teasin’ me about our relationship and how I am with you—I mean, if she sees us kiss, she’ll pretend to get sick, but that’s just how teenagers are.” He shrugs. “She slips up every once in a while, and that’s expected; I think her tryin’ her best not to shit on my happiness is her sweet way of bein’ supportive.” He’s smiling fondly. “She’s the one who suggested a picnic.”

Your face matches his. “You discussed your secret anniversary plans with her?”

“Yes.” He nods. “'cause Tommy’s idea of celebratin’ was stayin’ in bed all day naked, and it made me wonder for the millionth time why the fuck Maria married his ass.”

You laugh. “And that’s pretty much a regular Saturday for us when Ellie stays at Cat’s—” Her girlfriend’s. “—for the weekend.”

He’s got an arm around your back and lets go of your hand, reaching to pluck a dandelion from the grass at the edge of the blanket.

“Exactly,” he says, “needed to do somethin’ special, and I found this place a few weeks ago while on patrol and knew you’d love it.” His eyes squint a little as his attention turns to what’s in front of him.

“I do, I love it so much.” You look around at the flowers, trees, and mountains. “It’s so beautiful!”

“Yeah, it is.” You face him again, finding his gaze already on you.

He does this often, where when you seek him out—be it at the crowded bar on a Friday night, the busy mess hall at breakfast before work, while you’re cuddled on the couch watching a movie—he’s already looking at you before your eyes land on his. It’s like you’re the only thing that exists, and you find it both lovely and insane that he loves you that much.

The other person who steals his attention is Ellie—she’s his whole world, and that’s how it should be; she’s his kid, and if Joel’s one thing, he’s a fantastic father who loves his children more than anything.

“You’ve ruined me for anyone else, Joel Miller,” you tell him, clutching his shirt with your left hand. “I love you, I love your daughter, I love the life we have, and I’m sorry, but you’re stuck with me for the rest of your life—you’re mine, and I’ll fight anyone or anything that tries to take you from me.”

“Yeah?” He takes your hand from his shirt and presses your palms together between you, making your own look so tiny with how much longer and thicker his fingers are. “Well,” he starts, your eyes closing when he leans in to nudge his nose against yours, “you’ve sure ruined me for anyone else, too, and you’re it for me—I love you, I love that you really do care about my kid, and how you make our lives better,” he rasps softly. “No one else can have you ‘cause you belong to me as I belong to you, so I see this only goin’ one way.”

“And where’s that?” you whisper.

His hand leaves yours for a moment.

“With you marryin’ me,” he says and slips something onto your ring finger—your eyes fly open seeing he’s tied the dandelion stem to make a loop your finger can fit through, the vibrant yellow flower a pretty substitute for a real diamond ring that are hard to find these days; this is Joel doing something how it was done when he was younger because, to him, it’s the right way, even though nowadays engagements are simply a verbal agreement rarely accompanied by jewelry. Or this is Joel just being romantically old-fashioned; you love it when he’s romantically old-fashioned.

Your cheeks are hurting from smiling so big, and tears are brimming in your eyes.

“If you’ll have me, of course,” he adds, and you look at him. “I know I’ve been alive a long fuckin’ time and that you can do better than someone as old as me, but I promise I’ll give you my everythin’ and the best life I can because you’re the one I wanna spend whatever time I have left breathin’ with.” The truth is evident in his chocolate-colored gaze, seeing the glimmer of hope in the dark pools. “As long as it’s somethin’ you’d want. It’s fine if you prefer we keep doin’ things as we have been without you takin’ my last name—I’m lucky enough that you like me.”

“Ask me,” you say.

His eyebrows pull together. “Ask you what…?”

“To marry you—in all the sweet things you said, you didn’t ask the question.”

His cheeks pink up, and he scratches the back of his neck. “That’s fuckin’ embarrassin’. Not much of a proposal if you don’t ask the question—sorry—let me try this again.” He clears his throat and takes your hand, being careful of the dandelion ring, his eyes seeming to get bigger. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, and he rewards you with a smile big enough for his very seldom-seen dimple to make an appearance.

Then his large palms are cradling your face, and he’s kissing you like he’s just come home after being away for a while, and can’t believe he’s finally feeling your lips against his once more—he’s savoring every second and being so thorough it makes you go dizzy, your skin heating beneath your clothes.

This is one of those unforgettable kisses that will make you swoon each time it comes to mind in the years to come.

And this man asked you to marry him.

Settling down in Jackson was the best decision you’ve ever made.

but I would die for you in secret - Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know! 

[wheresarizona-writes]

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[weasleywinchester]

Perfect for the spring weather I’ve been having at home 💙 love warm fuzzy Joel

[zerozerozio]

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

[boimann]

reblog to let people know it's ok to bother you with questions and statements

[bacony-cakes]

please bother me with questions and statements

[mariamariquinha]

True Blue (Gurney Halleck x f!reader)

Summary: It was hard to react to the fact that you’d gained Gurney Halleck’s attention.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: I don’t know shit about Dune universe. Sorry. This is REALLY experimental. Other than that, nothing to worry about here.

Author’s Note: Listen, I can’t explain. This… came out of my mind, I wrote, then I got aprehensive to post because Sci-fi was never my strong point and the only reason I wrote this was because I have a crush on Josh Brolin and I came up with this idea. Anyway.

Safe to remember I DON’T WRITE TO GURNEY HALLECK and this happened as one of those impulse moments where you just do. I have a special fondness for this idea. If you are interested in more Dune stories, I recommend you follow @dunefeather and @supernovafeather​. She writes AMAZING pieces. 

If any Dune fans find inconsistencies from the true story, I apologize again. They really do exist. I tried to research to bring elements from the books.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

———————————

It wasn’t the first time you’d left Chusuk. Still, a part of you was wary of hearing that House Kio would participate in a political obligation to the Atreides on Caladan, which seemed more like a courtesy of their good relationship. They had history. A good one.

Keep reading

[weasleywinchester]

Oh my god the poem at the end