frostsoldier - Tumblr blog

frostsoldier · 1 year

Text

Absolutely gorgeous

give you the moon

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: had you known getting your first tattoo would end up with you being in love with eddie munson, you might have gotten it a lot sooner.

word count: 17.8k

warnings: smut, probably inaccurate descriptions of tattooing processes (i tried my best!), strangers to friends to lovers, fluff

a/n: this one took forever but it’s finally done!!!! i’m sorry for the wait but hopefully u guys like it enough to forgive me :D

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You’ve always wanted a tattoo, and you figured now was as good a time as ever. Having just moved to Indianapolis, all by yourself, one change could lead to another.

New city, new apartment, new tattoo.

It may be irresponsible of you, but you settled for the first shop you found, the one closest to where you lived. A short walk away, harder to back out of. You knew you wouldn’t regret getting it, you just had to force yourself to sit through it, to commit.

The wind whips at your cheeks as you make your way to your consultation. You pull your sleeves over your hands and hope that it’ll be warm enough.

Once you’ve made it, the bell above the door rings to signify your entrance. A girl with brown curly hair sits at the front desk, a warm smile on her face. The place has dark floors, walls covered with different sketches that distract you for a moment.

“Hi! How can I help you?” The girl says, drawing your attention back to her. You walk the few steps up to the front desk.

“Hi, um, I’m here for a consultation,” you give her your name and the time of the appointment. “With Eddie.”

She shuffles about for a few seconds before finding what she was looking for, “yep, perfect. I’ll let him know you’re here. I’m Nancy, by the way.”

“Thanks, Nancy.”

She goes to the saloon type doors next to the desk, you watch them swing back and forth. You’re eventually drawn back to the art on the walls, eyes scanning the different styles and images. Your hands fidget with the ends of your sleeves.

A picture of the staff steals your attention next, Nancy standing next to a girl with shorter hair, their hands interlocked. Then, there’s a boy with brown hair and a kind smile. The one who really keeps you looking is the boy with long dark hair, his tattoos the most prominent.

A second later, that same boy is walking through the doors and calling your name.

“Oh, hi. That’s me,” you reply. Then wince at your awkwardness.

“Hi, I’m Eddie,” he gives you a close-mouthed smile, barely there. He’s even prettier in person than he is in that photo. “Follow me.”

He seems distant, sort of cold and you’re not quite sure what to do with it. Your nerves pick up even more.

He ushers you through the saloon doors, then through a room with three tattoo beds that’s filled with the buzzing of the machines and the other people from the picture and their clients. You end up in an office type room, certificates hang on the wall behind the desk.

Eddie takes a seat behind the desk that’s presumably his, papers scattered about and a cup overflowing with pens and pencils sitting atop of it. You stand by the door, shifting on your feet.

“You can have a seat,” he offers, gesturing to the chair facing him. He waits until you’re settled to continue. “So, is this your first tattoo?”

“Yes,” you feel nervous and you’re not sure if it’s the prospect of committing to the tattoo or if it’s the way Eddie’s gaze doesn’t move away from you.

“Well, I’m honored to be your first,” he winks, your heart stumbling at the innuendo. “So, what are we thinking?”

“The moon, on the back of my shoulder,” you pause, but he nods for you to keep going, to give more detail. “I wanted it to be a gibbous moon, almost full but not quite.”

“Alright. Got an idea for size?”

“Uh, kinda small. I think?” You huff, frustrated with your lack of an answer, “sorry I’m not so prepared.”

You stuff your hands under your thighs so that they’ll stop twisting in your lap. You cross your ankles and look down, slightly embarrassed at the way you’re acting in front of him. You were meant to grow in the city, to be better, but so far, not much has changed.

You don’t have friends, your job is slow, and you’re terrible with new people.

“‘S fine,” you think he’s being reassuring. “How’s this sound: we can try some circle stencils on for size now, then we’ll know for your appointment.”

“Okay. Thank you, Eddie.”

“‘Course. I’ll be right back.”

His exit gives you a couple of minutes to try and sort yourself out, to calm down. You want to be able to do this without the stumbles or hiccups that you’re so used to. You blow out a breath and wait for him to come back.

The way he carries himself confuses you, his almost detached nature making you overthink way too much. Although, he’s not being cruel or unkind, he’s just… you’re not sure if there’s a word to describe it.

He comes back with a couple of stencils, some sort of solution, a disposable razor, and paper towels.

“You’re gonna have to take your sweater off,” he says, setting everything down on the desk. When you don’t move to do so right away, he stares at you, waiting.

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

You slip off your sweater, your tank top underneath riding up ever so slightly with the movement. You pull it back down and set your discarded sweater on the chair behind you.

“Which shoulder?” He asks, putting on a pair of medical gloves and grabbing the razor.

“Here,” you slip the straps of both your shirt and your bra off the shoulder you choose, turning in the seat to face away from him so he’s able to do what he needs to.

He brushes your hair towards the front of your shoulder, clearing the spot he needs. He cleans off the area, then shaves it to make sure the stencil will stick, all in silence. He’s quick to apply it, his hands gentle and his breath hitting your skin in a way that has you shifting.

“Don’t move,” he chides quietly.

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything more until he’s done, “okay. Have a look.”

There’s a mirror on one of the walls, and you walk over to get a good look at the size of the circle. You know it’s only the first one, but you think it’s perfect. It looks right and you’re excited to see it when it’s actually the design you want.

“I want this size,” you say, turning to face him.

“Are you sure? It’s only the first one.”

“I know, but it’s good. I like it.”

“I don’t want you changing your mind, okay?”

“I won’t! I’m sure, promise.”

He sighs, then wipes the stencil away and takes off the gloves with a snap. He takes his seat again as you put your sweater back on, goosebumps prickling your skin.

“When did you wanna book it for?” He asks.

“Whenever you’re free is fine, I’m not picky.” You don’t have anywhere else to be, really.

“You’re not the best at answering questions, huh?”

You think he’s trying to make a joke but all you manage to say is, “no, sorry.”

“You apologize a lot. You don’t have to,” he grabs something that looks like a planner then says, “I have a spot next week, if that works.”

Eddie tells you the specific day and time, and you tell him that it works. He hands you some papers to sign and read and bring back with you for next time. “Nancy will sort out payment and stuff at the desk. That’s it for today.”

“Okay. Thank you so much,” you make your way back to the front quickly, eager to go home and try and forget the entire interaction. He certainly wasn’t what you were expecting, and you didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing. He was quiet, reserved, and hard to read, but he was good, you knew from the drawings in his office. He was also intriguing; a puzzle you wanted to solve.

You sort out everything with Nancy, who makes you feel a ton better about your consultation. “You look far too worried,” she says.

“I just don’t think he likes me very much.”

“No, trust me, that’s just Eddie. He’ll warm up to you, I’m sure.”

“I hope so. Anyway, thanks, Nancy.”

“See you,” she says as you walk out the door.

That night, you cuddle up and fall asleep thinking about Eddie and his demeanor, his warm hands on your skin.

He couldn’t get you out of his head, and that rarely happened to Eddie. He was used to meaningless things and he can’t remember the last time he felt anything for someone.

Not that he felt anything for you. You’d only met once.

Eddie spent the night after your consultation drawing way too many moons in his sketchbook, staining his hands with ink and pencil.

It’s two days later when you hear from Eddie again.

Your phone rings just as you’re about to shower before bed, the sun long gone though the city stays bright with lights. You hug your robe tighter around yourself and walk to where the phone hangs on the wall.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” an utterance of your name, a tone you recognize. “It’s Eddie… from Corroded Coffin Tattoos.”

“Of course! Hi, Eddie. Was there something wrong?”

“Oh, no. No,” he pauses, you hear him shuffling around on the other line. “I had a cancellation tomorrow and thought you might want the spot?”

You hate that the fact that he thought of you makes your stomach whirl. Of course, he could’ve called countless clients before you, but you like the idea that he dialed your number first better. You twist the phone cord in your fingers.

“That would be great. Thank you so much for thinking of me.”

If only you knew, he thinks. If only you knew how much he really did think of you—it was almost infuriating. How one person could have such an effect on him when he really doesn’t know them at all. He knows that you’re pretty, and you say ‘sorry’ far too much, and you smell really good, that’s all.

“Yeah. I’ll see you then.”

“Okay, see you-”

He hangs up before you can finish. You stare at the phone for a second after putting it back, wondering if that whole exchange truly happened, if you just dreamt up the whole thing. You pinch yourself until it hurts. You’re definitely awake.

You replay the conversation over and over, wondering why he hung up so abruptly, worrying about how you’re going to act tomorrow.

Eddie called you from his office, even though it was well past closing for the shop. He really needs to get himself together. He can’t be thinking so much about his client. About anyone, really. He can’t.

His head is resting in his arms when the door to his office opens. There’s only one person that never knocks and that’s Steve. He looks up and sees him leaning against the doorframe.

“Why are you still here, Steve?”

“Why are you still here?” He retorts.

“Got some stuff to do,” is all Eddie says.

“Your mood doesn’t have anything to do with the girl you just talked to on the phone, does it?”

Of all the people he could have been friends with, Steve was the most unlikely for Eddie, and yet here they are. Coworkers, and close friends. It’s almost annoying how quickly he can tell what exactly the issue is.

“I dunno. She won’t get out of my head,” Eddie shrugs, glancing down at the sketchbook he has opened on his desk, the one filled with drawings of your tattoo. “It’s annoying.”

“That’s a lot of moons, man,” Steve says as he walks closer.

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. Maybe this is a good thing. I haven’t seen you with a girlfriend, like, ever.”

“Who said anything about a girlfriend?”

No, if anything, Eddie’s eager to get your appointment over with, to get you out of his head for good.

“Yeah, okay. Can't wait to say ‘I told you so.’ You know it won’t hurt to open up a little, man.”

Steve means well, Eddie knows he does, but the thing is it does hurt him. Or, it used to. He was used to being judged, someone the town saw as a character rather than a human. The best thing he ever did was move away, but that doesn’t mean he left the hurt behind, too.

You show up about fifteen minutes early for the appointment. You gave yourself far too much time, you think, because now you just have to sit and wait and the anticipation is making you more nervous the longer it goes.

The front desk was being manned by a different person today, “hi! I’m Robin, how are you?”

She talks quickly and with enthusiasm, like every word is exciting and important. You like her already.

“Hi, I’m good, thanks. I have an appointment with Eddie,” she nods in confirmation, looking down at the schedule in front of her. “I’m a little early though so… no rush.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, gives us more time to sort out the paperwork and stuff. He’s just finishing up with someone else so it won’t be too long.” She smiles at you.

“Here, I have these from my consultation,” you hand her the pages Eddie had given you to sign. You chew at the inside of your cheek as she reads over them hoping you filled everything out correctly.

“That’s great! I’ll just go tell him you’re here,” she goes through the familiar saloon doors, the buzzing of tattoo guns and light conversations slipping through.

When she comes back she informs you that he’s only going to be a couple more minutes, and instead of telling you to go take a seat, she asks, “first tattoo?”

“Yeah, I’m nervous. Mostly excited,” you give her a small smile, one that makes hers widen.

“Don’t worry! I had to take like five breaks for my first one and now here I am.” It’s then that you finally notice the ink peeking from her long-sleeve shirt, at her wrists, and on one side of her neck. “Eddie’s great, and I’m sure you’ve got great pain tolerance—I can sense it.”

You laugh, she’s somehow managed to make you feel much better in the short time you’ve been talking to her. Eddie walks out, greeted by the sound of your laughter and he almost stops in his tracks. Almost.

“Robin, stop chatting up my clients,” he says.

“I’m just being friendly, Eddie! You should try it out,” she replies.

You can tell it’s in good nature, because he ruffles her hair as he passes and leaves it there. From what you’ve seen so far, the workers here are close; a tight-knit group of people and you admire that friendship, long for it.

“Follow me,” he says. It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you because of your distraction, but when you look up you find him staring at you, waiting.

“Okay,” you trail behind him as he leads you to the bed furthest from the doors, the one tucked away in the back of the room.

“You eat and drink water before coming? I don’t want you passing out on me.”

“Yeah. Yes, I’m good.”

He looks at you like he’s unsure, but moves along anyway. Eddie’s only worried because you’re his client and he has to, no other reason. He can’t be worrying because he thinks you’re pretty and sweet and far too kind. There’s absolutely no way.

“So, I did a couple sketches,” a couple is an understatement. “Have a look and let me know which one you wanna go with.”

You take a look at the five he’s laid out, all as you asked. Gibbous moons, both waxing and waning, some shaded more than others, some simple outlines. The one that catches your eye is a happy medium, fine lines with dotting for shading. It’s beautiful, exactly what you envisioned.

“This one. It’s really good.”

He tips his head down, “thanks. I’ll go get my stuff and we’ll get started.”

He’s not gone for very long, though it’s enough time for you to watch one of the artists at work, the boy with the brown hair. You watched the way he moved the needle, only looking away when Eddie came back and grabbed your attention.

“Gonna do the stencil like before, so you’ll need to move your shirt,” he says, looking down at his station and getting everything ready.

“Would it be easier if I just, uh, take it off?”

That makes his hands hover, paused in his task. He tries to shake it off; he’s seen a ton of people shirtless at the job and he’s never been affected by that, so why should he be now?

“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Okay,” you decide it must be easier without your shirt—less things in the way—so you take it off and try not to worry about it.

Eddie applies the stencil just as he did a couple days ago. Gentle, precise hands that you’ll feel the ghost of for hours after your appointment, you’re sure. His head bent close as he pushes the edges down so you can feel him breathing, catch his scent for a moment.

When he’s done, he holds up a wide handheld mirror for you to get a look at it without having to walk all the way to the mirror on the opposite side of the room.

Again, you’re impressed by his drawing, and seeing it on your skin makes you realize that you’ll carry a part of Eddie forever after this. His linework, his trace.

“So,” he prompts you to speak as your thoughts have taken you away, “what do you think?”

“It’s great. Really.”

“You’re sure that’s where you want it?”

He double checks every single detail. That you’ve picked the one you want, that it’s the right size, that you really want to do this. He does so until you’re laying on your stomach on the bed, positioned so he can work comfortably at your side.

“Okay, I’m gonna do a small line, just so you see how it feels,” he warns you, and you tense in anticipation. “Relax.”

“Sorry. ‘M just nervous.”

“You’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

He manages to ease you with very few words.

The sound of the tattoo gun sounds louder when it’s so close, more daunting, but you’re eager to get started only to get rid of the anticipation. He draws a short line after giving you a quiet warning of, “here we go.”

It’s not nearly as bad as you’d expected. A scratch, a small sting, but it’s manageable.

“You okay?” He checks.

“Yeah, it’s not that bad.”

“Told you you’d be fine,” he says so softly you almost miss it.

Your head is turned to the side where he sits, and you can see him in your peripheral vision as he works. His legs clad in dark, ripped denim, the tattoos peeking through. The sleeves of his shirt rolled up to show his forearms. You shut your eyes and try to stop staring.

He works quietly, though you can sometimes hear him humming along to whatever song is playing. You don’t try to make conversation because you don’t want to be a distraction.

It doesn’t take too long before he gets to the shading, telling you, “some people find this part a bit more painful. So you know.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He’s right, it is more painful and you find it harder to keep yourself occupied by looking around. You find it harder to ignore the feeling of the needle.

Eddie notices. He doesn’t know how, but he notices. Maybe it’s the way your eyes are squeezed shut at certain points, the hand of the arm furthest from him bunched in a fist. He decides he wants to ease the process for you in any way he can.

“So, why the moon?” He asks.

“Huh?”

“Why’d you choose the moon?”

“Oh, sorry,” you don’t see him shake his head at your unnecessary apology. “I’ve always loved it, how it has a cycle. The way it looks in the sky. Just, everything. Looking at it was a way of reminding myself I’m alive, kind of. ‘Cause I can still see it. I guess I chose this one to remind myself that even if it’s not whole now, it will be eventually.”

He wants to pick at your brain more, because he thinks it must be a beautiful place to be able to describe things the way you just did. You talk like it means a lot to you and the fact that you shared it with him so openly when you’ve been so quiet isn’t lost on him.

“That’s really…wow.”

“Sorry. I kinda rambled there.”

“No, no. I’ve just never looked at it that way.”

He asks you more questions after that, trying his best to keep your mind off of the needle and on the conversation. He asks how long you’ve been in the city, then, why you moved, and you give him honest answers for all of it.

Not long at all. Because I needed to get out, to be somewhere nobody knows me.

That made him think of Hawkins, of every person there who called him a freak, who looked at him like one. He needed to get out, too.

“Alright, you’re all done, just gotta wrap it up for you,” he says, putting the gun down and wiping over your skin one more time. “Do you wanna have a look first?”

“Please,” you nod.

He likes the way the word sounds coming out of your mouth—he gives himself a mental slap for that.

You sit up and he holds the mirror just as he did before. You can't help but gasp when you see it, exactly what you pictured. He did such a good job that you resist the urge to hug him for it.

“Eddie, it’s beautiful.”

So are you, he thinks.

“I’m glad you like it,” is what he says.

“I love it. Seriously, thank you.”

“It’s my job. Let me wrap it and then you’re good to go.”

He does, carefully and with the same gentle hands that have become far too familiar by now. When he’s done, he takes off his gloves with a snap, and hands you a pamphlet and some cleaning products to use at home.

“Thanks again, Eddie. You’re really good,” you say, putting your shirt back on.

“No problem,” he flashes you a small smile, one you’ll hold onto. “Um, here’s the card for the shop. You know, in case you need anything. Just ask for me, okay?”

“I will, thank you,” you take the card from him, your fingers brush his as you do. The name of the shop is written on it in bold, sharp letters: Corroded Coffin Tattoos. Underneath it, the phone number.

You’re led back through the saloon doors and met with both Robin and Nancy by the desk. They’re talking with wide smiles and rosy cheeks, their hands tangled loosely.

“I don’t pay you two to flirt,” Eddie says, retreating back where the two of you just came from.

Robin slips away, presumably done with her shift at the desk now that Nancy’s back. She gave you a kind goodbye, and makes sure that you promise if you ever want another tattoo to go back there.

“How was it?” Nancy asks you.

“Good! I’m really happy with it.”

“That’s what we like to hear! Eddie’s great. He gave me my first tattoo, too. Robin was mad for ages and then made sure she gave me the next one,” she grins. “Anyway, let’s get you taken care of.”

You pay for the tattoo, and then, you’re off.

It’s times like now that you wish you had someone to talk to, because you’re having way too many thoughts about your tattoo artist that you might never see again and you need to know if you’re reading into things too much. You need to know if his hands linger longer than they need to on other clients, if you imagined the way his eyes stayed on you, too.

You settle for overthinking on your walk home instead.

You didn’t think you’d end up using the card Eddie gave you. Not unless you were calling to book another tattoo, but here you were, leaning on the wall by your phone and dialing the number.

It was just a quick question, really, but you were still nervous. You’d only gotten the tattoo yesterday and already you were calling.

You’d realized when reading the aftercare instructions he gave you, that you didn’t have any unscented, gentle lotion like it called for, and you wanted to know if he had any suggestions for what works best. You tried going to the pharmacy, but the options were overwhelming.

You ended up buying something anyway because of how long you spent there. A useless magazine that was the closest thing to you when you noticed how some of the employees were looking at you. Some girl reading way too many lotion labels.

Yeah, definitely embarrassing, and definitely something you won’t let yourself live down.

The phone doesn’t ring for long before someone picks up, “Corroded Coffin Tattoos, Nancy speaking.”

“Hi Nancy,” you tell her your name.

“Hey! How can I help you?”

“Um, Eddie told me to call and ask for him if I had any questions,” you explain. “I was wondering if he’s available for a minute?”

“He did?” She sounds surprised.

“Um. Yeah.”

“Huh. Usually he makes one of us deal with calls instead. I’ll put you on hold and let him know, okay?”

“‘Kay. Thanks, Nancy.”

Desperately, you try not to overthink what she said. That he doesn’t usually get his clients to talk to him for things as minor as this. Why would he want you to, then? You don’t know why every little thing he does sends your mind into a whirlwind of ‘why’s and ‘what does this mean’s.

It’s maybe two minutes—silence filled by your thoughts—before the phone is picked up again.

“Hello?”

You can tell that it’s Eddie.

“Hi. Sorry to bother you but I just had a quick question for you.”

Eddie knows it’s you; he’s not expecting a call from anyone else. Not that he was expecting yours, it’s just that you’re the only client he’s even told to ask for him. He tries to cover that up by saying, “who’s this?”

“Oh, guess I should’ve said. Sorry,” you remind him of your name, as if he could forget it.

“Don’t be sorry. What’s your question?”

He’s quick to get to the point, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s eager to help, or if it’s that he’s eager to get the conversation over with. Nancy’s words replay in your head. Usually he makes one of us deal with calls instead.

“I noticed that for aftercare, it says to use gentle lotion,” he hums along, urging you to continue. “I wasn’t sure what exactly that meant and I even went to the pharmacy but I didn’t know which one was good-”

“It’s okay,” he cuts you off. “I’ve got some here at the shop. Do you have time today to come pick it up?”

“Yeah! Yes, that’s great. Thanks so much, I promise I’ll get out of your hair after this.”

He doesn’t like the way that sits with him. He doesn’t want you out of his hair. He wants to see you again, he’s realized, and it’s almost too much for him to handle. The way he feels about you is brand new for him—never felt before. He wants to know everything about you.

“‘Course. See you soon, then.”

“Bye, Eddie.”

He hangs up.

You leave a bit after that. Not too soon, because you didn’t want to make it seem like you didn’t have other things to do, even though you didn’t. You’ve memorized the walk to the store at this point, and it doesn’t take you long to get there. You’re greeted by Nancy once again, only in person this time.

“Welcome back,” she says.

“Hi,” you smile at her, you hope it doesn’t look like a nervous grimace. “Um, Eddie told me to come here to pick something up.”

“Right, okay,” she stands, heading in the direction of his office, pausing to say, “he must really like you.”

Great. Some more material for you to analyze about Eddie and how he acts with you. It’s odd to have someone on your mind so constantly, to try and make sense of it. He has something about him that pulls you in, and you’re not sure how, or why, but you let yourself be pulled.

His hair is tied in a low bun when you see him, his bangs and stray strands of hair make it look messy, like he hasn’t had the time to redo it. And yet, he had the time to speak to you on the phone and now.

“Moon girl,” he says, lips turned up just enough to be noticeable.

“Eddie, hi,” your hands twist themselves into the sleeves of your knitted sweater. “Thank you for taking time for me, I know it was a dumb question.”

“It wasn’t. I’m glad you care enough to make sure you’re using the right things,” he says. He holds out the lotion, “speaking of.”

“Perfect. How much do I owe?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He probably shouldn’t make a habit of giving things away for free to girls he thinks are pretty and that confuse him way too much. For you, though, he’ll make an exception. It’s not like anybody else is driving him nuts like you are, anyway.

“No, you’ve done so much already. Please let me pay.”

“It’s fine, I promise that one bottle of lotion won’t hurt me.” But this possibly being the last time I see you might, he thinks.

“If you’re sure.”

“I am,” he confirms. “I’ll see you around then.”

“Bye, Eddie. Thank you.”

“Bye, moon girl.”

You look down at your feet as he walks away, letting your hair curtain your face. You really shouldn’t be feeling so giddy because of a fucking bottle of lotion and a new nickname, but you are.

“Holy shit,” Robin’s voice comes from the front desk. You hadn’t noticed, but she must’ve walked out at some point during your quick interaction with Eddie.

You curse yourself and try to hide the smile that threatens to spread across your face. “Hey, Robin.”

“Well hello,” she’s looking at you like she knows something you don’t, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t know how you did it but he’s never acted like that with any client. Like, ever.”

You don’t say anything, biting the inside of your lip to distract from the butterflies in your stomach.

“And, I’m so glad you’re here,” she changes the subject, thankfully. “Because Eddie mentioned you’re new to the city and god knows I could use friends who don’t work here and I wanted to know if you wanted to come for drinks sometime?”

Eddie spoke about you? Robin wants to be your friend? You can’t wrap your head around either of those things. It’s been so long since you’ve hung out with someone who wasn’t family. And even then, it was tiring, not fun.

You realize she’s still waiting for an answer when she clears her throat.

“Sorry, um. Yeah, that would be nice.”

“Yay!” She cheers. “What’s your number? I’ll call you next time there’s plans.”

You write it down on a scrap piece of paper for her, and she beams at you when she takes it.

“Eddie‘s gonna be thanking me for this one later,” she teases. “I think we’ll be great friends.”

You look at her smile, at her crooked tie that rests atop an oversized button up. You think she might be right about that.

As soon as you leave Robin and Nancy go to Eddie’s office. An intervention of sorts. They walk in without knocking (the door was open anyway) and stand in front of him with some look.

He’s pretty sure he knows why they’re both staring at him with knowing smiles, but he tries to ignore them and busy himself with some sketches.

Robin’s not having it, so she sits in the chair across from Eddie, kicking her feet up onto his desk.

“What do you want?” He sighs.

“Um, hello? Are we not gonna pretend that you weren’t flirting with her in your own, weird, Eddie way?” Robin starts.

“Dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Come on,” Nancy joins the conversation, on Robin’s side as always. “You’ve never told a client to ask for you, or given them free stuff.”

“Yeah! And, you were all ‘see you around, moon girl, hey let me stare at you and then not do anything about it,’” Robin lowers her voice, imitating him very inaccurately.

“I don’t know. She was nice, that’s all.”

“Nice enough to break your little rule of being mister nonchalant. I think you like her,” she’s right, but Eddie doesn’t even want to admit that to himself, let alone his friends.

He doesn’t say anything, shifting in his seat. He knows they both mean well, but he doesn’t know what to think and an ambush isn’t necessarily helping that. The pit in his stomach he’s had since he realized he might never see you again hasn't lessened, and the memory of your perfume or the feeling of your skin hasn’t faded.

So, maybe you did have an effect on him, but it doesn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter in the first place because he wouldn’t let it.

“Look, Eddie, we’re not trying to make you admit anything,” Nancy says, “we just noticed that you acted differently with her. Steve did, too, I’m sure. And it was a good different. You seemed less guarded, I guess.”

“What she said!” Robin adds.

“Yeah, thanks guys, but it’s nothing, okay?”

They share a look, one that Eddie doesn’t understand but he’s gotten used to their silent communications over time. He scratches at the back of his neck, nervous about what they’re thinking.

“Anyway, I got her number,” Robin says, holding the small paper you wrote on for Eddie to see.

He grabs it, staring at your handwriting and the small heart you added next to your name. He fights a smile at the sight of it, cute and lopsided and though he doesn’t know you well, it’s very you.

He clears his throat, handing the paper back. “I’ve got her number on file already.”

“It’s not for you! It’s for me and Nance. We’re gonna be friends,” she grins, proud.

“We’re probably gonna invite her next time we go out, and wanted you to know. Just in case you care,” Nancy says, explaining.

Just in case you care.

He does care, he thinks. He cares way too much for someone he’s met three times and knows very little about. He knows you’re pretty, you apologize a ton, you fidget with your hands when you’re nervous, and you like the moon.

He knows that he cares what you think about him, and that when you called the tattoo he gave you beautiful, it meant more to him than most compliments do. ‘Cause it was you who said it. It’s too much for him.

Maybe he’ll skip out on the next outing.

“That’s nice,” he settles for.

“She’s new to the city and she’s cool. Don’t you think, Eddie?” Robin asks.

He swipes her boot-clad feet from his desk in response.

“We just don’t want you to hold yourself back, that’s all. You never go on dates or anything, even though you’ve had many chances,” Nancy says, softer now that she sees Eddie’s mind is full.

“Thanks for caring, you guys, seriously. But I’m fine. I like being single.”

“So, just be friends with her, then,” Robin suggests.

Her and Nancy leave him alone after that, his mind a bigger mess than before and it’s completely surrounding you. He doesn’t understand how someone could make him rethink everything like he is.

I like being single, he’d said.

And yet, when he imagines going on a date with you, giving you flowers, complimenting your dress or your hair, he’s not sure how true that statement is.

Your days drag by. You work in a small café, and whenever you’re not there, you’re either wasting away hours in your apartment or taking aimless walks. It’s a never-ending cycle, a carousel spinning round and round.

The only eventful thing that happened to you (other than your new tattoo) was accidentally spilling coffee all over yourself at work and having to stick out the rest of your shift in wet clothes. Not necessarily something you want to remember.

You’re beginning to lose hope that Robin will ever use your number.

It shocks you when your phone finally rings. You try to convince yourself it’s telemarketers, a wrong number, anything not to get your hopes up. Lucky for you, it actually is Robin.

“Hello?” Is your automatic word when you pick up.

“Hi! Listen, I’m so sorry it took so long to call,” she doesn’t have to say it to know it’s her. Robin has a very distinct way of speaking; rushed and animated. “So, I actually lost the paper. Silly me! But, then I found it and I had to convince the others to want to go out. Anyway, you wanna come?”

“Hi, Robin. That’s okay,” you find yourself smiling. Your first real one in a while. “When?”

“Oh! I forgot to say. Tonight?”

“I can do that,” you try to sound excited, you hope she can tell.

“Perfect! Do you have a pen and paper? I’ll tell you the place.”

You reach for your notepad and pen and do your best not to drop the phone in the process. Somehow, you manage.

“Yep, ready.”

She rambles off an address, a meeting time, and then, “shit. Boss is coming, better act like I’m working. Bye!”

She hangs up, and you know who she means when she says ‘boss.’

You’ve been trying your best not to think of Eddie, but it’s easier said than done. You constantly think you see him in crowds that pass by. A head of long, curly hair here, a worn leather jacket there. It’s confusing and almost embarrassing.

This boy who you barely know, taking up so much space in your life.

You’re reminded that you’ll most likely be seeing him tonight, as long as you’re right in assuming that by ‘the others,’ Robin meant her coworkers. The thought makes you nervous, makes your stomach do things you aren’t used to.

Despite the time you had between the phone call and when you had to leave, you’re in a hurry to get ready. Picking your outfit was the hardest part, because you’d never been to the place before. You decided on a dress that was simple enough, a denim jacket that you’d probably end up taking off (you get warm when you drink), and your trusty Doc Martens.

Your makeup is a little messy, but you don’t have enough time to fix it so you act like the smudged eyeliner was purposefully done. Your hair was left down.

Walking through the doors of the bar, you’re a couple minutes late and a little out of breath from your rushing. You look around in search of a familiar face when waving catches your eye.

It’s Robin, who’s waving the most obviously, her arm swinging back and forth until Nancy pulls it down and says something to her. Probably telling her you’ve seen them and she can stop. It’s sweet.

You make your way through the crowd towards the booth they’d secured. The boy, who’s introduced to you as Steve, is sitting in the corner on one side, Robin and Nancy on the other. Eddie’s absence is noted, and you guess you must’ve looked confused because Robin spoke up and said, “he’s just in the bathroom.”

She beckons you to sit with her and Nancy, and you fall into conversation easily. Even Steve is easy to talk to and you’ve only just learned his name. Sometimes you worry you’re intruding in their group, an outsider. In a way, you are, because you don’t work with them nor have you been friends with any of them for a long time, but they have yet to make you feel that way.

It’s a far cry from the friends (or lack thereof) you had back home, in the best way possible.

When Eddie comes back, the first thing he sees is you. He’s shocked. Not because you’re there—he was well aware of you being invited—but because you look like you belong with his friends. You fit right in, and you aren’t even trying. Then, he notices your dress and he wishes he could ignore the feeling he gets.

He’s painfully aware of how pretty you are, and when you look over, as if feeling his eyes on you, you give him a small smile and wave. He walks over and slides into the booth next to Steve as casually as possible.

“You look nice,” he says. It’s the best he can come up with.

“Thank you.”

The two of you are too busy looking at each other and trying to figure out what to say when the others share some kind of look. Knowing.

Your nerves pickup when Eddie’s around and you scold yourself for it. You have no business feeling anything towards him, and yet, his very simple compliment will be the root of your daydreams for days to come.

“I’m gonna get a drink,” you think you need one. “What’s everyone else want?”

“I’ll help you bring them,” Robin says.

You both stand, and everyone tells you what they want. You make your way to the bar and wait your turn. The feelings you have towards Eddie are confusing, and you’re not exactly sure what they even are. Intrigue, attraction, tension. Whatever it is, it’s unfamiliar.

Robin leans on the bar beside you, noticing you looking towards Eddie before even you do. When you pry your eyes away, she’s smirking at you.

“He likes you, you know?”

“Who, Eddie?” You ask even though you know that’s who she’s talking about. “No, he doesn’t. I actually think he dislikes me.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding. I’ve never seen him act like he does around you, and I’ve known him a really long time. Seriously.”

“He’s just being nice,” that’s all it is, you’re convincing her as well as yourself.

“Please. I know he’s hard to read and seems kind of closed-off, but he’s warmer towards you than most people. He barely even talks to clients, usually.”

Everything she’s saying, you can tell she thinks is true, but if you let yourself think it, too, you’d be absolutely fucked. Your mind would go wild with scenarios and imagining what could happen. You’re doing enough of that as is.

“I don’t know, Robin.”

“You’ll see, trust me.”

Unbeknownst to you, a very similar conversation is happening back at the table. Steve and Nancy are trying to knock some sense into Eddie, to get him to realize it’s okay to let someone else in. He denies it all just as you did, his head a mess.

He realizes that you’re not his client anymore, you’re here as a possible friend, and it scares him. There’s no guise to hide under with his urge to care for you.

When you and Robin return with the drinks, you’re the one who hands Eddie his, and when his fingers brush against yours, just barely, he feels them tingle even after the contact ends.

You loosen up a little bit as the night goes on, and you do end up taking your jacket off. The spaghetti straps of your dress leave your tattoo exposed, and Eddie can’t help but look at it. He’s always proud of his work, but seeing it on you is different for him. He likes that his mark is on you.

Nancy and Robin leave first, walking out leaned into each other. The rest of you follow shortly after, Steve slipping out after a quick goodbye. When you stand, you stumble slightly. Eddie catches you, a hand wrapped around your upper arm.

“Let me walk you home,” he says, his hand trailing down your arm lightly before he pulls away completely.

“That’s okay, Eddie. Really.”

You put your jacket back on and struggle to find one of the sleeves, your arm reaching back awkwardly. Once again, Eddie’s quick to help you, pulling your jacket over and guiding your arm to the right spot. You thank him quietly.

“C’mon, it’s dark out.”

“You’re not gonna let me say no, are you?”

He shakes his head, that small smile you so rarely see making an appearance.

The walk is quiet for a bit, the chilled air of the night nipping at your skin, your arms pulling your jacket tight to your chest. He falls into step next to you easily, pace matching yours so he stays right next to you.

He can tell you’re cold, and he resists the urge to throw an arm over your shoulders and pull you closer to warm you up. It’d be weird, he thinks. You barely know him and he’s sure you’d much rather be walking with one of the girls right now than with him.

“Sorry for, like, intruding in your friend group.”

Though you haven’t felt like an outsider, you do feel bad about worming your way into their group that seemed to have stayed the same for so long. You feel bad for the change you caused, the shift.

“What? You’re not,” he says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, moon girl. I am.”

He knows he might not be the most welcoming person, but he doesn’t mind having you around, really. What he minds is the confusion that comes along with it, which isn’t your fault at all. That’s on him.

“Okay. Thanks for letting me come, then.”

“I think Robin would have smacked me if I didn’t. Besides, you’re nice to have around.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the few drinks or if it’s just a fluke, but the bit of honesty slips out of him with ease. Eddie’s not a trusting person, he’s been through too much for that, but he has never once felt like you were judging him.

The rest of the walk to your apartment is filled with light conversation and small, awkward silences. Having him next to you does make you feel safer, though. You never know what could happen.

He walks you all the way up to your door. You pull out your keys and fiddle with them, your hand shakes when you try to insert it into the lock. You miss a couple of times and feel the embarrassment scorch you. You don’t know if it’s the cold, or the drinks, or if it’s him making your hands unstable. Maybe it’s all of the above.

Yet again, Eddie helps you. He comes up behind you, his chest hovering over your back, close enough to feel the heat of his body, not close enough to touch.

“Here, sweetheart” he wraps his hand around yours and guides the key into the slot, the pet name slipping out without him noticing.

You do notice, though. He says it so softly, and you think it’s your favorite word that’s come out of his mouth so far. It has your heartbeat picking up, a steady thump in your chest.

“Thanks,” you breathe out.

You turn around, leaving the key in the door for now. He’s much closer than you were expecting and he doesn’t back away. Your back against your door, your nose almost touching his.

Then, something shifts, and he’s leaning in and kissing you.

It takes you a second to get over your initial shock, but you recover quickly, winding your arms around his neck and kissing him back. He makes a sound against your mouth when you do, pressing you further into the door. He has a thigh between yours, his hands holding your waist tightly.

He kisses you like he means it, and you forget about everything else. You forget that this Eddie is the same one who puzzles you so much, that not long ago you were convinced that you’d never see him again. And yet, he’s here, kissing you sick in your hallway.

He sucks at your bottom lip, pulling away and letting it snap back into place, opening his eyes to look at you for a second, then he dives back in. Soon enough, he’s licking along the seam of your lips to open you up, and his tongue has your knees weak.

When you whimper into his mouth, he tenses.

He’s snapped back into reality, realizing that he just made out with you against your door. He pulls away, pushing his fingers into his hair. There’s a sudden change, though this one feels much worse than the one where he kissed you.

There are too many things in his head. Thinking he shouldn’t be doing this or that you’ll hate him for it. You’re about to open your mouth and ask him what’s wrong when he speaks first.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” he steps back until he’s against the wall opposite from you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Eddie-”

“No, shit. I’m sorry. Good night.”

He’s walking away before you can say anything else. You stand frozen for what could be minutes before finally letting yourself into your apartment. Closing and locking the door behind you, you lean your forehead against the wood and wonder what the fuck just happened.

You’re not sure what you did wrong to make him have to leave so suddenly, and you know it’ll torment you constantly. Replaying in the back of your mind. The worst part is, you were ready to invite him inside, to let him do whatever he wanted with you. He was gone before you could even get there.

Eddie feels awful for leaving the way he did, and he thinks about turning around and knocking on your door the whole way home. He never does, though. He’s sure you don’t want to see him.

You both have a fitful sleep that night. Blocks away, both tossing and turning in bed with that kiss plaguing your minds.

Robin and Nancy’s calls grow more frequent over the following couple of weeks, and in turn, so do your encounters with Eddie. You’ve become closer, would like to say you’ve become friends, even. Though, nothing like the kiss that the two of you choose to ignore happens again.

You chalked it up to his tipsiness, he tries to forget it altogether.

It’s not because it was bad, or unwanted. It’s quite the opposite, actually. Eddie’s so used to kissing meaning absolutely nothing, leading to more every single time. Your kiss, though, was completely different. It made him feel more than he knew he was capable of.

He’s surprised that you have yet to say something about it, especially considering the way that he left. It’s a two way street; he doesn’t bring it up at all, either.

He wants to. He wants to be able to explain himself to you, to tell you why he had to pull himself away so quickly. Only, he’s not sure how. He doesn’t know how to explain the way he finds himself drawn to you, the reason he kissed you, or the feeling that runs through him every time you lock eyes. If he can’t even make sense of it himself, how is he supposed to make sense of it to you?

He can’t even bring himself to tell anyone about it because he knows, as much as they try, it won’t help.

Tonight, you’re all piled on the couches in Steve’s apartment (it’s the nicest one) eating pizza straight from the box and chatting. It��s nice to be a part of a true friend group. You’ve never had anything like it before.

“Eddie, you left your guitar here, you know?” Steve says.

He plays guitar? Fuck.

“Shit, yeah. I did.”

“You know what that means,” Robin draws out the last word, shimmying her shoulders.

“No. Absolutely not,” Eddie shakes his head.

“Please! Serenade us, Eddie.”

They go back and forth for a bit and your gaze switches between the two of them like you’re watching a game of ping pong.

“I’d like to hear you play,” you pitch in.

Robin—of course—wears a smirk. She’s been trying to get the two of you together since she saw how you interacted, and she knows Eddie won’t say no to you. He couldn’t if he tried.

“Really?” Eddie asks softly.

“Yeah. I didn’t know you played,” you shift in your seat, “I’d love to hear it. If you want.”

He fiddles with his guitar pick necklace, which you catch. Maybe that should’ve been a dead giveaway that he’s a musician, but you’d never noticed it before, usually hidden by the collar of his shirt.

Eddie’s not usually a nervous person, but the prospect of you listening to him play has him feeling that way. He’s never worried so much about how someone looks at him, or what they might think. With you, he worries because he wants to impress you, he’s realized.

“Yeah, okay. Just for you, I’ll go grab it.”

Just for you. You turn your face away to try and hide how it affects you.

He asks Steve where he left it, and goes off to retrieve it. You watch him walk away until he disappears behind a corner. There’s something about him that pulls you in, something you wish you could figure out. You know you like him, it’s quite obvious, but it’s the kind that has thoughts of him crowding your mind and that has you overthinking every word.

“You guys are paining me, I hope you know,” Robin says.

“We’re just friends. Seriously.”

“Are you sure about that?” Steve adds on. Nancy tends to just observe when the topic of you and Eddie is brought up. She’s a rational person, and she’s trying to let it work itself out naturally. Though, she’s sure it will work out eventually. Hopefully sooner than later.

Eddie comes back before you can manage a reply, holding an acoustic guitar decorated with messy, white, painted-on lettering that says ‘this machine slays dragons.’

He sits down and tunes the guitar first, focused on his task. It gives you a chance to look at him closely, lets you get away with it because the others are watching him, too. Waiting for him to start to play. When he does, you’re transfixed.

Your eyes don’t stray from him at all throughout the song he plays. His fingers move with so much ease, his rings catching the light. It’s no surprise that he’s talented with his hands, just look at the art he creates on people’s bodies everyday. But, this is another layer to it, a piece of him that made you want to see more. Made you want to collect every jigsaw piece until you had the whole image.

You think you could listen to him play for hours on end and never get tired of his strumming. Yeah, you really do like him.

When he finishes, everyone gives him a round of applause, and he hopes his hair does enough to cover up the blush that blooms on his cheeks. He looks to you first, and you’re beaming, looking at him like he’s just done something groundbreaking.

“That was amazing, Eddie,” you say.

“It’s nothing special,” he replies.

“It is. You’re really talented,” you sound so sincere it squeezes his heart in a fist. “Double talented, actually.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

He lets it slip again, and you soak it up. Eddie tries to avoid the looks from his friends, especially after the pet name. Surely, they’re all wearing smug smiles and plotting ways to talk him into giving whatever the thing between the two of you is a go.

He sets the guitar aside, clearing his throat amidst the awkward silence. You look at your lap and frown at the run in your tights that you just noticed, avoiding being the first to say anything.

Every new detail you learn about Eddie only makes you like him more. You’re still not sure if he even considers you a friend, but you certainly consider him one. You would ask but decide to save yourself the stress of having to bring it up. The worst part is, the idea of him not liking you hurts more than you’d like to admit.

The silence is eventually broken, and the floodgates of conversation have opened back up. You and Eddie both let out a breath of relief, synchronized in secrecy.

When you get up to leave, Eddie suddenly has the urge to go, too, and he offers to take you home. Much like the time before, he doesn’t let you decline the offer. He’s just being nice, you think to yourself, he would do it for anyone.

This time, he drove, and he opens the passenger door for you when you reach his car. It smells like him inside, sandalwood, something sweet, the underlying smokiness of cigarettes that you don’t mind when it comes to him. He has a pair of dice hanging from his mirror, though they’re twenty-sided instead of your average six.

“You’ll have to give me directions back to yours,” he says, starting the car. “I remember the area, but…”

Yes, he remembers the area all too well. It’s where he lingered after he sprung a kiss on you and then walked away. It’s where he jerked himself around mentally trying to decide whether he should go back to you or just go home.

“Don’t worry, I can be your map.”

The drive is silent save for the music humming through the speakers and your occasional instructions on which turns to take. It isn’t awkward, you don’t think. It’s comfortable in the way that you don’t feel the need to fill it.

One of Eddie’s hands reaches out and lightly tugs on your skirt, “this looks really nice on you.”

He pulls it away after he says it and you wish he didn’t.

“Oh,” you look down at the fabric, something you’ve owned for years, worn when you can’t figure anything else out. It’s never been anything special, but now, you feel like it might be. “Thank you.”

Eddie feels inclined to compliment you all of the time, he’s learned, but he often lets them float in his head rather than say them to you.

He parks on the street by your apartment complex soon after, but you don’t get out right away. You unbuckle your seatbelt and place a hand on the door, but he stops you.

The sight of your building has him thinking about the night you kissed for what feels like the thousandth time. He wants to kiss you again and he clenches his fists to ground himself. If you’re any bit as torn up about it as him, he wants to know. He also wants to try and explain himself to you, even if he still isn’t sure how.

“Hey. About that night,” he doesn’t have to specify. You know exactly what he’s talking about. Your hand lets go of the door handle, settling in your lap. “I’m sorry I kissed you.”

“You are?”

You don’t want him to be sorry, or to feel bad about it. You only want to know what you did to scare him off the way you did. You also want him to kiss you again.

“Um, yeah. I shouldn’t have just sprung onto you like that.”

“Why did you?” Is what you say next.

“I dunno. You just looked so pretty, and I had the urge. The drinks gave me the strength to do it, I guess.”

He hadn’t been drunk, not one bit, but he doesn’t want to use the alternate explanation just yet. He doesn’t want to say ‘I kissed you because you confuse me more than anyone else. Because I’ve never felt so bent out of shape because of one person. Because you were looking at me like you wanted me to, and I can’t say no to you.’

He could, but he doesn’t want to.

“You think I’m pretty?”

He nods, almost ashamed about it.

“I think you’re pretty, too, Eddie,” his eyes lock onto yours, “and I’m not sorry you kissed me at all.”

“What?”

“I liked kissing you. I was going to ask you if you wanted to come inside before you left.”

You don’t know where your candidness is coming from, but you can’t stop yourself anymore. You’ve wondered and wondered what could’ve happened that night had he stayed, and by the way his gaze flicks down to your lips, you think you might find out.

The car suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker, when he asks, “does that offer still stand?”

You nod, he shuts off the car. You both get out, walking up to your place in a sort of haze. Neither of you know what will come from any of this, you’re going in blind and it’s as exciting as it is nerve-wracking.

Things slow down once you’re inside. It’s as if a fog has cleared and now, you’re both painfully aware of everything you’re doing, or saying. His eyes flit around your apartment in silence, looking at your bookshelf, noting the lack of personal photos.

You cut in before he can comment on your place, “can I get you anything? Water, or…”

When he responds, it’s not to your question. Instead, he asks you one: “how’s your tattoo healing?”

He’s been curious about how you’re feeling with it ever since he caught glimpses of it that night at the bar. You pause by your small kitchen island, looking him over before you can manage to reply.

“Oh. Good, I think,” you shrug a shoulder, “I don’t know enough about tattoos but it hasn’t bothered me much.”

“I can look at it, if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

You say it as if he would be going through lots of trouble to do so, when in reality he’s using it as an excuse to get his hands on you. Tattoos are familiar, not foreign the way his feelings for you are. It’s an excuse to ease himself into whatever this is.

“‘Course I am, let me see.”

“Okay. Light’s better in the bathroom.”

He follows you into your bathroom, and you wish you’d taken into account how small it is because you’re forced to be close to him and it’s making you nervous. The anticipation and unknown a flutter of butterflies in your stomach.

“Shirt off,” he says, his voice smooth.

You listen, because it’s hard not to when he sounds the way he does. You turn to face the mirror and peel your shirt away, tossing it to the ground when you do. You’re suddenly very aware that your bra isn’t the nicest you own, and your instinct is to cover it with your arms.

Eddie stops you, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror, his hands wrapping around your wrists gently, pulling them down. “Don’t you dare. You’re beautiful.”

He looks away after he says it, but you can tell he means it. It’s in the way he makes sure you’re looking at him when he speaks, the way he squeezes your wrists reassuringly before letting them go.

For a second, he forgot why you’re even in the position you are. He forgets that he’s meant to be looking at your tattoo until you say, “how is it?”

“Right, yeah,” he looks it over, and he’s satisfied to see that it looks exactly how it should at this stage. “Really good, actually. You’re doing a great job.”

The compliment warms your insides.

“Thank you.”

“Want me to clean it for you?”

“Sure, thanks.”

He does, disinfecting it first, after finding your products on your counter. He’s gentle as usual, his hands a welcome feeling. Then, he applies the layer of lotion slowly, almost like he’s trying to tease you. It’s working.

His hands trail down your arms when he’s done, his head dipping down to press a kiss on the top of your shoulder. The first one is soft, a barely-there push of his lips against your skin. The next is a bit firmer, his confidence growing with each one.

They trail over the curve of your shoulder, his hands still running their paths up and down your arms, raising goosebumps in their wake, his chunky rings cold. He kisses his way up your neck, your head lulling to the side to grant him more access and your eyes fluttering shut.

Everything he does is filing you up more and more and he’s barely even begun.

“Eddie,” you sigh when he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

He has no idea what’s come over him, but there’s no hiding the effect you have over him anymore. As soon as he got his hands on you, even just to clean your tattoo, he knew he’d be addicted.

“What are you doing?”

“Kissing you. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, yes, it’s- feels nice.”

You would be overthinking if you weren’t so distracted by the feeling of his lips on your skin. And when he uses a hand to tilt your face towards his and kisses you, you’re not sure there’s a single thought left in your head.

There’s something about him that makes everything more intense. You feel like all of your senses are captured by him and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. The smell of his cologne, the taste on his tongue, the feeling of his hands on you and his long hair tickling your skin. All of it.

Eddie pulls away to let the both of you breathe only when it’s absolutely necessary. He’s drunk on every kiss he gets from you and he doesn’t mind one bit. He wonders what you’re like in bed, what sounds you’d make for him, and he can’t stop himself from asking, “can I fuck you?”

The words are spoken between heavy breaths, puffed out against your lips.

“Yes. Please.”

Please, you say. As if you would even have to beg him. You have no idea what you’re doing to him and it only makes him want you more. He pushes his hips against your ass, letting you feel how hard he is and you whimper, you fucking whimper and he’s so gone.

He pushes you down to bed over the counter with a hand on the center of your back, and you obey easily. You’re practically squirming with want, the dampness in your panties growing with every move he makes.

Then, he flips your skirt up, his hands running over the tights that cover you before ripping them in the middle.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he says.

He keeps a hand on your back, though its drifted much lower, and the other sneaks its way between your legs, cupping you over your underwear before pressing his fingers against you. You can't help but moan at the feeling.

“Soaking already, sweetheart?” He taunts.

“Eddie, come on.”

“What is it?”

“You’re teasing me,” you huff out, your cheek pressed against your cool countertop.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

He hooks his fingers in the fabric covering you, pulling it aside and going right back to his teasing. His fingers run up and down your slit, dipping into where you’re wet only to pull away and circle your clit; just enough to give you a taste, to have you wanting more.

He’s winding you up and up and up and you think you might pass out if he doesn’t make you come soon.

“Eddie.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve got you.”

It’s then that he pushes one finger in, his rings that still sit around his fingers only add to the intensity. He works a second one in quickly, your cunt sucking him in and he can’t even imagine how good it’ll feel when he gets to fuck you for real.

He’s quick to learn what you like, what makes you pulse around his fingers or moan a little louder. You had no clue that things could ever feel this good and when his thumb finds your clit, you’re absolutely done for.

Your breaths come out hot, bits of condensation gathering on the counter, “fuck. Oh my god.”

“Feel good?” He asks even though he knows damn well it does—your reactions are telling enough. He picks up the pace, his fingers pressing against that spot that has your knees going weak. He wraps his unoccupied arm around your waist to hold you up.

“So, so good, Eddie. Gonna come.”

“Go on, all over my hand, sweetness. Then I’ll fill you right up, how’s that sound?”

Your response is caught in your throat, a whine bubbling out instead.

“Quicker you come, the quicker I’ll give it to you,” he tacks on.

The thought of him fucking you after this drives you nuts because if just his fingers feel this good, you can’t even imagine what his cock will be like. Your orgasm washes over you, eyes rolling back.

He works you through it, steadily slowing down and easing away to give you a break. He pulls his fingers away, chuckling at the noise you make when he does, and sucks them clean. Then, softly, he’s leaning down and kissing his way up your spine.

“Holy shit,” you breathe.

“You okay?”

“More than okay. You’re really good.”

“‘M not done yet, babe.”

He stands back up, but he pulls you along with him so you're no longer resting on the counter. Hands on your hips spin you to face him, and as soon as you do he surges forward to kiss you. It’s quick, like he’s making sure it’s still okay to keep going.

His touch trails up to the band of your bra—which is askew, but still on. “Can I take this off?”

You nod, but he waits for a verbal confirmation before unclasping it and pulling it away from your chest. It joins your shirt on the ground.

You’re suddenly very aware that you’re half-naked and he isn’t. You tug on his shirt, eager to even the score, “you too.”

“Well, it’s only fair, isn’t it?”

He peels his shirt over his head, and you realize that you’ve yet to see his tattoos so closely. You reach out, tracing them lightly with your fingertips. First, the bats that adorn his forearm, working your way up to his shoulder, then down his chest. He lets you, happy to have your hands on him.

While you’re occupied with his tattoos, he looks you over, free to stare without worrying if you’ll notice. His eyes travel across your face, the slope of your nose, the shape of your lips. They go down your neck, a canvas he plans to leave his mark on, and down to your chest that’s now bare.

The sight is enough to remind him of how hard he is, straining against his jeans. He kisses you again, heavier this time, and lets his hands cup your tits, squeezing and thumbing over your nipples. You moan into the kiss and he can’t control himself any longer.

He lifts you up to sit on the counter, close enough to the edge that you’re forced to wrap your legs around him.

“You still want this?” He asks.

Your hands go to his jeans, popping the button open and lowering his zipper slowly, “yeah, Eddie. I want this. I want you.”

I want you. Eddie doesn’t know why the words make his heart go all fluttery, why they make him look at you like you’ve put the stars in the sky just for him. He kisses you all over again.

You fit your hand between his jeans and his boxers, and you gasp into the kiss when you feel just how big he is. He’s wide, and you know the stretch of him will be a kind of burn that hurts so good. You stroke him over his boxers first, but quickly grow impatient to see him.

You tuck your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them and his jeans down enough to free him. You pull back only to be able to look at him properly, leaning your forehead against Eddie’s bare shoulder, your bottom lip bitten between your teeth because he’s pretty everywhere.

He kisses the side of your head, tender in the midst of the heat of it all.

You think, despite his initial distance, Eddie’s one of the sweetest people you’ve ever met. He shows it in the small things he does. Offering to take you home, the gentleness of his hands, his constant checking in on you to make sure this is what you wanted.

Yeah, you like him a whole lot.

Your hand wraps around his cock, jerking him slowly at first. A tease, he thinks. And then you pick up your pace just a bit and he thinks he might come before he even gets to be inside you and as much as he would love to see your hand covered in him, it’s not what he wants right now.

He’s never wanted anyone like he does you and he knows that information will have him overthinking later, but right now, it just makes him desperate to have you.

“Fuck,” he grabs a hold of your wrist, “as good as this feels, sweetheart, you gotta stop or I’ll come and this’ll be cut short. You don’t want that do you?”

He tips your chin up with his free hand, pecks your lips quickly before giving you the chance to respond.

“No. Want you to fuck me,” you say.

“Dirty girl.”

He reaches for a condom in one of your drawers when you tell him where to find them. When you bought them, you were almost embarrassed, because what were you expecting? Certainly not this.

He’s back on you before you really feel his absence, running his hands up your thighs, under your skirt, and tearing the hole he’d already made wider.

“You want me to stop, you tell me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Pushing your legs apart further to make room for him, he reaches down to paint himself up and down your slit, pushing himself in only when he’s teased the both of you sufficiently.

It’s a welcome stretch, one that’s better than anything you’ve ever felt in situations like this and you wonder why you didn’t move away sooner, if this is what it led to.

Eddie leans forward, resting his hands on the counter on either side of you, close enough that his arms brush against you. His face is close to yours but he doesn’t kiss you, no, he breathes the air you do, swallowing any sound you make.

His first couple of thrusts are tentative, slow, but when you wrap your arms around his neck and speak a quiet, ‘faster, please,’ he dives right in.

Somehow, he manages to know just what you need, and he wraps his arms around your waist to keep you still as he moves harder, quicker. Both of you are still half dressed, your clothes in disarray and his are pushed to his knees. You’re both so wrapped up in want and it shows.

“Fuck me,” you whine as he hits that spot inside you, like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“Thought that’s what I was doing, sweets.”

“Eddie.”

“I know, baby. You’re doing so good.”

He knows your orgasm is creeping up on you, he can feel it in the way you pulse around him, squeeze him tighter, bury your face in his neck so that your moans are pushed into his skin.

If he could, he thinks he’d get the sound of them permanently etched into his mind.

“Taking it so well. You wanna come, sweet girl?”

You nod against his skin, “yes. Yes, can I?”

He snakes a hand down to rub your clit, to push you over that edge and says, “let go. Give it to me.”

It’s like his words were what you were waiting for, the breaking point to let you finish. It’s enough to make your moans get caught in your throat and your eyes squeeze shut, seeing stars.

“Oh my god,” you choke out.

“That’s it,” he works you through it, and only when he’s sure that you’re on the comedown does he let himself finish, too.

He pulls your head from his neck with a hand cupping the back of yours, kissing you to really seal the deal, coming with a grunt into your mouth.

When he’s spent, he rests his forehead against yours, running his hands up and down your back soothingly, “you okay?”

“Mmm. Amazing,” you reply, dazed with a fucked out smile on your face. “Why’re you good at everything?”

He chuckles, kissing your cheek before pulling out, “maybe I’m just good at them with you.”

Discarding the condom and pulling his boxers back up—removing his jeans completely—he then finds a small towel and wets it in the sink. Meanwhile, you take off the rest of your outfit, figuring he’s seen enough already. He cleans you up first, delicate hands and a soft apology when you wince from the sensitivity.

He picks you up when he’s done, your legs wrapped around his waist and your head dropped against his shoulder. It feels natural, he thinks, to take care of you the way he would a lover. You feel like you belong there, in his hold, and he knows that you’ve changed him in a way.

His reluctance to get into any kind of relationship seems to have flown out the window now.

The door across the hall is the first he tries, and he guessed correctly when he finds your bedroom on the other side of the door.

He lays you down on your bed, and you pull the blankets up over yourself, lazily. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to look at Eddie the same way, but it’s not a bad thing. It’s not because of the sex, though it was notably the best you’ve ever had and you’ll undoubtedly think about it constantly. It’s because you have feelings for him. Real, true, romantic feelings that run far too deep for you to ignore.

He goes to leave, but you catch his wrist, “you can stay.”

“What?”

“I want you to stay with me. If you want to,” you say.

“Yeah, I’ll stay.”

He doesn't even hesitate, and he tries not to think about what that means for this thing he knows is blooming between you, its petals unfurling slow and steady. He slips into bed beside you, welcoming you when you snuggle into his side.

“Goodnight, Eddie.”

“Night, moon girl.”

You’re both fucked, literally and figuratively.

You wake up the most well-rested you’ve felt in a while. Flipping onto your back, you stretch out, and it’s only then that you feel the emptiness on the other side of the bed.

For a moment, you’d almost forgotten Eddie had been there in the first place. Then, you remembered you were, in fact, naked. The slight ache between your legs was enough to have last night coming back to you in a rush.

You wonder if maybe Eddie had to leave for work, but you don’t find a note or any indication of his departure. Instead, you hear the clanking of pans and plates coming from the kitchen.

You throw on a fresh pair of underwear and one of your oversized sleep shirts that sits at the top of your thighs. You’re still groggy, mind slower with sleep, but you’re awake enough to hear Eddie humming when you open your bedroom door and step out into the hall.

There he is, standing by your stove, cooking breakfast. You rub your eyes to make sure you’re not dreaming. Or seeing things.

He moves around like he’s been using your kitchen for ages, and his presence warms the space that you’ve had such a hard time getting used to. You recognize the song he’s humming to be the one he played on the guitar. The corners of your mouth lift up.

“Eddie?” You call quietly, careful not to startle him while his back is turned to you.

“Oh,” he faces you, frying pan in his hand, “morning, sweetheart.”

“Hi.”

“I’m making us breakfast, I hope that’s okay.”

Is he kidding? It’s the most okay thing anyone’s done for you in a long time and you don’t know whether you want to cry or kiss him. He’s unlike anyone you’ve known, and you can’t believe how different he is now compared to when you first met.

His guard was up, short responses and little emotion. It’s a stark contrast to now, to the way he stands clad only in his boxers and his shirt from the night before, flipping a pancake like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You don’t know how he could even keep the saccharine boy hidden, it seems to ooze out of him now.

“It’s- Eddie, this is really sweet.”

The tips of his ears go pink.

He doesn’t know what possessed him to cook for you, or why the sincerity in your appreciation makes him blush. All he knows is that he thought it would be nice to make you smile, and that there’s something in his chest that seems to expand when you do.

“I hope you like pancakes,” he says.

That morning is the moment you realize you’re falling in love with Eddie Munson.

It’s been weeks since that night, that morning. Somehow, rather than put distance between the two of you, you and Eddie have grown closer. You think he’s one of the best friends you’ve ever had, even though you haven’t known him very long.

You’re not falling in love with him anymore. No, you’re deep in it now.

Of course, Robin was able to draw it out of you, and after all of her assuring you that there’s absolutely no way Eddie doesn’t feel the same, you still can't let yourself believe her. You’ll bever come back from it if you find out he doesn’t when you’ve built up your expectations.

So, you keep them low. He’s your friend, that’s all it’ll ever be and you know it. Or, at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself every time you catch yourself getting a little too lost in him.

You’re meant to be meeting the gang at the tattoo shop and then head somewhere for drinks all together. Because you’re not only close with Eddie now, you’ve found yourself friends that are real and true. Sometimes you find yourself wondering what your life would’ve been like had you been in high school alongside them. You think it would have been much, much better, but you have them now and that’s what matters.

You knock on the door when you get there, the shop already closed and locked up. You’re quickly greeted with Robin’s grinning face on the other side of the glass. She lets you in and wraps you in a brief hug.

“I think you should start working here just so I don’t have to miss you at all in between plans,” she says, stepping back and locking the door again.

“We both know I don’t have the skills for that, but I missed you, too, Robin.”

“Not as much as you missed me, I hope,” is how Eddie chooses to announce his presence.

“Hi, Eddie.”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Robin scoffs at him, “can you not steal my thunder for once, please.”

“I’m not allowed to say hi to my friend?”

He looks at you when he says friend, like he’s sharing a secret. Only, you have no idea what it might be.

“Whatever. I have to go get Nance since she went home to change,” she gathers her stuff from the desk. Then, she points to you and says, “I better get a very detailed life update later.”

“You know you will,” you say.

“‘Kay, see you soon!”

She leaves after that, and Eddie’s gaze is already fixed on you when you turn towards him.

“C’mere,” he nods towards the doors that lead to the back room, where the station he tattooed you at is all set up.

“What’s this?”

“I want you to give me a tattoo.”

Your eyes widen, “sorry?”

“I’m serious. Doesn’t have to be big, it can be a dot if you want,” he gently nudges your chin with his finger, closing your mouth where it was dropped in surprise. “I wanna teach you.”

Your friendship isn’t the only thing that’s grown since that night. Eddie’s become more touchy with you, too. An arm slung over your shoulders, a hand on your thigh or the nape of your neck. Though this touch is small, it doesn’t fail to leave a lasting effect where it was placed, a warmth, like a drop of sunlight. It almost distracts you from what he’s asking.

“Eddie, I can’t. I’ll mess it up.”

“Babe, I’ve got loads of tattoos. Trust me, it’ll be fine,” he moves his hand to your shoulder, gives it a squeeze. “Plus, you’ve got a great teacher.”

It takes a bit longer for him to convince you, but he succeeds in the end. It’s hard to say no to someone you’re in love with, especially if that someone has really good puppy dog eyes.

Before you really even process it, he’s on the tattoo bed, a pant leg rolled up, shaving a small patch for you to use as your canvas. He does all of the prepping necessary, and even goes as far as to put the gloves on for you.

He explains it all slowly, repeats whatever you ask him to, and promises to guide you through it all. You’re incredibly nervous—who wouldn’t be?

“Relax. You’re gonna be a natural, I know it.”

“How do you know that?”

“You’ve got good hands, sweetheart,” he drops one of his eyelids in a wink.

The flirting is something else that’s become more frequent. You think he’s flirting, that is. He doesn’t act the same way with the rest of the group and you know that, but you also need to not get your hopes up. Still, the butterflies come alive.

You draw your stencil, settling on a very simple rendition of the sun. A small circle with short lines as its rays. It’s fitting for him, you think. As much as he seems like midnight on the outside, that boy is dripping in sunshine.

It also goes with the one he gave you, but that’s just a bonus.

Once it’s applied and you’re sat on the stool, in position to begin, he explains it all over again. He knows you’re nervous, but he isn’t at all. He’s excited to have you do this, to wear a piece of you on his skin.

His hand wraps around yours on the tattoo gun for the first line, guiding you so that you can get the feel of it. He lets you take over after that, assuring you that there’s nothing you could mess up enough to have him dislike it, as long as you’re the one doing it.

As he watches you work, your tongue poking out between your lips in focus, he feels his chest swell. He’s never liked anyone the way he does you, and he’s never let someone untrained tattoo him, that’s for sure. There’s something in him that seems to brighten when you’re around, and he doesn’t know how to put it into words.

He wishes he could pluck the moon out of the sky and hold it in his hand, only to be able to give it to you. Since he can’t do that, he hopes his heart will do good enough. He loves you, that he knows, he just can’t bring himself to say the words out loud.

He’s warmed up to you quicker than ever, so much so that the people around him have noticed. That means something and he knows it.

“I think I’m done,” you say after a bit.

“Yeah? Let’s see this work of art then.”

He sits up, bends closer to his leg to get a look at your handiwork. He’s silent at first and it makes you nervous.

“What do you think?”

“It’s perfect,” he says.

You know it’s far from perfect. The lines aren’t even, nor are they all straight. But he says it like he means it, believes it, so you let yourself smile at that.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. I’m super sure.”

He wouldn’t have ever picked out the sun for himself, but knowing that you would has his walls crumbling even more—if that’s even possible with you.

He does the cleaning and the wrapping, and you’re happy to observe. Just as he’s finishing up, Robin and Nancy walk in, Steve not far behind.

“I leave you guys for not even an hour, and now you have a tattoo?” Robin says, though she doesn’t even sound surprised.

Eddie thinks his feelings swell and grow every single time he sees you, and he thinks they might just boil over and pour out of him before he even gets to figure out what to say. That won’t do. You deserve more than that.

You deserve to be taken on a date, to be appreciated and taken care of properly, and that’s what he needs to do. The only problem is, he has no idea how to go about it all.

There’s only one person he can think of who will know exactly what to do. The expert in dating; Steve. Eddie calls him into his office.

“What’s up, boss?” Steve says, leaning against the doorway the way he always does.

“Close the door, would you?”

“Shit. Am I in trouble? I may have spilled some ink the other day but you can barely even see it, swears.”

Eddie shakes his head, making note to take a look around his station later. He’s used to Steve’s clumsiness, though, it’s part of the reason he wanted dark floors in the shop.

“No. That’s not- I need your help.”

“Oh. Okay, hit me.”

“I want to ask her out. I just don’t really know, um, where to take her or whatever.”

Eddie doesn’t even have to say your name for Steve to know who he’s talking about. He’s painfully aware that he’s been quite obvious with his affections, especially ever since the night you had sex. He’s always itching to have his hands on you in some way, stealing you away from other conversations, all of it.

That night was like a wake up call for him, a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. He knew there was something about you before that, but it became concrete.

He’d never felt so connected to someone, nor had he been so eager to take care of them afterwards. Hell, he’s never even slept in the same bed as his hookups. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s slept over at all. Then, there was you, asking him to stay and he couldn’t say no to you. He didn’t want to, either.

“You know her better than I do, man. But, flowers, you gotta do. They love that. Do you know her favorites?”

Eddie shakes his head.

“That’s fine. Get a good mix. Other than that, you should just be honest, that’s what Robin always tells me,” he shrugs. “Why don’t you just call her now?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Come on! She’s gonna say yes. She gives you those lovey-dovey eyes all the time.”

“Okay, that’s enough. Out.”

“Not even a thank you?”

“Thanks, Steve. Bye.”

Steve rolls his eyes as he leaves Eddie’s office, shutting the door behind him again. He, along with Nancy and Robin, knows that you and Eddie will end up together, it’s obvious to everyone except you two, they only want to help it along.

Eddie really hopes that their pestering will be worth it in the end. That you’ll feel the same.

He stares at the phone sitting on his desk for what feels like ages before he musters up the courage to actually call you. He had your file open on his desk, your number written out on one of the forms. He finally picks up the phone and dials it.

Luckily, you weren’t at work. You’d been thinking of Eddie more and more each day it seemed. How he looked at you, the secret smiles that he saved just for you, the way he touched you, the way he felt-

The phone ringing cuts off your train of thought. You walk over and pick it up, prepared for it to be Robin or Nancy since they’re the only ones that ever call you besides your boss. The voice on the other line is neither of them.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart. It’s Eddie.”

As close as you’ve gotten, for some reason, no phone numbers have been exchanged. You wish they had been, because hearing his voice crackle through the phone is a much nicer sound than most.

“Eddie, hi. How’d you get my number?”

He twists one of his rings around with his thumb. He’s glad you can’t actually see him, because you’d surely be able to tell that he’s nervous.

“It’s on file in the shop. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I like talking to you,” you say, soft and sincere. “What’s up?”

“I, uh,” he shakes his head, trying to figure out exactly what to say. “Are you busy tonight?”

“No, I’m not. Do you guys want to do something?”

“Not exactly,” he says.

Your heart beats quicker in your chest, because you think he’s about to ask you out, maybe. If not that, then at least ask you to do something with just him, which is close enough for you to consider it a win. You smile like an idiot.

He clears his throat and continues, “I wanted to know if you’d want to go out… with me.”

It’s happening, you think. Something is shifting as you speak, the feelings you’ve tried to suppress for so long are itching to come out.

“Like a date?” You ask. Just to be sure.

“Yeah, moon girl. Like a date.”

“I’d really, really like that, Eddie.”

He thinks you can probably hear the smile in his voice when he says, “yeah? Me too.”

He tells you he’ll pick you up, to wear whatever you like, not to worry about being over or underdressed, ‘you’ll look pretty either way, trust me,’ he’d said.

When you hang up, you’re trying not to jump around and squeal like a thirteen year old. It’s difficult to contain your excitement, your nerves, your hope. It feels as if a door is opening. A door to more nights like that night, more mornings with shared breakfast, more kissing, more than friends. More, more, more.

Meanwhile, Eddie’s wondering how he’ll get through the rest of the work day when his head is filled with the promise of seeing you.

After much debating on what to wear, no thanks to Eddie’s sweet yet vague instructions, the buzzer sounds in your apartment. You make your way over, one shoe on, the other in your hand. You press the button and speak.

“Hello?”

“Hey, moon girl.”

“Eddie,” he only said three words and you’re already smiling. “Come on up.”

You rush to get your other shoe on, luckily finishing up just as he knocks on your door. There’s a moment where you’re almost expecting someone else to be on the other side, to have been dreaming the whole date up. Luckily, it’s real.

Eddie stands in the hall, pretty as ever. His hair is in its usual mess of waves and curls, his classic leather jacket and denim vest duo are on, and in his hand, a bouquet of flowers.

He notices you looking at them and holds them out, “these are for you.”

“This is really nice, Eddie. Thank you.”

You take them from him, holding them up to your nose to smell them (and also to hide how wide your grin is). He stands by the door, a ball of nerves, and watches you put them into a big cup, because you never had a reason to buy a vase until now. He decides next time, he’ll deliver the flowers in a vase just so you have one.

He holds your hand on the way down, opens the car door for you and makes sure your legs are tucked inside before closing it, he tells you in at least three different ways how beautiful you look during the car ride alone, and he drives with a hand resting on your thigh, your fingers toying with his rings.

He’s an absolute dream.

He takes you to a small restaurant, fancy enough for a date—though you think being with Eddie, no matter where, would be enough for you—but casual enough that you aren’t too worried about the people around you being judgemental. You sit in a booth and instead of across, Eddie sits beside you. He keeps a hand on your thigh during your meal, too.

In his car once more, you’re sitting in the parking lot with music playing through the speakers. Eddie hasn’t made a move to start driving you yet, and you haven’t even thought about going home. You haven’t ever been on an official date before, but if you had, you’d say with absolute certainty that this is the best one.

You sit sideways in the passenger seat so you can look at him, and Eddie’s head is turned toward you, his cheek against the headrest.

“Have you had a girlfriend before?” You ask.

You don’t know why the thought comes out of your mouth. You’d been thinking it, though. Robin’s always hinting at how different he is with you, at the fact that Eddie’s never brought a girl he’s liked around his friends. You’re curious.

“No, I haven’t. Why do you seem surprised?”

“It’s just, you’re really good at this.”

“At what, sweetheart?”

“Like, going on a date. And… other stuff, too.”

He shifts in his seat, resting an elbow on the center console and leaning closer to you. Much, much closer. Your noses are almost touching and you can see the way his eyelashes frame his eyes.

He nudges his nose against yours, “what stuff?”

You know he’s teasing you, trying to make you give him more detail because it’ll make you go all shy or embarrassed. To him, it’s cute, and he’s been trying not to kiss you all night. He was going to wait until he dropped you off like a proper gentleman, but he figures making it through dinner is good enough.

“Eddie,” you draw his name out, almost whining.

“Tell me. Come on, please? You can’t just bring it up and not share.”

The hand of his that isn’t resting between you comes up to push your hair over your shoulder, then slides around to hold the back of your neck loosely.

“God, okay. Um, you’re a good kisser. Like, really good,” he leans in and pecks you for that, pulling away just enough to let you keep talking, your lips still brushing against his. “And, I love your hands.”

“My hands?”

“They’re very talented. You know, ‘cause you’re an artist, and all.”

He huffs and shakes his head. Enough of the teasing, he leans in and kisses you deeper this time. Your hands move and grip the sides of his jacket, holding him close to you.

You kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and it’s enough to have you panting and warm all over. His hand squeezes your neck gently before he pulls away, his lips slick with spit, swollen and darker from your kiss. You’re sure yours don’t look much different.

Eddie drops his forehead against yours, takes both of your hands in his, “do you want to go home?”

You shake your head.

“Can I show you my place, then?”

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”

He’s not saying it to get you in his bed, though there’s no doubt that would be a bonus, but he doesn’t want this date to end. There’s also a part of him that wants to see you in his apartment, let you into more of his life.

He’s only ever been to yours, and he doesn’t have the whole group over at his, so you’ve never seen it. He thinks, if he’s really going to give this a shot, he might as well let another wall crumble down for you.

The drive there is fairly quick, and yet again, his hand finds your thigh. This time, though, he lets his fingers hold on, rather than just rest in your lap. You like it a lot.

Eddie’s apartment isn’t what you expect. You thought it’d be decorated like the shop: dark colors, black and white art, hints of red. His place is much warmer, much homier. It suits him perfectly.

He has a huge record collection, a whole wall of his living room dedicated to the shelves and the player itself. He also has a shelf for his books. Some more worn than others, letting you know which are his favorites of the bunch.

You trail your fingers along the spines, admiring his collection. He lets you, standing not too far away, enjoying how you look in his space.

His bathroom is much like yours, small and plain, but it’s tidy save for some products of his strewn about the counter. His bedroom is so obviously his that it makes you smile. From the rings and other jewelry sitting atop his dresser, to his dark gray bedding, to the guitars that are displayed proudly, to the desk pushed into a corner with pages upon pages spread about.

You gravitate towards that desk without a second thought.

There’s something so intimate about seeing his art station in his home, much different to his office at the shop. Here, he can let it be a mess, and can draw whatever he pleases.

“Is it okay if I look at these?” You ask.

“‘Course,” he says. He walks up behind you, lets his hands hold your sides loosely and rests his chin on your shoulder. You revel in the warmth of his chest against your back.

You pick up some of the loose pages, looking at the different pieces. Skulls and flowers and landscapes and so much more. He can do it all, you think. You can see so much detail, the strokes of his pencil, and it’s clear how much talent he has.

“These are all beautiful, Eddie.”

He turns his head to peck your cheek, “thank you, sweetheart.”

You reach for a worn sketchbook next, the cover peeling at the edges and the pages nearly full. It flips open to where it seems to have been used the most, the spine broken. What you see makes you gasp quietly, but Eddie’s close enough to hear it.

Covering the pages are drawings of the moon. Over and over again he drew them. Some are big, taking up an entire page, and some are scrawled into corners and empty spaces, like he couldn’t stop adding them. All of these drawings for your tattoo, and he’d only shown you a few.

“It’s weird, right?” Eddie says, hiding his face in your neck.

If he’s honest, he forgot that sketchbook was even there. He couldn’t forget about the drawings you found—you’d taken up so much of his thoughts after meeting that he couldn’t stop drawing the fucking moon for you. There are so many and he’s embarrassed by it, because he really was screwed after the first day even when he refused to see it.

“No, it’s- these are all for me?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking ‘bout you, so I drew these,” he speaks into your skin. “I was trying to avoid my feelings for you, but clearly, that didn’t work. You wouldn’t get out of my head and I had no idea why.”

You turn in his hold, leaving the sketchbook open on his desk. You look at him, the way his cheeks are pink at your finding of his drawings, the way his eyes flick between yours.

“I love them. Every single one,” I love you. “I thought about you a lot, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. So much. You made me nervous at first,” you admit, your hands fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“I’m not used to, um, opening up to people and all. I’ve never even been in a relationship,” his hands come up and grab yours, like he needs the comfort. “You make me want to try, though.”

You have to say it. There’s no way you can’t, not when he’s looking at you with those eyes filled with something.

“I love you, Eddie,” his eyes widen, he freezes. “You don’t have to say it back or anything, I just really needed to tell you. You’re the first sense of comfort I’ve found since I moved, and I don’t think I would have felt at home without you and I love you.”

No matter how scared he is to be with you, because he wants to be someone worth being with and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he can’t ignore the fact that he loves you right back. And he hasn’t said those words to many people in his life.

It’s big for him, so big that he’s stumbling over his words but he tries anyway.

“Oh my god,” he kisses your knuckles, “I love you, sweetheart. My moon girl, fuck, I love you, too. I’ve never done this before, but there’s nobody else I’d want. Nobody.”

You feel so many things at once. Relief and happiness and a thousand fireworks in your gut and in your heart. You grab his face with your hands and drag him down to kiss you.

It’s broken by your smiles, your teeth bumping into each other but neither of you care one bit. He holds your wrists gently, returns your kiss with ease. He’s delicate with his touch, so, so perfect with his lips on yours.

He only pulls away to ask, “will you be mine? Be my girlfriend?”

You nod vehemently, “been yours since you kissed me the first time. Probably even before that.”

You’re not worried about the ‘told you so’s you’re sure to get from your friends, or what happens next because you know whatever it is, Eddie’s gonna be there.

“Think you had me the minute you started talking ‘bout the moon.” He just didn’t know it yet.

༄

if you enjoyed, please leave a reblog or let me know what you thought! it helps loads more than you think <3

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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I'm reading this on the train to visit a friend and oh my god

The Filing Room Fling {Marcus Pike x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 13.2k

Warnings: Sex pollen, non-conish territory, unprotected sex, rough sex, multiple rounds, poor little pussy trauma, angst, hard feelings, pregnancy, mentions of nausea, video recorded sex, oral sex (female receiving), child birth

Comments: Hit by something on his way back to the office, Marcus Pike is overwhelmed by the intense need to just act on his want of you. To the point where he finds you in the large filing room and overwhelms you with the best sex of your fucking life. Then he acts like it never happened.

A/N: Halloweenish in the sense that the climax happens on Halloween. And there’s something about sex pollen and Marcus Pike that we love around the spooky season.

Co-written by @storiesofthefandomlovers

|| MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says ’creator chooses not to use warnings’. You also agree that you’re the right age to be consuming anything here.

The filing room is large, quiet. The perfect place to just hide when you don’t want to deal with some of the team, deal with some of the inevitable office drama that sometimes pops up. Especially when you are the legal clerk for a team of FBI agents that most seem to think that makes you their secretary. You’re not, and Marcus Pike makes that clear to everyone on his team, but when the boss is away - you know, the team will dump all their work on you. Sighing, you look through the cabinet that you have open, cross referencing file numbers with the list that is on your legal pad. You need to get these files out and dig through them for the case that they are working on. Get them ready for Marcus to go through when he gets back to his desk tonight.

Marcus is making his way to work, having parked down the block since they are doing work on the parking garage in the Hoover building and he huffs when he walks past some young kids. Kids…they are probably in their early twenties. Shit, he is getting old. He grips his briefcase when one of the kids rushes towards him and he is ready for an attack but he splutters as some confetti explodes in his face. He coughs, waving his hand and the kids laugh, rushing off.

“Assholes.” He shouts, waving his briefcase just like his dad used to do. He wipes his face and continues on his journey when the kids don’t pay any attention. Within a few steps, he’s boiling hot. “Shit.” He mutters, frowning as he tugs on his tie, loosening it before he grabs his ID and enters the building, quickly making his way to his floor.

Keep reading

#marcus pike #pedro pascal #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike smut #marcus pike imagine #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike the mentalist

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frostsoldier · 2 years

Text

@tilltheendwilliwrite

In Her Eyes

Chapter Sixteen

Master List / Bucky Barnes Master List / Series Master List

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x OFC Lana Perez

Warnings: none

Previous Chapter

Lana watched Isla terrorize Tony at the bar for five minutes straight and did so with absolute glee. Tony may be the king of quick comebacks, but Isla had more sass and sarcasm than an entire school’s worth of teenage girls.

She wasn’t sure what happened after she left Isla to freshen up, but she’d returned down the hall with a laughing and smiling Steve Rogers, his hand buried in Baz and Drugi’s fur. Evidently, they’d cleared the air, but when Steve looked at Isla, and a flush of pink filled his cheeks, Lana wondered if they hadn’t come to an understanding.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t had the opportunity to corner Isla and find out. There would be time for that later, and as Tony was sputtering about aggravating redheads who crashed parties, she figured Isla was doing just fine.

Sam’s nephews were fascinated by Isla’s magical accent that came and went on a whim and asked for explanations on every saying, but when Isla began to hum a tune, prepared to sing one of her gran’s songs for them, Lana shot to her feet.

“Not that one!”

Everyone stopped talking to look at her, causing Lana to blush to the roots of her hair.

Isla only grinned. “Oh, come on, Lan. It’s just a wee song. No harm done.”

Utterly mortified, but knowing well what would happen if she taught the boys that song, Lana wagged her finger. “Isla. No.”

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I do not tag. For notifications on the story, please follow it on AO3. An account is required to access my work. For more information on how to get your FREE AO3 account, see this post.

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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Lana..... Really girl?!?

(replace her with him)

In Her Eyes

Chapter Sixteen

Master List / Bucky Barnes Master List / Series Master List

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x OFC Lana Perez

Warnings: none

Previous Chapter

“Not that one!”

Everyone stopped talking to look at her, causing Lana to blush to the roots of her hair.

Isla only grinned. “Oh, come on, Lan. It’s just a wee song. No harm done.”

Utterly mortified, but knowing well what would happen if she taught the boys that song, Lana wagged her finger. “Isla. No.”

Keep Reading on AO3

I do not tag. For notifications on the story, please follow it on AO3. An account is required to access my work. For more information on how to get your FREE AO3 account, see this post.

#In Her Eyes #bucky barnes x ofc #avengers au #bucky barns fanfiction

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frostsoldier · 2 years

Text

You're back! And the kid is ok after that cliffhanger last time! And I'm in love with Stitches!Din again!

PAMARTHE ARC 3: HIREACH (HIGH-RAWK)

A/N: It has been a hot minute. I've been so busy with life and writing my novel that before I knew it, seven months have passed since I last updated my beloved story. I've felt the absence greatly. Through the difficulties in writing a manuscript, editing and the general breakdowns that go with it, I've longed to return to the story where my entire heart and soul lives. A terrible bout of writers block was only cured by returning to Stitches, and I cannot tell you how happy I am to be back. I can't promise updates will be as regular as they once were given my commitments to publishing, but I want to assure you all, this story is not abandoned. It never will be.

NOTE! If you'd like to keep up to date on the publication of A Sensual Summoning, you can follow me on tiktok @racheljroman, all my links are there -3-

Word Count: 13k.

Pairing: Din Djarin/Fem!Reader

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warings: Mentions of smut, general adult conversation, nothing too graphic for once. Mainly lore and world-building as I enjoyed playing in my sandbox for a while lmao.

Stitches Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Companion Guides

“We’ve slept in smaller.”

Din Djarin was not an optimist.

The fact he was trying to be one now told you just how dire the situation really was. Either that, or he needed to check the vision technology in his helmet if he thought for even a second you’d both be able to fit in your childhood bed.

Night had well and truly fallen by the time Din carried you back from Buck’s Cove, and lethargy from the day’s activities brought home the fact that you hadn’t decided where to sleep yet.

The first logical answer was your old room. That was safe, expected. You should’ve known it wouldn’t work when Din made the room shrink by simply stepping through the door. He paced the area curiously, evidently trying not to snoop beyond anything that was already visible, which wasn’t much.

Airy tones with dark blue accents lined the metal inlays of furniture. The built-in shelves taking up half your wall space were crammed full of datapads, ranging from medical journals and behemoth anatomy texts, to the passing interests you had over the years that demanded research to satiate your ever growing curiosity.

Your small desk space sat beside the shelves, unassuming and modest for the alter it once represented. Studying to get into a highly competitive medical program as a teenager and then later, to relearn medicine through the lens of combat and triage before joining the Rebellion. So much had come from the time you spent hunched over that desk.

You watched Din’s gloved fingers trace over the surface of it now, pausing in his movement. Your heart seized, forgetting your current predicament, and you wondered briefly if he recognized the significance of the desk too.

What did he have to compare it to, you wondered. A training ring where he built his strength and stamina in order to bear the weight of his beskar? An armorers anvil that crafted the weapons of his Creed? How curious it was that both your life training – in medicine and weaponry alike – brought you to the same place. A battlefield.

Dropping your gaze back to the bed in question, you allowed him to continue his silent perusal in peace.

This bed was made for one person, namely; a child. It was fine when you were growing up, even as a young adult because it was just you. But throwing in a warrior like Din? He was big in every sense of the word, from his towering height to the breadth of his wide shoulders. You couldn’t even be sure the bed was long enough for a man like him. There was simply no way he’d fit.

“There’s always the floor,” he suggested gruffly upon returning to your side.

Though it was Din that said it, he didn’t sound overly enthusiastic at the idea of you sleeping on the ground. Not after what had just happened on the beach between you.

His hand, possessive and heavy, settled low on your towel-covered back. His heat bled into you immediately, your skin flushed from more than just the shower you’d both shared. His…affection in the aftermath of your release wasn’t new, but Stars, it felt different.

Maybe it was because you’d let him fuck your ass for the first time. It was still tender, a little achy but oh so satisfying when it jolted you with a phantom throb of how big he’d felt inside you.

The warrior had been stubborn, bundling you up in his arms to carry you back up those steep steps to the house. He’d carefully washed your skin of abrasive sand under the hot spray of the shower. Reverently. Working his way over every part of your body with unhurried strokes and heated kisses to your mouth and jaw as he did so. His hands never felt so soft as when they massaged soap into your tangled hair, rinsing it meticulously despite having no vision with the lights off.

It felt sacred. Purposeful. Like every action was another promise spoken in touch instead of words.

You’d never known the human body to be divine before then. A miracle, yes, but never divine. You’d seen people survive horrific accidents, overcome terrible injuries and recover from illnesses that had ravaged their immune systems and organs. But years spent weighing, measuring and observing every bodily component infinite times over removed any sense of mystery from it, and mystery – at least in your mind – was the essence of divinity.

But in that shower, as the Mandalorian worshipped every inch of you in the wake of your trust in letting him fuck you where no man had before, you realized everything you knew was superficial. A dimly lit corner of a shadowed room you had no idea was so huge. It was terrifying and exhilarating and not unlike being in love, now that you thought about it.

He’d left your heart squishy and soft without even realizing it. That might explain why you weren’t content to sleep on the floor the way you had been for the last year. You didn’t want that here. You wanted something…new for him to experience, something better. You wanted him to feel the way you had in that shower, even if it was only in the form of a soft mattress.

“No,” you said eventually, “come with me.”

Adjusting your towel to tuck the corner over your cleavage more securely, you dropped the other to wrap around his larger hand. He grunted, letting you lead him out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the back of the house. His pace slowed when he realized where you were bringing him.

“That room…?”

“…Has a bed big enough for the two of us,” you finished for him, recognizing his reluctance.

It wouldn’t have been hard for him to piece together that it was your parents room when he cleared the house earlier in the day. Whether his reluctance was out of respect for them – Llyrian rest their souls – or worry for the effect it might have on you, the sentiment was well meaning. But if you continued to skirt around the borders of your old life, refusing to enter it and tiptoeing over landmines of your own creation, your time here would be miserable.

This was your house, however uncomfortable the thought still made you. The master bedroom was where you wanted to sleep with your warrior. Not on the floor, or on a cramped single bed.

“I promise the mattress will be worth it,” you tempted him with a small smile and a squeeze to his hand.

Din cocked is head silently, his arm stretched between you where you stood a few steps ahead of him. His larger grip swallowed the size of your hand and with a long inhale, he relented, jerking his chin up for you to continue on.

With the shutters still closed across the wall of transparisteel overlooking the sea, the room became cozier under the golden glow of the light you flicked on. The bed, sitting in the center of the room, had been stripped of any linens, but the preservation shield had guarded the mattress and pillows well. You were nearly certain your mother kept an extra comforter in the trunk at the end of the bed for colder nights.

Maker, you hadn’t been in here for what felt like an eternity, since the day you left for the Rebellion. How tightly you’d hugged your mother as you both sat at the end of the bed, trying to stop the tears from falling when you felt hers stain your shoulder.

A small lump formed in the back of your throat at the memory, long buried and painful from how neglected it was. But you were tired, and the impact of the memory was less severe than it probably would’ve been had you come in here hours before. Thank Llyrian for small mercies.

Unlike in your bedroom, Din didn’t stray from where he stood. He waited and watched as the mist in your eyes warmed with lucidity when you shoved the memory away and walked around the edge of the bed to check the trunk for a blanket. Aha! You knew it. Thick and insulating, the maroon comforter was technically for winter, but it was better than nothing.

You tossed it one-handed onto the bed, the other still holding your towel. It was a miserable throw, the blanket a little heavier than you were expecting, so half of it ended up falling off the edge pitifully.

“Should I add hoverball to the list of things you’re bad at?” Din deadpanned, lightening the moon with his dry wit instantly.

You laughed sarcastically and you could hear the smile in the snort he released when he bent down to gather the comforter and toss it back up onto the bed. He stalled momentarily when he did, crouching down to get a better look at whatever caught his attention.

“What are these carvings?” he asked, glancing up when you made your way around to him.

Like the dining table your father had painstakingly sculpted for your mother when they got married, the bed carried his mark too. Void of external attributes of clan life, there were no leaping stags or regal lions to be found. Instead, fluid lines with minimal – yet deliberate – patterns followed the length of the base up to an untouched headboard of solid white wood.

“These are Llyrian’s waves,” you pointed out the sharper, stronger lines and then to the softer swells that intersected the waves, “and these are the winds of Amhra. Pamarthen deities.” You tagged on for Din’s benefit to a grunt of understanding from the Mandalorian.

The bed was for a couple. The wind and waves symbolic of Llyrian and Amhra’s eternal love brought to life. You convinced yourself it didn’t mean anything because Din wasn’t a part of the culture, the significance was null and void…right?

“There’s a lot of skill in the craftsmanship,” he hummed, “metal this dense is hard to work with.”

Pride bloomed in your chest at the comment, a smile spreading on your lips unwittingly. You nodded in agreement.

“My father was very skilled when it came to metalwork,” you told him, a hint of shyness you hadn’t been expecting to feel blossoming in your tone.

Din stood back to his full height, immediately dwarfing you with how close he was.

“Something tells me your father wouldn’t be happy about this,” he rumbled, his arm folding around your waist intimately, the towel loosening dangerously at being disturbed.

“Why do you say that?” you asked quietly, coy as he took a half-step closer. Even with all the space this new room afforded you, he still chose to be as close to you as if you were both still crammed in the Razor Crest.

You didn’t drop your gaze from his visor at the brush of his leather-clad fingers across the top of your towel. You held his hidden eyes when the tips of his fingers dipped behind where you’d tucked the soft material at your cleavage. He didn’t answer you, the impassivity of his helmet not concealing the smirk you knew lurked behind it. You could practically taste it curling against your lips the way you had so many times as he pulled whimpers and moans from you effortlessly.

Hooking his finger into the pylweave cotton, your towel fell down your body to pool at your feet and you stood bare before him once again. Freshly showered and still glowing from your release not long ago, your stomach clenched as you watched him watch you.

His head tipped to the side and you could feel the moment his eyes broke contact with yours to drop down your face and neck. Over your breasts where tight nipples peaked under his gaze. Across your stomach and the hips he loved to grab whether he was fucking you or not. Down between your thighs that shifted and squeezed together subconsciously at the intoxicating…exhibitionism of being perceived so fully, so hungrily by this man.

Din took his time, drinking his fill of your body in the light before he reached back a hand to plunge the bedroom back into darkness. Sight was one thing, but it could never surpass the ecstasy of taste for a man who spent so much of his life deprived of it.

The heavy clunk of his helmet on the bedside table set your heart racing before he dropped his mouth to your ear hotly, “Does any father like the man who defiles his daughter?” he whispered, his facial hair rasping over your sensitive skin and making you shiver pleasantly.

His hands fell to your hips then, turning you with him so that when he sat back on the bed, you could straddle him.

“Do you defile me, Din Djarin?” you sighed, his mouth finding the line of your clavicle to kiss and lick slowly.

“Every fucking day, kitten…” he growled into your skin, his words muffled from his reluctance to part from where he was sucking a nice new mark into your collarbone, “and when I’m asleep, I defile you in my dreams too.”

His answer had your stomach flipping, the savagery of the word turning you on far more than you anticipated it could. There was a sense of taboo around it, that you shouldn’t want it the way you did. But you wanted him to ruin you, you wanted to be fucked and filled and stained until you were fit for no one else but him. You wondered how long it’d take for his hand to find its way between your legs to see just how wet it had made you.

“In your dreams too?” you whispered, eyes rolling closed at the thought while Din lost himself in your scent and taste.

“Mhm… The things I do to you…the things I want to do to you,” he muttered, pausing on a groan when your fingers found their way into his hair, still wet from the shower.

When his lips dropped to wrap around one of your nipples, your head fell back on a gasp, pushing your breasts further into his face.

“You can,” you heard yourself exhale, dragging your nails down to the back of his neck, “you can do all of it.”

Whatever he read in your words stalled him, his muscles tensing with a hum of raw power. Releasing your nipple, he lifted his head to crash his lips to yours, dominating your mouth with an aggressive desperation that left you breathless. Or maybe that was just his tongue that plundered your mouth. Either way, you were dizzy and panting by the time he flipped you onto the mattress to settle between your legs.

“One day, kitten…one day.”

You woke up a few hours later, disoriented by the lack of engine noises and generators you were accustomed to on the Razor Crest. Din’s armored chest to your back, his steady breathing and the weight of his arm draped over your waist told you the warrior hadn’t sensed the same clatter that dragged you from sleep.

Maybe it was the bed that was too soft in comparison to the floor of the ship. Perhaps it was because you weren’t used to the roar of waves crashing against the cliffs anymore. Or maybe, it was instinct that compelled you to extract yourself from the warmth of Din’s hold in the middle of the night.

The comforter fell to your waist when you sat up, exposing your nudity and the sudden change in temperature tempted you to snuggle back into Din’s arms. He had opted to keep his armor on while he slept, at least for tonight. A planet was far more dangerous to his anonymity than hyperspace and you could appreciate it would take him time to understand you wouldn’t be disturbed this far north.

A shiver wracked you when your bare feet met the cool floor. Unlike the frigidity of space, a coastal night chill was more damp than it was cold. It could seep into skin and the cracks of buildings and while not nearly as cold as space or Maldo Kreis, it could cheat the mind into believing it was for a split second.

You reached blindly for the bag you packed, pulling one of the shirts you pilfered from Din out to wear under your short cape on the way to the door. Your bleary, sleep-laden mind was still trying to convince you to go back to bed though, providing erotic images of you crawling back up Din’s body, removing his helmet to kiss his…

A blank space fractured the realism of the dream and you refocused on the door.

No.

The solid wall of reluctance that rose in your mind startled you with its force, and your hand froze on the button. Pressing it open anyway, the hiss of the door sliding open sounded much too loud, but a quick check over your shoulder showed Din on his back, helmet turned towards where you’d been sleeping.

Padding down the hallway in an uncanny caricature of your past life, you came up to what was once Rhydian’s room with an unfounded trepidation that grew and grew and grew the longer you stood there.

Heart hammering, your consciousness returned with greater clarity as worry eclipsed fatigue. Fear of something dark and malicious waiting just on the other side of the door. It was an illogical instinct that demanded you check on the little bogwing for…some reason. For your own peace of mind, at least. But now that you were here, you were afraid.

This was ridiculous. You were being ridiculous. Was this how irrational all mothers felt when it came to their children?

You shook the thought out of your mind, sliding the door open into a darkness that unnerved you. None of the shutters had been opened yet, for both Din’s sake and for the added protection fortified durasteel gave when children were quite literally being stolen from their beds.

A stone sank in the pit of your stomach, nausea surfacing when the source of your worry revealed itself. You hadn’t even considered the danger you’d be inadvertently placing the child in by coming here. Admittedly, he was in constant danger from the imps who sought the power he possessed, but that wasn’t the point.

How could you be so…thoughtless?

You’d been so wrapped up in coming home yourself, that you hadn’t properly weighed the possible effect it might have on the little alien you loved more than anything.

Your eyes strained frantically in the darkness, picking out the small form at the top of Rhydian’s bed. Your shoulders sagged with a gust of relief. He was still there – of course he was – he was okay. Even with the worst of your concern abated, you walked over to sit at the side of the bed. You didn’t want to leave him just yet, the tension in your body still needing time to dissipate fully before you could even think about sleeping again.

He usually wasn’t so far away, even though he was just down the hall.

You stroked over the base of the ear sticking out from under the blankets, his other ear folded under his cheek while little snores left him. Completely zonked. After a while, weariness began to creep back up on you as the adrenaline subsided, your limbs heavy. It would be dawn soon, a new day with more unknowns lurking around familiar corners.

It wasn’t even a thought before you were laying down on the pillow beside the little bogwing, the faint scent of stale, mixed cologne squeezing your heart as you gently adjusted the child. He squalled quietly at being disturbed, half-conscious before he snuggled back to sleep against your chest and your heart settled.

Just an hour, that’s all you needed. Just an hour, then you could go back to your own bed.

It wasn’t an hour. It wasn’t even two.

Indeed, it was the sound of the ocean that pulled Din to consciousness hours later rather than you moving in your sleep. Filaments of his dream mingled with the noise, merging with the mythosaurs roar and confusing the warrior to whether he was awake yet or not.

All his muscles felt…loose. Achy. It was likely down to the fact he’d slept in his armor for the first time in ages, but the soft, firm mattress beneath him suggested otherwise. A comfortable bed highlighted aches a less forgiving surface – namely the floor – masked with its hardness. On the one hand, he was disconcerted by the comfort, but on the other hand, his muscles never felt so relaxed.

That was until he noticed you weren’t there.

At first, Din guessed it was because the bed was so big. In the Razor Crest, there was very little wiggle room for either of you on the single sleep mat you used. The bed you’d slept in last night was made for couples. Big enough for a man his size to fully enjoy his woman – in every position – without being impeded, while also allowing him to hold you close whenever he wanted. With all that extra space, he assumed you’d simply rolled over onto your stomach.

But when a searching hand found only the cold mattress and an empty blanket, he knew you’d been out of bed for longer than a few minutes to use the fresher.

His eyes snapped open, confirming your absence and his fingers curled into the rich maroon comforter he covered you with after slowly working you over the edge and filling you with his seed hours before. Sitting up, he groaned inaudibly under his helmet as his back complained at the change in sleeping arrangements. Part of him thought the mattress too soft, that he’d fall through it and never stop falling. He’d get used to it eventually, he hoped.

Your bag lay open at the side of the bed when he swung his legs over it, rolling his neck and shoulders to shake them out of their squishy state of relaxation. His shirt was missing – of course it was, the little thief – so he knew he wouldn’t find you wandering the house naked, unfortunately.

He had an inclination as to where you were and, after using the fresher himself, decided to go see if he was right.

Before he left the darkened room, he paused at the access button and instead pressed the button beside it. The shutters groaned behind him, from disuse and stiffness, but still parted slowly. They allowed early morning sunlight to pierce the sliver of transparisteel that only grew the farther the shutters opened until Din was standing at the edge of the world.

Taking a moment to appreciate the view, Din approached the transparisteel. On the second floor, the ground and cliffs were hidden. Only the endless stretch of sparkling ocean was visible from here. Back however many thousands of years, when space travel was only a dream and people were confined to the planet they were born on, Din could easily imagine that a sight like this was as awe-inspiring as the cosmos.

No wonder your people revered ocean gods.

Letting the sun soak the bedroom in much needed light and warmth, Din left to go and find you.

His first instinct had been correct, as usual. You were with the child in the room the little womprat had commandeered the day before. The one with all the helmets, distinctly more masculine than your childhood bedroom. A brother? Din didn’t want to ask where he was, knowing it wasn’t likely to be a happy answer.

The image of you both sleeping though, tugged at something low in his stomach. A yearning for a reality like this. Such things were perilous to dwell on, especially for a man like him. A Mandalorian. But he couldn’t deny that something tectonic had shifted in your relationship. Something that made imagining such things, roots and family and connection, so much easier.

It was a change so drastic, yet so silent, that it blindsided the warrior for a moment.

He sat on the edge of the bed now, unwilling to disturb the peaceful scene while mindlessly stroking the back of your calf that was exposed when you turned over onto your side. The muffled sensation of leather on your warm skin made him want to remove his glove altogether to feel that silky softness skin to skin, but in that moment, you stirred.

Yawning deeply – Maker, you must’ve been tired – you stretched with a feline arch, your arms over your head and a sound so candidly seductive, Din had to yank the chain on his resolve tighter.

Horny fucker, he mentally chastised himself. The kid was here. Not in his hover-pram, but quite literally sleeping in the bed with you. He couldn’t be giving into base desires just because his sex drive didn’t know when to quit whenever he was around you.

“Morning, kitten,” he rasped instead, noting the bleary smile of a woman not yet fully awake on your lips. One without the burdens you carried every day. Innocent. The vision was only solidified further by the content little noise you made in response, dropping your hand to his thigh plate.

“Mm, hey,” you sighed, voice deliciously thick from sleep, “sorry, I had to check on him last night…must’ve fallen back asleep.”

He wasn’t surprised.

Your bond with the kid was strong, as deep as any blood connection someone could have with a child. The simple fact of the child sleeping in a different room compared to the Razor Crest would be an adjustment for you both.

“It was a long day,” he agreed, squeezing the back of your thigh as his hand roamed back down behind your knee.

Groaning, you stretched again, disturbing the green alien beside you who grizzled awake.

“It’s gonna be a long one today too, I feel.”

You sat up, Din’s eyes drawn helplessly down to the way your stomach crunched easily beneath his shirt. Another intrusive thought, of how your stomach might look swollen and round, rose in his mind. Eyes heavy, he was far slower in banishing that thought away than the others when he lifted a hand to brush away errant strands of hair from your face.

“The Commander said your alor wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, right?”

“Mhm,” you confirmed, your attention more happily preoccupied with greeting the child as you picked him up to kiss the top of his head and let him wrap a clawed hand in the length of your hair, “gives us time to do a little digging ourselves, don’t you think?”

He couldn’t fault your logic.

Din didn’t know how politics on Pamarthe worked, but your alor seemed powerful and would likely be taking charge of any and all attempts to find the children. Your parallel investigation of Jedi activity would have to work around that stalwart force.

You let the child down so he could crawl haphazardly over to him, scaling the height of his thigh to gurgle happily at the stoic warrior.

“Morning, kid,” he stroked over one wrinkly ear while he half-listened to your stream of consciousness.

Your mind truly was an incredible thing. Having just woken up, he could practically hear the gears starting up and whirring to life, running until they were at maximum capacity as you plotted and planned how to make the most of the day. All the while sat cross-legged on the bed in an oversized shirt and your hair a mess from his hands.

You never looked more beautiful.

“No.”

You rolled your eyes in exasperation at Din’s blunt response.

He was sat at the dining table, back to the wall with his blaster parts laid out in front of him. He was – needlessly in your opinion – cleaning his weapons. Again. You didn’t think there was another blaster in the entire galaxy in more pristine condition, than Din Djarin’s. Even during your Rebellion years, you didn’t think you ever saw a soldier take such care of his weapons. You cleaned your own blaster more than you used to, granted, but it was nothing in comparison to the Mandalorian.

“Good talk,” you huffed, passing him by on the way to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

There was the dull sound of him placing the piece he was cleaning back on the table. Quick as a serpent, his arm banded around your waist from behind to pull you back onto an armored thigh. You yelped, surprised by his speed and the strength of that forearm that kept you a willing prisoner against his hard chest.

“Okay, wait.”

His words rumbled through you, vibrating from beneath his chest plate and down your spine like perfectly polished river rocks caught in the current, “Ask me again.”

You really tried not to be charmed by his attempt to be more communicative. You really did. But he was trying, and that softened the edges of your impatience to nothing more than a fiore bun; round and squishy.

You puffed an exhale, your hand dropping to his forearm instinctively to keep it there.

“I think we’d get more done today if we split up,” you repeated the statement that initially had him refusing before you finished speaking, “you can go bring the Razor Crest to the hanger here, and I can go into town with the kid to pick up supplies we desperately need if we’re going to be staying here.”

Din grunted, his malcontent palpable as his fingers flexed into the soft flesh at your waist.

“There’s no need to split up for that.”

That was better than a no, at least.

“Isn’t there?” you frowned, wriggling within his hold to sit across his lap instead, better able to look into that achingly familiar T-visor, “You can use the jetpack to get to Stag Seaport way quicker by yourself than going the long way around on the speeders. I can do some digging while I’m in town without the spectacle of a Mandalorian distracting every doe that crosses our path from telling me what they know.”

Din’s ears pricked, you could tell by the slightest tilt of his helmet. His hearing was as sharp as his eyesight down the scope of a blaster, you should’ve known he’d pick up on it.

“Oh?”

The word escaped him in a purr. A deep gravel that, to any normal person, would sound like a growl. But that was just Din. Even his purrs were intimidating. You didn’t react, you’d only dig yourself deeper.

“Does, hm.” He hummed, running a wide-palmed hand up from your knee along the side of your thigh casually, “Do I detect a hint of jealousy in my kitten?”

Colour burst across your cheeks, heating them with the immediate mortification of being caught reacting so emotionally to such a harmless statement. You spluttered, rolling your shoulders back with indignant pride even as you sat preening on the lap of a man who could make you beg with the crook of a finger.

“That’s not what I meant,” you sniffed, looking down your nose.

Not entirely, anyway.

You weren’t the jealous type, but you were possessive. Pamarthen women, especially Carria does, were ridiculously attractive. As feminine and ethereal as the woodland creatures they were likened to. Flirting, casual sex, harems…they were all common aspects of Carria culture that might catch an off-worlder, namely a Mandalorian, off guard.

While Din might only be interested in you, his mere presence would set tongues wagging.

He was a warrior. He walked like it was big – it was – commanded a room like he knew what to do with it – he did – and wordlessly made lesser men submit like he could fuck their women better than them.

He could.

He was everything a Carria woman looked for. Stars, he was everything a Macteer woman looked for, and they were notorious for seeking only the strongest attributes in a mate. She-wolves were a force to be reckoned with at the best of times, they needed someone who wouldn’t crumble when they flashed their fangs.

“Mm…even if it was,” Din’s hand stopped at your hip, pulling your attention back fully to him when he lifted it to cup your jaw firmly and forced your eyes to remain helplessly on his visor where he could see the truth, “does are too skittish for me. I like my woman to roar, even if it is only a meow at times.”

How dare your stomach flutter at that.

You swatted his shoulder, nothing in the way of him seeing the fluster on your face with the grip he kept on your jaw. Damnable man. The chuckle he released was as warm as it was filthy. He knew exactly what he was doing to you, exactly what turned you on. Then his hand shifted to the back of your neck in a gesture more gentle – but no less possessive – so he could drop his forehead to yours silently.

Your cheeks still hot from his teasing, you tried to appear stern.

“I do not meow.”

How the comparison Biran made nearly two years ago stuck still boggled your mind. But the affection with which the Mandalorian crooned kitten to you was indescribable in its intimacy. Sometimes, you almost liked the sound of it better than your name, if only because he was the only one who called you it.

“You sure?” he teased, “I’m nearly certain that’s the sound I hear when you’re bossing me around.”

He tightened his hold around you pre-emptively in case you really did live up to your nickname and claw him to shreds. When your jaw fell to the floor, aghast, he couldn’t prevent the laugh from bursting under his helmet at your expression.

“That’s so rude!” you crowed, disbelief at your lovers audacity making the entire thing funnier as a laugh of your own threatened to escape your lips. You pressed them tight together to stop it. You needed to have some dignity.

His foresight had been correct – damn him – and when you squirmed to try and stand with what you considered righteous fury, his arms stopped you from doing much more than wriggling pathetically on his lap.

So much for your dramatic exit.

“Easy, kitten…” Laughter still lacing his tone, the breathy drop of his voice stalled you with its sudden heat, “keep moving like that, and we’ll get nothing done today.”

Oh.

You became aware of the slightly hardening length under you. Both your pussy and ass throbbed with awareness. He’d been inside both the night before on the shores of the sea. Stars, he hadn’t even filled your ass entirely before you came. You could only imagine what it’d be like when you were able to take him fully without restraint.

Your throat suddenly dry, you swallowed. A low growl – one you felt more than heard – rose in Din’s chest. It was like your thoughts were playing in a holovid for him to see, his intuition uncanny. Maker, you were insatiable these last few days, both of you. Which was saying something. But as much as you wanted him to bend you over the dining table to go for round three, you had work to do.

A sneaky idea rose in your mind then, and you wiggled your ass again experimentally. His grip tightened immediately, a warning snarl rumbling in his chest. Biting down into the pillow of your bottom lip, you dropped your hand deliberately to the front of his flight suit.

Din’s growl of your name was a rare second warning. The last one you would get. Anything after that would be a well-deserved punishment.

“Mmh?” you hummed airily, your fingers tiptoeing lightly over the semi-hard shape of him. Not enough that he’d feel much under the thick duraweave, but enough to tease him the way he’d been tormenting you all morning.

“You know…” you continued seductively, nudging your nose into the carved cheek of his helmet and basking in the shuddering exhale you heard coming from under the lip, “if we split up, we can get back to this much, much quicker…”

“You sly fucking…” Din growled in realization, outmaneuvered by your strategy. He couldn’t keep the faint hint of pride at the way you’d seamlessly manipulated the situation to get your own way out of his tone, though. What could you say? You weren’t a one-trick-pony, and seduction was an art form you eagerly indulged in all your life.

He didn’t even finish his sentence, sighing with a clunk as his helmet fell back against the wall in defeat. You didn’t think it was premature to give yourself another point in the tally, honestly you deserved two just for style.

“Fine. Fine,” he relented, releasing his grip on you and swatting your ass when you stood from his lap victorious, “we do it your way.”

With a bounce in your step, you continued on your way to the kitchen, flashing him a bright smile over your shoulder. He looked about as flustered as his armor would allow, and it turned your grin cheeky knowing you were the cause of it,

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Leaning back in the chair, Din’s posture shifted arrogantly. His legs spread, you could easily make out the hard bulge of his cock straining against his flight suit and just like that, your fleeting moment of control evaporated.

“Not as hard as I’m going to fuck you the moment we get back, ner baruur.”

You were right, as usual.

Using his Rising Phoenix cut the time it took to get to the spaceport almost by half. Your advice to follow the coastline, across the white cliff faces that cascaded down into the waves beneath, ensured he didn’t get lost amidst the disorienting scale of the sea or the confusing labyrinth of hills and forestry.

Small fishing vessels rocked gently on the water, Din’s helmet picking up the occasional shout from one of the men on board to another. Hauling great nets of silver-toned fish onto the deck, a line of conservation droids immediately began sorting through the catch rapidly. Finding egg-bearing females, the young, or other species that accidentally got caught up in the net and tossing them back into the ocean.

He wouldn’t be surprised if fish from that catch ended up in your possession when they made it to the fishmongers. You liked seafood, he recalled. You were always in a good mood on the rare occasion he landed on a planet that had any semblance of water on it, knowing it meant fresh fish for once. You’d been buying fish that day on Mynock before he made the journey to Arvala-7.

Din snorted under his helmet, dark eyes turning back the direction he was flying.

To think, he planned to avoid you. Fearing he’d end up in a sarlacc pit or something equally disastrous given how up until that point, your paths only ever crossed when he was injured. Din didn’t fear much then, bar his helmet being removed or dishonoring his Creed, and part of him now wondered if what he feared had been the feelings you nudged awake inside him.

Back then, they were nothing close to what they were now. Maker, it took months to even find his way to your bed, but those first encounters were like the first cracks of a crater before a volcanic eruption. An inevitability. There was nothing he could’ve done to stop it.

Fishing boats were eventually replaced by great vessels on their way to and from the seaport. What looked like several airship carriers sat docked on the horizon, flanking your clan’s territory with an impenetrable strength he found staggering. For one clan to possess all this…

Pamarthen clans were evidently much, much larger than Mandalorian clans. Perhaps, before the Great Purge of Mandalore, it looked similar, but he’d been too young, too…focused on his training on Concordia to notice.

He steered clear from landing directly in front of the Razor Crest, however more convenient it might have been. The area was technically an active spaceport and Din didn’t want to gamble of his abilities to outmaneuver X-Wings and cargo ships.

Instead, he landed at the foot of the bridge that connected the big island to the ports. It was a bit of a walk across, both durasteel bridges made for industry with a size to match. He could stretch his legs though, and casually observe those who passed him. In his line of work, he never knew who he might see or what odd behavior he might notice that would lead him to who he was hunting.

The Mandalorian didn’t quite know what he was looking for when it came to the Jedi, truth be told. Not someone who looked like the child, but something that embodied…magic? He didn’t fucking know. What did magicians look like? Did they wear cloaks and hoods? Did they levitate instead of walk? How was he supposed to tell the difference?

Wait.

A group of people passed Din on the other bridge and his eyes were immediately transfixed. They weren’t levitating, but everything else about them looked straight out of the mental image Din had been using this entire time.

Three figures, hooded and cloaked in coarseweave robes of a deep red, walked unhurriedly behind two armed soldiers. Their blaster rifles held to their chest on standby, they were donned in black combat gear and what looked to be dense, black chainmail covering their heads. The links fell like water down to their chest and possessed no discernible features – no eye sockets or mouthpiece – bar the way the mail settled over their faces. The peak of a nose and curve of a forehead, nothing else.

Was this the way outsiders saw Mandalorians? Surely not. His helmet concealed his appearance but gave him a name, a purpose. Those mail masks looked like they were made to wash away the identity of anyone who wore one. They didn’t look real.

These guys were just…walking around. After looking for so long, Din always assumed sorcerers existed the way the Tribe had; secretly. They might not even be sorcerers, but these guys looked like they knew shit about magic, and that was as close as he’d gotten since his journey began.

It was probably why his next move wasn’t as calculated as it usually would’ve been.

“Hey, you.”

Din called across the wide open space between the bridges, the audience roar of the water beneath turning the space into an arena. He approached the edge of his side slowly as both faceless guards turned, placing themselves between him and their charges.

He held up a hand in peace, the other hovering over the butt of his blaster should he need to draw it quickly. Neither guard lifted their weapon but kept them tucked to their chest, the barrel pointed down. Ready.

“A Mandalorian? On Pamarthe?” A voice rose in Basic from the group.

One of the guards jerked his head marginally, not expecting one of the robed men to speak. With some reluctance, he stood half a step to the side for the one who spoke to get a better look at him. Even with just a hood, the thickness of the material shadowed the man’s deeply wrinkled face effectively.

“In full regalia too, how rare.”

An uncomfortable feeling surfaced in Din’s stomach, like he was a wild, exotic creature kept in captivity by Core planets for their inhabitants to ogle and stare at.

Whatever assumption Din had about these men and their secrecy, was wiped clean when the one who spoke pulled his hood down, revealing an elderly human man with stringy, grey hair combed back from severe, heavy brows. His charcoal eyes set Din on edge, a strike of lightning tensing his spine with instinctive awareness.

“I have some questions for you,” Din responded, ignoring the obvious appreciation the man had for his armor. This was nothing new for a Mandalorian.

The two figures that remained hooded looked towards each other, unfazed by his words. The man with the unnerving eyes arched one of those thick brows, thin lips twisting into some semblance of a smirk.

“I understand you’re not from here, Mando,” he explained slowly, raising Din’s hackles from the condescension in his tone, “and whoever sent for you has obviously given you a wasted journey, I fear. But we are not questioned by anyone.”

“That’s about to change,” Din retorted, he’d had bounties like this before. Big fishes in small ponds that shit themselves the moment he struck back. He didn’t need to waste actual energy into scaring people, their spines were usually brittle enough to snap from a growl.

But something about these people did unnerve the Mandalorian. The way he knew not to underestimate the reinforcements gang affiliates could call to overwhelm him with sheer numbers rather than skill. They obviously knew that too, because the grin never left the robed man’s face.

He merely reached back to pull his hood back over his head, a leer of contempt shining in those flat, black eyes when he turned back the way the group had been walking before Din interrupted, “We shall see about that, Mandalorian.”

One guard kept him in his sights, flanking the rear as his companion led the group away. He didn’t turn back around until they were some distance away and even then, Din knew their muscles must be tense in anticipation for him to strike.

Part of him wanted to. To force them into submission and answer the questions he had. Two guards were nothing to a warrior of Din’s caliber and they knew it too. But something stopped him. There had been observers to this exchange, passers-by who slowed to watch and Din realized by their hushed whispers that he’d done something wrong.

One such person actually approached him, the whelp with the crush. Bryn.

“Mister, Mister Mando—” came the thickly accented greeting.

Maker give him strength.

Din’s eyes flickered to the boy, even as his helmet remained trained on the group slowly growing smaller the farther they walked away. When Bryn waved a hand in front of his visor though, thinking he hadn’t heard him, Din’s impatience won out, and he growled, grabbing the boy’s wrist to yank down.

“What?”

“Ow, ow ow—” Bryn complained from where Din had twisted his wrist subconsciously. The warrior released him with a click of his tongue, annoyed, “By Llyrian, you’re strong. Though, I’d expect nothing else from a Mandalorian…given the stories, but—”

“What is it, boy?” Din interrupted.

“I—well, I’d be careful with the Sentinels,” Bryn frowned, looking out towards the group Din had been contemplating jumping, “They’re a law onto themselves here, not a good idea to get on their bad side.”

The Sentinels…where had he heard that name before?

“I can handle myself, kid.”

Bryn’s hazel eyes widened at the perceived offence he’d caused Din, waving a hand in front of him, “Of course!” He mumbled something in Pamarthen, a rapid string of words Din couldn’t understand before rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, “I don’t know how to explain in Basic, but even the rhaer has limited power over them.”

Din arched a brow, unseeing to the boy who only had his stoic, unmoving helmet to go by. Now that was surprising. The same leader who had fleets of airship carriers and land far as they eye could see was not wholly in charge of certain people who lived on it? That was something he would have to ask you about later.

“I get it,” Din rumbled, Bryn still valiantly trying to describe such a niche topic in his second language, “thanks.” He tagged to the end, frowning when the young man smiled. Had Din ever been this green? This insufferably…hopeful?

Unlikely.

Bryn was young, likely only eighteen or nineteen years old. He hadn’t seen a fraction of the horrors someone even ten years his senior would have.

“No problem, Mister Mando,” Bryn puffed his chest, proud of himself.

“Just Mando, is fine,” The Mandalorian sighed, feeling a headache coming along already and desperately wishing he could remove his helmet to pinch the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave it off.

"Mando, wizard." Bryn nodded, “What’s brought you back here so soon? Did you find Commander Carria last night? He came looking for you, but you’d already left by then. I told him you’d planned to go to the Tipsy Hart since I said that’s where I thought he would be but obviously not, since he showed up at the spaceport—”

“Picking up my ship,” he grunted in a desperate attempt to stop the talking and turned back towards the spaceport.

Was this what Din had to look forward to when the kid started talking? Thank the Maker he seemed to age at a snail’s pace so he’d have a few years before that hopefully started. His thoughts screeched to a halt, a mudhorn colliding with him when he remembered it didn’t matter when the kid spoke, he was going to be with his own kind, not Din.

It soured his humor further, and when Bryn took it upon himself to walk with him, Din almost took it out on the poor kid. But the realization that he wouldn’t experience the child talking the way Bryn was now softened the warrior marginally, enough to not shoot him.

“The Razor Crest, right? She’s very old,” Bryn continued conversationally.

Huh. Maybe he would shoot him after all. Did he speak so candidly about everything on his mind? Din wouldn’t like to know how women reacted if he told them exactly what was on his mind the way he was to the warrior now.

“Never call a woman old, kid,” Din heard himself say as they walked into the makeshift hanger where the Razor Crest sat, “Whether she’s a ship or the girl you marry.”

“Oh,” Bryn replied quietly, mulling his words against whatever it was that took up the mind of a boy his age.

Sex. Usually sex.

Din snorted, what was his excuse then? Age evidently didn’t matter, when a man had a woman like you in his bed night after night. How could he not think about your body, your sounds, your pussy squeezing every drop of come from him whenever he got the chance?

“No wonder Llysa got mad at me when I said she was too old to learn how to pilot a Mantaris…” he mused to himself, scratching the back of his head where two delicate braids met the tie that held his hair in a messy tail.

Oh boy.

Din stopped by his ship, typing in a code on his vambrace to drop the shields and open the ramp. The kid was a disaster and even worse, he had no idea he was. There was a call in Pamarthen from across the harbor and while Din couldn’t understand most of it, he recognized Bryn’s name.

The boy shouted something back jovially despite the impatience in the other man’s voice.

“I gotta get to work, but it was nice seeing you again Mis—Mando.”

Din dipped his head in acknowledgement, watching as Bryn started jogging in the direction the voice came from. Something compelled him to speak though, an effect that Pamarthens seemed to have on the warrior.

“Bryn,” Din called, partially hoping the kid wouldn’t hear him. No such luck. He looked over his shoulder at the Mandalorian, slowing down and Din snorted to himself. Annoying as he was, there was something refreshing about Bryn. While he hadn’t seen the terrors you or he had in the war, he represented a new hope for a future untouched by what happened.

“Encourage that girl to learn,” he rasped, dipping into the pot of knowledge he’d accumulated from you, one that grew larger by the day, “don’t underestimate her.”

Confusion crossed Bryn’s face and he wondered briefly if his words had fallen on deaf ears, but after a moment, an unguarded smile lit his face and the boy nodded. With a lazy salute as a parting thanks, Bryn left on his way back to work and despite not getting any information from the Sentinels, Din didn’t feel the entire journey had been a waste.

It had been far too long since you and the child went on your own adventure together.

Fallow Ridge was the perfect spot for it.

You could’ve taken him to a village closer to the house, but that far north didn’t see much traffic and information would be harder to come by. Fallow Ridge was more central, about an hour away by speeder and boasted some of the best bakeries on the island. Located just off the main artery of roads leading to the Seat, it wasn’t uncommon to see members of other clans passing through on their journeys.

After Din had taken off to Stag Seaport and double checking your comms still worked in case he needed to find you, you bundled the little alien into his brown satchel and were off.

You hadn’t been lying to Din when you said you’d need to pick up supplies. No one had lived in your house for over six years and apart from the things Kyr left for you, there was little more than mothballs and dust in the cupboards. Not to mention clothes. After Din had unceremoniously ripped one of your two remaining pairs of pants last night, you were in desperate need of new ones.

Parking your speeder just outside the low stone wall that marked the perimeter of town, you nodded politely in greeting to a group of young pilots half-dressed in the pants of their flight suits, sleeveless undershirts displaying the antlers of their Mark proudly against tanned skin. You wondered if you knew them, they looked young enough to have been children when you left – like Bryn – so the changes would’ve been drastic enough for you to be uncertain.

Cobblestone buildings sat on mismatched levels across the uneven terrain. Some further up on hills where small paths branched off from the main street, while only the roofs of other houses could be seen from where they were situated further down an incline.

The kid was mesmerized as the bustle of daily life overwhelmed his senses. A hum of chatter, welcoming and lively, mingled with the sounds of trade as people shopped, gossiped and generally appeared untouched by the ravages of a post-war universe.

But the scars could still be seen, quiet as they may be.

Absent figures, a disparity in the number of people your age compared to older generations, more cybernetic prosthetics than before from both the bombardment and returning rebels. Even the prices in the transparisteel of shops were higher than you remembered, significantly higher. But that’s what happened when you had a destroyed spaceport; trade became complicated and therefore, expensive.

“What do you say, cutie?” you looked down at your hip where the child was babbling happily with distracted grabs to anything and everything he wanted to explore, “Food or clothes first?”

It was a redundant question, the second the word ‘food’ left your mouth, his large eyes were sparkling with an excited coo.

“Good idea, maybe we can grab more fiore buns before they sell out for the day too.”

His ears wiggled eagerly, the memory of his small mouth blue from the berry jam inside the buns last night making you laugh quietly to yourself. You weren’t the only one who was a fan of them. Even Din seemed to enjoy the uniquely tart flavor, opting for a second without needing much convincing.

You wandered from stall to store, taking advantage of the freshness that came from an agricultural planet. The bakery – thankfully – still had fiore buns coming out of the oven and, after a sample, you left with a baker’s dozen. The kid complained when you stopped him from crawling into the bag to get at them, knowing there’d be none left if you gave him an inch.

When you got to the grocers – for preserved foods you were more familiar with on ships and other planets – you were suddenly struck by the reality that you weren’t on another planet, or on a ship. You were…here.

An emotion surfaced in you, one you weren’t able to translate into Basic. Hireach. A Pamarthen term with no real translation that was used to express both homesickness and nostalgia. It was a complex mix of melancholy and happiness, grief and yearning for something that still existed but was irrevocably changed.

You felt it as you followed familiar paths that were missing…something, and no matter how hard you tried to put your finger on it, the answer seemed to get more and more tangled, more indefinable.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad emotion, nor was it indicative of any great tragedy. Truly, to experience hireach was only possible when you had good memories attached to it. Hireach illuminated the irreverence of time, how your former life now fit like a shirt much too small. How it strained across your shoulders and back, not painful but…uncomfortable. No matter how much you rolled your shoulders and tugged at the material, it never seemed to sit right anymore.

“Hullo?”

You were shaken back to the present by the shopkeeper behind the counter. A bag of supplies between you, the woman looked at you with a mixture of confusion and caution.

“Sorry, I was klicks away, how much did you say?” you reeled off, scrambling on autopilot to regain your footing in the conversation instead of how strange it all looked and felt.

“Forty-seven credits total,” the woman smiled, the action tight and somewhat forced.

That was certainly different, but you couldn’t blame her for being mistrustful. With everything going on, it was no wonder people were on edge. Speaking of…

“Terrible business, isn’t it? The children.”

The seamless slip into what some might call ‘gossiping’ was familiar territory for the shop-owner, and it thawed the suspicion you’d garnered from your spacy attitude. Her shoulders relaxed and with a morose expression, she nodded.

“Aye, the poor wee things. May Amhra guide them home.”

“Amhra guide them,” you echoed distractedly, glancing around the shop.

“If she can’t, then the rhaer will,” the shopkeeper nodded confidently, ringing up the credits you handed to her and talking about your childhood friend as though he were a god among men, “I don’t think there’s a man on this planet more determined to find them.”

Her confidence in Kyr comforted you. Hopefully, the rest of Clan Carria held the same sentiment. It was one thing to be perceived as a ruler, but it was better still to be seen as a guardian. And Kyr Carria was the embodiment of the lone stag watching over his herd; silent, observative, strong.

Who else did that sound like…

“I’m sure he’s doing everything he can,” you added to the conversation diplomatically.

“Lot of lions coming through these parts too, looking for Skyla,” she handed you your change, “and nothing against them personally, but where was that urgency when our fawns went missing?”

There was an edge of frustration in the woman’s tone, her brows furrowing with a downturn of her lips. The friendship between Clan Carria and Clan Leyghin was strong, but it wasn’t immune to skepticism and misgivings. Skyla Leyghin’s disappearance was treated differently because she wasdifferent. Regardless of how equally tragic it was for any child to go missing, the only daughter and heir to the most steadfast clan on the planet was a devastating blow.

“Hopefully, with so many people looking for her, they’ll find the others too,” you navigated the statement carefully, empathizing with her annoyance but put in an awkward situation of being tied to both clans intimately.

She mulled over your words, nodding curtly in response, “What chance do any of those wee fawns have, if they’re only a secondary thought?”

It was your turn to pause, considering her rather…wise observation. Uncomfortable as it might be, you couldn’t deny the truth behind it.

“Kyr cares, they’re not second in his eyes,” you said by way of answering because truthfully, you didn’t know how to answer her. She was right, and it made you more uncomfortable as both a medic and as someone who now knew what it was to love a child. It had always been this way though, but absence from your planet had enlightened you to the reality that you didn’t agree with it.

“I believe it’s Rhaer Kyr to us,” the shopkeeper corrected you coolly, her eyes turning suspicious momentarily, likely contemplating either your view on him or relationship to him, “we don’t all address him so familiarly anymore, keep that in mind.”

Bantha balls.

He was just Kyr the last time you were here, he’d always been just Kyr. But he wasn’t, was he? He was descended from gods, if the stories were to be believed. He now sat as ruler of Clan Carria, one of the most powerful clans on Pamarthe. He was never just anything, you had simply lived your life so close to the sun that the light and heat became normal.

For the first time, you experienced a burn for flying too close to it.

“Right…” you trailed awkwardly before giving your thanks to the shopkeeper, parting with her as politely as possible as you left the store.

The child was getting fussy in the satchel by the time you dropped everything off in your speeders saddlebags, bored and you figured there wasn’t any harm in letting him stretch his little legs.

“Wanna walk for a bit?” you asked, lifting him out to place on the ground beside you. You could do with a slower pace for a while.

After stopping by a small media store on a whim that – thankfully – had different holovids of Moray and Faz than the one the child already had, you spotted two pylbucks and their riders walking down the main street.

Their fur a beautiful copper color, ivory horns curled back from their heads. One had a splodge of white in the middle of its head carriage, and the other a splatter of white over its left eye. They must have been by the same sire. Powerful bipedal legs with ivory talons similar to their horns clicked along the stone with every step and the child was utterly enthralled by them as they grew bigger and bigger the closer they came.

These weren’t just regular pylbucks either, these were bred with a specific purpose in mind. Intimidation and control. War. That meant the men riding them were guards themselves, dressed casually as one held the reins loosely in one hand while he carved something. His pylbuck shook its head with a grunt, short mane catching the sunlight. The rider – unperturbed – looked up from his work and leaned down to pat the long, wide neck of his mount affectionately.

You, however, were more curiously distracted by the striped tattoo where Carria antlers usually were around the bicep. With a variety of lengths and width, the double-loop emulated the stripes of an apex predator.

Pamarthen lions.

These were some of Attycus’ men.

“You’re far from the Hearth,” you exclaimed pleasantly as you came within earshot of the two soldiers.

“Quickest way to the Snags,” the younger of the two men called back, bringing his pylbuck to a halt beside you and flashing you with an easy smile.

“To the search party?” you asked, inattentive to the soldiers smile. These two might have more information.

“Aye,” the second soldier stated, “we’re part of their relief.”

Kyr was due to return tomorrow, that made sense. To have a relief party though, meant they’d had no luck in finding the children thus far, which wasn’t likely to change by morning. You tried not to let your disappointment sink into despair at the thought.

“Has there been any news?” you ventured to ask, perhaps a little too nosily but you’d never gotten anything in life from sitting pretty and passive.

The soldiers appeared amiable though, and you didn’t feel the need to be totally on your guard around them. The older of the two, a handsome man with long blonde hair streaked with silver sat up straighter in his saddle where he’d been reclined as he whittled something small and beige in his hand.

“Nothing yet, miss.” His grey eyes followed the child as he waddled closer to his mount and tried to reach for one of the pylbucks’ short, raised front legs, “It’s like they’ve all just vanished into thin air.”

“How is that possible…” you wondered aloud, crossing your arms at the paradox of the situation.

“That’s the scary part,” the younger soldier added, propping his heel up on the saddle easily to rest his elbow on it, “it shouldn’t be possible.”

“Aye, but there were cases like this before,” the blonde mentioned, dismissing the younger man’s quizzical look, “during the first Galactic war, lots of kids all over the galaxy went missing inexplicably.”

“Yeah, but that was a war,” his partner answered with some impatience, as if this wasn’t the first time it had been brought up, “and it wasn’t just kids, people in general were never heard from again. Killed in combat, sold to the Hutts…there were more ways to go missing than trees in Siodam’s Forest.”

You listened intently, taking a leaf out of Din’s book and gathering more information by observing and absorbing than inserting yourself into the conversation. You had to agree with the younger soldier, it was like comparing Gungans and the Naboo; they were nothing alike. The situation during the Galactic war was widespread, and indiscriminate. What was happening now was intentional, calculated.

“Careful,” you crouched to scoop the child up when one of the pylbucks noticed the little menace tugging at the fur closest to its talons, causing the creature to try shake the tickle away.

Your movement pulled the soldiers attention back to you from where they were debating the situation amongst themselves. The younger of the two frowned in confusion, glancing between the child and you and likely trying to reconcile the logic behind the pairing. The older man merely smiled, crow’s feet and laughter lines revealing themselves on his features.

“Don’t let that cub out of your sight, miss,” he rubbed his unknown craft on the rough leather of his thigh to polish it of any splinters before leaning down from his pylbuck to hand it to the kid, “both our clans have lost enough already.”

The child eagerly took whatever the man gifted him and when you caught sight of the roughly whittled lioness mid-stride, you were reminded of all the good that had been overshadowed by your apprehension in coming home. Where men defended their lands with the same knife they use to craft toys for children.

The little bogwing was enamored with his lioness, keeping her clutched tight in his small hand and babbling incomprehensibly at the soldier who listened attentively. He must have been a father himself, his patience that of a parent willing to listen to the same thing over and over.

“Thank you,” you translated, running a hand gently over the top of the bogwing’s head, “may Siodam lead you down safe paths.”

Both soldiers dipped their heads graciously at your words and with a nudge of their heels into the side of their mounts, they took off again. The child waved happily after the men, shaking his new toy in hand. They left you in a far happier mood than you were when leaving the grocers, light refracted kindness banishing the shadows momentarily.

Walking with a lighter step, you veered down one of the paths off the main street. You only had to untangle the lioness twice from where the child had somehow managed to get it wrapped in your hair. You were still extracting a few strands as you bumped the door open into a little known boutique hidden amongst the glades. Sewn by Saeda.

It sold the most comfortable, most flattering pants you’d ever owned. There was some witchcraft in the way the material shaped your ass and thighs, and you’d happily thank Saeda for selling her soul in order to procure it.

A bell – ancient and unusual – rang overhead with a gentle tinkle.

A woman looked up from her work at the noise, flashing you with a welcoming smile as she draped the measuring tape she’d been using around her exposed neck. Shiny, onyx hair was gathered in a messy nest atop her head and flyaway strands framed her face in a way that was usually carefully crafted by stylists, but you knew immediately was natural.

She was a beautiful woman. Olive skin practically glowing with deep, moss green eyes rimmed in thick, dark lashes. When she stood, you wondered if she had any bones at all, and wasn’t just pure, fluid energy with how effortlessly graceful she was.

“Welcome! Is this your first time here?” she asked pleasantly, her accent difficult to place, but likely from the more southern archipelago. Where the clans of Olvaer and Tahru resided.

“The first in a long, long time,” you admitted on a chuckle, letting the child down once you were certain he was preoccupied with his lioness and wouldn’t get into anything he wasn’t supposed to.

“Ah, you were probably expecting to see Saeda,” the woman sounded somewhat apologetic, “she’s semi-retired now, so I help out a few times a week. You can call me Zyra.”

It would be easy to dislike Zyra simply for being beautiful. Maker, you’d faced enough prejudice and contempt in your field for the same reason over the years. But there was something inviting about the woman, something genuine in the way she spoke. She inspired trust, whether it was in fashion advice or something deeper. She was probably one hell of a saleswoman, that was for sure.

You offered your name in return, a moment of recognition flashing across her eyes before it vanished and she moved around the counter to help you.

“What can I do for you and this adorable little guy today?” she asked, her question making you glance around the store that was teeming with selection. More than you’d seen in a long time. For so long, scrubs, a uniform and more practical clothes were all you wore, it was what you were comfortable with.

“Honestly? I’ve had more clothes destroyed in the last few months than I ever grew out of as a child,” you admitted, the atmosphere Zyra created in the shop making you feel equal parts at ease and confident.

Her brows rose, a sparkle of curiosity lighting her eyes, “For only good reasons, I hope?”

Yeah, you liked Zyra. No banthashit and with a sense of humor. The flush on your cheeks was answer enough, the other woman clapping her hands together once with an excited thrill.

“I know it’s contradictory as someone who makes clothes, but when a man rips them off…” She fanned her face lightly, her skin flushed.

You snorted, making your way over to a table where a variety of sizes and colors of the pants you wanted were neatly folded.

“Okay, yes—but I literally have one pair of pants left,” you complained, laughter lacing your tone as the ridiculousness of the situation made you giggle. You had just met this woman, and yet here you both were, talking about how you liked it when men tore your clothes off.

“Good!” Zyra sniffed from the other side of the table where she was checking for your size without even needing to ask you it, “That keeps me in business, give him my thanks!”

You both burst out into peals of laughter, the small store filled with the noise and you were infinitely grateful that there was only the two of you. Anyone else who walked in would think you both lunatics.

“Actually, I have just the thing for it—” she clicked her fingers while you were wiping the corner of your eyes from getting into a kink of laughter for the last few minutes, “wait here.”

Your brows furrowed lightly when Zyra disappeared in a flurry to the back of the shop, leaving you with the child who was sitting on a small stack of pants you picked out, patting the soft material. His ears were drooping, a clear indication that the day was catching up on him and your new clothes were tempting him to make them his bed.

When Zyra returned though, you hoped he had dozed off with the way your lips parted and face heated at what she brought out.

Could it even be considered clothes? Of course not, you chided yourself, it was underwear. Beautiful underwear, but definitely not something to be worn outside the bedroom. It would be a travesty to cover it up with clothes.

The sensual black set was beautiful enough on its own, classic and understated, but your eyes were drawn immediately to the delicate silver chains that looped in loose layers down the halter-neck of the bra and beneath the bust. You could practically feel the coolness of the metal on your skin, how good it would feel when you were overheated from lust.

But that wasn’t the thing that made you blush, your mind emptying. The matching suspenders were shaped to define and exaggerate your hips and thighs, and it reminded you of something you were certain wasn’t on Zyra or Saeda’s mind when they made it.

Your holster. Namely, the one Din gave you. The same one that drove him feral every time you wore it. Maker, the man had fucked you a few times when you were wearing nothing else. Made of the same black lace and chains, you reached forward to trace one of the silver hoops, mesmerized.

It had been a long time since you wore anything remotely like this, not since you enlisted. There’d never been a reason and then, there’d never been an opportunity.

“Well?”

You jumped when Zyra spoke, the excitement in her voice hushed with anticipation when she saw you admiring the set. Blushing, you dismissed the idea of buying it. You didn’t need it. Maker, you never ended up wearing much at all where Din was concerned, and he wasn’t a man who needed a visual aid to get horny.

Your pitiful excuses fell on deaf ears as Zyra hooked her arm around yours to lead you to a floor length mirror. You could’ve dug your heels in, but your resistance was paper-thin, and you followed her.

“Feeling beautiful is as good a reason as any to spend credits,” she explained, placing the hanging set in front of your body so you might get an idea of how you’d look in it. She didn’t need to, you were honest enough with yourself to know you’d look good in it.

“But if you do need another reason, there’s only two for why a woman buys this set, in particular.” Zyra continued, piquing your curiosity as she handed you the set for you to feel how unbelievably soft it was beneath the lace.

“Oh?” you prodded.

“Either it’s for a man who’s lucky to have you and needs to be reminded of that fact,” she smiled over her shoulder at you on your way to where the child was snoozing on your stack of clothes, “or it’s for a man who knows he is, and deserves to be rewarded.”

Well.

You smiled at her, recognizing you’d discovered a friend in this new landscape of your old life which was a far rarer find than a set of beautiful lingerie.

“How can I argue with that logic?”

Missing.

MISSING.

Dirt kicked up and staining strong legs. Pacing, pacing, pacing but no one. Not there. Gone.

GONE.

You heard the screech before you saw it, coming up to the house at twilight. The setting sun cast a low light that mixed with purple shadows on the land and turned it into a dream. Or a nightmare.

The noise pierced the skies, sending flocks of nesting birds out of trees. It was like a dying animal, or an enraged one. A primal scream of anger that made your eardrums quake with pain and woke the child from where he slept on your lap.

And there it was, racing across the fields of nerfs grazing in the distance at a speed unnatural even for the species it looked to be.

A pylbuck.

Notes

Llyrian – Pamarthen god of the sea.

Amhra – Pamarthen goddess of the wind and weather, wife of Llyrian.

Maldo Kreis – a terrestrial ice-covered planet where Din crashed the Razor Crest in Part 1 of the New Republic Arc, and in S2E2 of canon lore.

Rhydian – readers older brother who died during the Battle of Malastare in 4ABY.

Hoverball – an intergalactic sport I liken to baseball. I had initially wanted to use get’shuk as the sport Din referenced given it is a Mandalorian sport (similar to rugby) but given that reader was unlikely to know what it was, would make poor Din’s joke fall like a lead balloon. We couldn’t have that.

Fiore buns – a sweet roll filled with bright blue jam and glazed with milk and honey.

Clan Macteer – one of the three sister clans of Macteer (the barrow wolf), Blayd (the maned wolf) and Shunak (the fiore fox). Did you know! The Fiore fox which represents Clan Shunak was called as such because of the blue that tips its ears and tail, allowing it to hide amongst the fiore without being seen

Conservation-droids – something of my own creation, though I’m certain something similar exists somewhere in the lore!

Sentinels – druidic sect of Pamarthen culture, more to come on these guys.

Mantaris – short for a Mantaris-class amphibious medium transport, this iconic ship capable of adapting to atmospheric flight, realspace and underwater. Developed through a co-operative effort between the Naboo and the Gungans to colonise aquatic moons in their orbit, I have transplanted a similar type of ship onto Pamarthe given it is also a predominantly aquatic planet. Quick note, the Mantaris is one of my favourite ships in the entire SW lore! It’s design is beautiful and the creativity behind it truly added something wonderful to the visuals of The Phantom Menace.

Kyr Carria – leader of Clan Carria, around 8-10 years older than reader who knew him growing up due to the friendship between his younger brother Kai, and readers brother, Rhydian. This friendship became something more briefly when reader was around nineteen.

Hireach – I took inspiration for this term from the beautiful Welsh word hiraeth that I learned many years ago in school. It carries mostly the same multi-layered meaning. It’s been described as a combination of homesickness, longing, nostalgia and yearning for a home you cannot return to, no longer exists or maybe never was. It can encompass grief or sadness for who you once were or what you lost. All tied in to the losses of your home not the same as you once remember it. It’s honestly one of the most beautiful words I’ve ever come across.

Moray and Faz – A holoshow cartoon for children. I have assumed that it was popular around the time of, or just before, Stitches as it’s recorded in lore that Han Solo used to let his son, Ben, watch it.

Pylbucks – these are ungulate creatures of my own creation while taking inspiration from the many, many variations throughout SW lore. The closest in appearance, and thus in name, are the kybucks native to Kashyyyk. Master Yoda famously owned several kybucks over his long life, and was known to have an affinity with them.

The Hearth of the Lion – the seat of power for Clan Leyghin, one of three lone peaks dotted across the Pamarthen landscape.

The Snags – nickname given to The Grey Wildlands by locals. An impenetrable area of Siodam’s Forest where speeders, ships and even humans struggle to pierce. A single mile can feel like ten with branches grabbing hold of your skin and clothes, slowing you down and concealing your path.

Clan Olvaer – clan of the solar bear located in the south-eastern islands, more tropical and sandy than the more stormy, rocky islands of the north.

Clan Tahru – clan of the tahg, a horned bovine, similar to a water buffalo.

#djarinsbeskar writes #din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #din djarin x you #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #stitches #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian smut #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian x you #din djarin fanfiction #star wars smut #mando smut

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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Big Sky Eyes

Chapter Eight

Master List | Bucky Barnes Master List | Series Master List

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Cowboy!Bucky Barnes x Disabled!OFC Maybe Cole

Warnings: smut, small angst, Bucky is a sweetheart

A/N: This chapter brought you by the lovely Jasmin. Thank you for your support, peach!

**I do not tag. **To be notified of updates and new works, subscribe to me or the story on AO3 for email notification, or follow the library blog @tilltheendwilliwrite-library with notifications turned on so you’re not missing out. An account is required to access my work on AO3. For more information on how to get your FREE AO3 account, see this post.

Keep Reading on AO3

#big sky eyes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x ofc #cowboy!bucky #no powers #military au #avengers au

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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Cradle

Summary: Marcus Pike overhears an argument on the phone that turns his world upside down.

Fandom: The Mentalist Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Pairing: Marcus Pike x Reader Warnings: Religious themes, toxic parents, pregnancy mentions, toothrotting fluff

Cradle

„Being pregnant is not the problem here, mother!”

Eavesdropping, Marcus thought, was an awful thing.

And he really didn’t want to eavesdrop. But you weren’t exactly quiet on the phone as you argued with your mother.

He had asked you to come into work on a Saturday morning, in hopes to finally catch a break on the case the team had been working on, while the building would be less busy.

Two coffees and pastries from your favorite bakery down the block in his hand, he had almost knocked on the door to your office – until he had heard your voice through the door and stopped in shock.

He could, of course double back and give you your privacy, wait five minutes until he was sure that your argument was over – but this was a delicate topic.

Keep reading

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike deserved better #colleagues to friends to lovers

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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I may or may not have finished the rough draft for pt three of show me. It’s just under 10k words so im gonna try and get it edited before bed and posted tomorrow afternoon ;)

It’s a smidge kinkier than the last two parts with the smallest bit of angst if you squint

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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Me in real life: I hate smoking and it makes me nauseous, so I can't date a smoker/vaper. Also I've never seen an episode of Stranger Things because I struggle with horror.

Me in fics: 100% into one Eddie Munson and pointedly ignoring that he smokes.

#eddie munson #I'm trash for eddie #stranger things

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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Don't mind me just INHALING all the Eddie content. I'm super in to Show Me, and sounds like it could continue with feels?!?

But also me up until 3 a.m. reading these three stories:

stranger things masterlist

Any and all Stranger Things fics I've written—all with a fem!reader unless otherwise specified!

Masterlist 2.0 | Arcane Masterlist | Anime/Manga Masterlist | Ko-fi | AO3

Eddie Munson

princess (nsfw) - As Dustin's older sister, you gotta keep your eye out for the good and bad influences in his life. When he meets Eddie Munson and joins Hellfire, it's a damn fight to keep your mouth shut about Eddie's clear reputation. Eddie, though, doesn't hold back from bringing up your perfect, pristine one.

double feature (nsfw) - When you're forced to go to a double feature showing of the Halloween movies with your brother and his friends, you find yourself, like usual, interacting with Eddie Munson. But it doesn't take long for the platonic line to be blurred and things to heat up.

show me (nsfw) - pt two - You ask Eddie to show you what you've been missing out on after he discovers your boyfriend never went down on you.

#stranger things fics #stranger things masterlist #stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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@lucrezia-thoughts I forgot I could reblog from my side blog instead of sending another anon haha, but here I am, on my trash again! Also this is what I mean by my hair change and I'm like yes, please, all my Eddie feels, especially when I put on my leather jacket (which it's too hot for at the moment sadly...)

Oh trust me I've watched the best moments! I have such 80s nostalgia that I didn't even grow up during. My mom raised me on 80s pop, my dad raised me on punk, and I'm over here with my 5e DND book deciding what I'm doing with my character after leveling up last session after reading more Eddie fics. I'm a menace, just call me Mrs. Robinson 🤣🤣

Love, yasss!!! 😂😂

You are fantastic!! 💚

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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@searchingforbucky you're going to have to change your blog name. I don't make the rules 🤣😉

Everyone, I would like to share with you all my stupidest but most cherished collection. My heart is full and my wallet angry. Look at these distinguished gentlemen.

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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Uhm T, what a chapter!!! Avoiding spoilers as best I can with GIFs:

Cries of Thunder

Chapter Eighteen

Master List | Thor Odinson Master List

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Thor Odinson x OFC Fallon Smith (post Ragnarok - no Thanos)

Warnings: murder, oral sex, sex worker. This story deals with themes of past spousal abuse to the extremes. There is a chance that all chapters may deal with tough or triggering themes. Please read with caution.

A/N: This chapter was brought to you by @fairlightswiftly through coffee updates. You are a rockstar! I think you’re single-handedly getting this story finished! Lol

Fallon stood in Thor’s bathroom in her borrowed robe, blinking at Loki. “This is… quite the process.”

Loki laughed and shook her head, dancing dangerously sharp nails over Fallon’s cheek. “It is, but it isn’t. And when the bathhouse is finally finished and the mineral springs open, you will find it is even less complex. It is a true pleasure, one we have all sorely missed these last years.”

Stark sadness darkened Loki’s eyes, but she turned away, hiding her feelings behind a too-quick smile as she crossed to Thor’s shower and began to input a sequence into the panel Fallon hadn’t noticed on the wall.

“You ingenious humans have given us acceptable alternatives, for now, including this lovely steam shower. Now, it’s quite simple.” She spun around and clasped Fallon’s wrist to pull her closer while steam hissed from a grate inside the enormous shower, beginning to billow and obscure the glass.

With a flick of her wrist, Loki turned off the water pouring into the bathtub, then plucked a puck of compressed… something… from within the basket they’d brought back from the bath mistress’s shop.

Keep Reading on AO3

I do not tag. For notifications on the story, please follow @tilltheendwilliwrite-library or subscribe to it on AO3. An account is required to access my work on AO3. For more information on how to get your FREE AO3 account, see this post.

#cries of thunder #thor odinson #thor x ofc #no ragnarok #tw abuse

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frostsoldier · 2 years

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It's 3 a.m. and I'm just...

Green Light

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Word Count/Rating: 6.7k / Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Warnings: Friends to lovers 💕, SMUT (seriously 18+ ONLY), dom/sub dynamics, unprotected sex, rough(ish?) sex, oral (f&m), fingering, a little bit of spanking, hair pulling, dirty talk, a handful of good girl’s, mention of leg hair on reader, reader has hair that can be pulled/have fingers threaded through it

Summary: You accidentally see a video you aren't supposed to. Will it end your friendship with Marcus or bring the two of you that much closer?

A/N: Big thank you to @honestly-shite for reading this over for me 💕 I'd also like to thank @absurdthirst for reblogging the gif you see above, which broke through my writer's block on this idea and gave me the inspiration I needed. And last but not least, I'd like to mention the shameless nod to @whataperfectwasteoftime that I simply couldn't resist putting in here (specifically her Control series) 💕💕

You knock, tapping your toes on the doormat that reads hi. i’m mat. while you wait. The mat was an impulse buy after realizing the front entryway was littered with sand from having nothing to help take it off people’s shoes before they stepped inside. Marcus is obstinate in his belief that the mat didn’t help all that much and yet he’s never moved it. It brings a smile to your face.

The door swings open to reveal a very cozy looking Marcus. He has his sweatpants and a white tshirt on, which you know to mean he's already settled in for the night. You're surprised you don't hear a movie playing from the living room.

Marcus' brow furrows in that endearing way you love. "Didn't you have a date?"

"Yes and you can guess how it ended," you say before pushing into the house.

Marcus closes the door, leaning against it while he watches you haphazardly take off your shoes and jacket. "What happened?"

You sigh. "He wouldn't stop talking about crypto and at the end of the meal told me he doesn't believe in tipping."

"Yeesh. Where do you keep finding these guys?"

"Oh you know, apps and whatever else." You wave Marcus off, wandering into his kitchen to poke around his cupboards. You hadn't even mentioned your date asking you to order the cheapest item on the menu, leaving you feeling peckish.

Marcus pops open the fridge, pulling out a couple drinks for the two of you. You take yours graciously before finding an open bag of goldfish. Score.

You give the bag a little shake, asking permission to go ahead with your chosen snack. Marcus nods, leaning against the kitchen counter. It takes all your strength to not look him over. It's not your fault he looks so good all stretched out like that.

"Whatever happened to finding someone naturally?" Marcus asks. He can't even help himself, the big sap.

"That's for romantics and people with time, of which I have neither," you tell him. It's not a lie, although it's not really the truth. You did find someone naturally, except he's perfectly unavailable despite only standing two feet away. He doesn't need to know all these dates are a vain attempt to distract from that.

Marcus had moved into your little beach town just over two years ago and while the rest of your community was too chicken to figure out his story, you dove right in.

Early retirement from the FBI art crimes department, leaving a nice job and home in DC for a small fixer-upper a short walk from the beach. When you asked what he was going to do he smiled and said he was figuring that out. The two of you hit it off from the start.

You're not entirely sure when your feelings fell from platonic to romantic. By the time you figured it out though you were far in the deep end and Marcus was staunch in his resolve to not date.

He had given you his whole sordid romantic history, explaining his plan to remain single until he could be comfortable with just Marcus. His therapist thought it was a good idea too – having the time and space to figure out himself before investing heavily in someone else again. Who are you to argue with that?

Rather than lose an amazing friend, you chose to bury your feelings. You're an adult. You can control yourself. It even worked for a little while. Recently though, the romantic feelings have been rearing their head too often for your liking, resulting in your serial dates.

You'd hoped that at least one of your dates would sweep you off your feet, allowing your feelings for Marcus to return to purely that of a friend. Each one keeps falling short. They're too tall, too short, too loud, too quiet, too self-important, too serious, too childish, the list goes on and on. You know why they do. They aren't him. They aren't Marcus.

Now, stupidly, you've decided to lick your wounds from another failure in the home of the man unknowingly causing your problems. You hate that simply being around him is already making you feel better.

You breeze into the living room, snagging your usual spot on the couch. The TV isn't on as you expected but you spot his laptop on the coffee table. Marcus Pike spent his Friday night doing some online shopping then. He has mentioned that he’s been looking for a new easel lately, unhappy with the size and capabilities of his current one.

Marcus sits down with you and you fall into your normal positions. Both of your legs up on the cushions, with Marcus pulling the blanket off the back of the couch to cover your perpetually cold feet. You’re especially grateful as the stockings you have on don’t offer much in the way of warmth.

"No movie tonight?" you ask around a handful of goldfish.

"It didn't feel right without you here to talk over it," Marcus jokes. You ignore the heavy thump of your heart, throwing a goldfish at Marcus' head in faux offense.

He opens his mouth wide, catching it expertly and crunching down on the tiny snack. The grin on his face is extremely self satisfied, prompting you to throw another at him. You should have expected him to catch that one too.

From there you fall into your usual routine. You chat for a little while, with you being careful to avoid heavy discussion of your recent rash of dates, before Marcus inevitably finds a movie for you to watch. Tonight he’s chosen one of your favorites, a touching and small gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed.

Your legs end up tangling in Marcus’ – in part seeking the heat that he radiates and because you will gladly accept any form of physical contact he gives you, despite all the alarm bells in your head screaming. It's completely foolish and maybe even a bit pathetic to allow, but then your foot runs along the top of his thigh and any real thoughts go right out the window. It’s a good thing you’ve already seen this movie a thousand times over, otherwise you’d be completely lost with how distracted you are by Marcus tonight. You can only hope he doesn’t notice.

You’re a little quieter than normal during the movie, but it otherwise passes without incident. As the credits roll, Marcus shares an absurd bit of trivia that you’ve somehow never heard before and swears on his life that it’s true.

When you laugh only half as much as expected, Marcus suddenly moves in closer to you on the couch. Your legs are now firmly across his lap and he's studying your face like you were recently accused of stealing millions in valuable artwork.

"Are you okay?"

You've always appreciated that Marcus doesn't beat around the bush. You don't like it as much when it's turned on you. His right hand is splayed over your calf, pulling your mind in a thousand directions other than answering him.

"Yeah, what? Why?" you finally splutter in reply.

"You're too quiet tonight."

He studies your face further and you're terrified that somehow, just from looking, he'll know. Marcus will know and then he'll try not to hurt your feelings but once he knows your friendship will never be the same. How can it be after that? Your palms are clammy thinking of the awkwardness that will linger between the two of you. The way you’ll drift apart before becoming perfect strangers. You’re not sure you’re strong enough to go through that.

His eyes flash and you're certain he's figured it out when he asks, "Did that guy try something with you?"

"Woah okay, calm down," you say, pressing a hand against his shoulder. "He was an ass not a creep. I'm fine."

“You don’t have to protect him if he did. I still have contacts."

“I know I don’t, Mr. FBI. I’m just sick of all these dates that go nowhere, you know? I don’t know why I keep trying.”

You really don’t. None of them are going to compare to Marcus. You know it, your mom knows it, the universe knows it, and your lifelong companion Mr. Bear-Bear knows it. You slump back against the arm of the couch, closing your eyes in frustration.

"You'll find someone soon," Marcus consoles. You snort, cursing your luck that he of all people would be the one to say that to you.

Stopping your pity party before it really gets going, you crack open an eye to look at Marcus. His expression is indiscernible, but you can tell he's about to stay something. Abruptly, his expression changes and he asks, “Are you spending the night?”

You’re about to say no, that you’ll make the relatively short drive home, when a yawn sneaks up on you.

“Sure, why not?” Your plan for tomorrow was to wake up early-ish and drag Marcus to the farmer’s market in town anyway. He smiles, making your stomach flip.

“Do you have anything to change into?”

You look down, realizing that your date outfit won’t exactly be comfortable to sleep in. You can’t believe you wore an underwire bra for that disappointment. There might be some extra clothes in your car, but the prospect of going to get those now that you’ve decided to settle in for the night sounds miserable. The couch is so warm and outside is so cold.

Marcus is already getting up before you can reply. “I’ll go grab something for you to sleep in.”

If your brain didn’t immediately fry, you would have told him you’d be okay and that you’d make something work. Instead, you’re left open-mouthed at the thought of wearing his clothes. How the hell are you supposed to sleep like that? Wrapped in his scent, wishing that it was more than just the fabric he owns holding you tight.

You can’t help yourself – imagining his strong arms around you, the softness of his stomach pressed against your back. Turning to tuck yourself into his neck or chest, comfortable in the safety he'd provide. Moving one hand up to tease his curls that are in need of a trim or to run soothingly down his broad back.

Trying to calm down, you decide to look up the movie trivia Marcus mentioned. Nothing will get your mind off of being surrounded by Marcus' scent for the night like some dry movie fun facts.

You go to grab your phone, only to realize you left it with your jacket over by the door when you came in. Far too lazy to make the walk, you instead grab Marcus' laptop off the coffee table in front of you. He's not going to care if you look up some trivia.

You're taken by surprise when a video starts to automatically play as you open the laptop. Marcus must have been watching it when you arrived, the video pausing when he closed it. Your brain takes a moment to catch up, registering that this isn't some youtube video about art history or something. It's porn.

A flush of arousal courses through you. You picture Marcus laid out on the couch, getting comfortable before taking himself in hand, leisurely stroking his cock. A groan escaping his lips, slicking his hand with spit and precum.

A soft moan from the video snaps you from your fantasy. Embarrassment immediately washes over your arousal. You shouldn't be thinking of Marcus this way. He's your friend. Not to mention that you shouldn't be watching this video now and invading his privacy. You're thankful he hasn't come back from finding clothes to catch you.

You're about to frantically close the laptop when you realize you know this video. It's one of your favorites – hosted on a site with porn geared towards women, it's one of the best you've found. Both the actors seem to be genuinely enjoying themselves in the scene, allowing it to flow and progress naturally. You've long speculated they have some chemistry beyond the camera to make it work so well.

He's dominating without ever crossing a line into creepy or concerning and her submission feels real. It's not overacted with exaggerated expressions, fake moans, or loud and unnecessary shouts. More than once you've watched this and longed to be in the woman's place.

The video picks up right before one of your favorite moments. The actress is kneeling on the floor, completely naked, her hand slowly working up the exterior of her scene partner's pant leg. He's gently petting her hair, carefully caressing her cheek. He gives her permission to continue, her hands making quick work of his belt and taking out his cock. You know what comes next. You’ve watched it enough times to know it with your eyes shut.

Unbidden, you imagine a moment like this with Marcus. A shiver runs down your spine at the thought of him instructing you to call him sir, his thumb running over your bottom lip before finally telling you to suck. Would he be gentle or would he continue to follow the video’s script?

The Marcus you know is considerably softer, with his dimpled smile and the creases of laugh lines around his warm brown eyes. The way he grumbles about “letting himself go” after leaving the FBI when all you see is a man happy and enjoying his life. You’ve had to keep yourself from commenting a little too obviously on how much you like his soft stomach more than once. Your Marcus will meet you at the bar, hands half scrubbed from oil paints because he didn’t realize how late it had gotten and rushed to get there on time.

You never allowed yourself to indulge the thought of this fantasy with Marcus, thinking yourself too off base. Why let yourself get swept up in the thought of something that was never going to happen? Some days it’s been hard enough without adding your deepest desire into the mix.

"This shirt has some paint stains, but they're old so-" The clothes unceremoniously drop to the floor, Marcus staring wide eyed at his laptop in front of you.

You snap back into reality, slamming the laptop shut. "Oh god Marcus, I'm so sorry. I should have turned it off the second it started playing. I'm sorry, I-"

Marcus rushes over to you on the couch. "It's okay, I'm sorry. I should have closed out of it properly."

Words keep tumbling from your mouth. "Sorry, it's not your fault. I shouldn't have helped myself. I’m so so sorry." The heat of embarrassment is washing over you in waves. You don’t know what this is going to do to your friendship, but your only hope is that it doesn’t ruin things. What were you thinking? You never should have kept watching it.

Marcus is wringing his hands, not looking in your direction. Have you already fucked this up beyond repair? He’s normally calm and collected in a heated moment, you being the one to lose your head. "It's okay, I just- I hope what you saw doesn't change your opinion of me."

You take the risk of moving closer to him on the couch. “Changed my-? What are you talking about?"

He exhales a dry, humorless chuckle. "Let’s just say not everyone in my past has been entirely kind or uh- understanding, about my tastes and… Well, I don’t want to lose you over it too.”

Marcus looks up at you with those big, sad puppy dog eyes and you melt. He can’t honestly think you would disappear from his life over this. Not only would that be a terrible and ridiculous thing to do as a friend, you know you won’t be able to get it out of your mind now. Actually knowing that his tastes very much align with yours.

Your heart is racing, but you force out your next words before you chicken out. “That would be awfully hypocritical of me.” Marcus’ eyes somehow become rounder, asking his question for him. “I think I have that one memorized.”

The urge to hide yourself away is nearly overwhelming. If you believed Marcus figured out your feelings before, you’re certain you’re giving them away freely now. You stand your ground though, keeping your eyes locked onto his and daring to reach out and brush an errant curl behind Marcus’ ear.

Eternity stretches between the two of you. A million thoughts race through your mind, certain that whatever happens next there’s no going back. You can only hope that things are about to change in your favor.

Finally, Marcus’ hands move. One falls on your leg, just above your knee, a bolt of electricity zipping through you at the contact. The other reaches up to cup your face, his large hand cradling your jaw. You immediately melt at his touch, nuzzling into his palm.

"I never thought-"

"I could say the same for you," you interrupt.

He chuckles, acknowledging that his general vibe doesn't really lend one to thinking that he'd be into BDSM. His thumb sweeps over the apple of your cheek.

You take a deep breath, trying to choose your next words carefully. "If we do this, this can't be a one time thing for me. I can't have you tonight and pretend nothing is different tomorrow."

He has to know it's nothing against him. If anything, it's the exact opposite. The idea of getting to have him but only once sounds like your own hell, worse than never knowing his touch at all. It's a misery you simply can't doom yourself to. Not after this long.

"Does that mean you'll stop going on all those dates?" Your brow furrows. Before you can get a word in, Marcus continues. "I know it's stupid to get jealous over someone who isn't officially mine, but I can't seem to help myself."

You move yourself into Marcus' lap, needing to be as close to him as you can. He has no complaints. His forehead presses against yours, one hand resting on your side.

"I was trying to distract myself from you," you confess. "I didn't want to push you before you were ready." You can feel his breath against your lips. His heart somehow keeps a steady beat under your palm.

"You don't need to worry about that anymore."

It's not clear who moves first. All you know is that Marcus' lips are on yours and that it's everything you've wanted for months. It doesn't take long for the kiss to deepen, his tongue sliding into your mouth. At some point, you lightly bite his plush bottom lip, relishing the moan you're rewarded with.

His hands are everywhere – pushing up your skirt, untucking your shirt, pressing your body against his, cradling your head. All you can manage is wrapping your arms around his shoulders or pushing a hand into his thick curls. You never want to come up for air.

Marcus breaks the kiss to leave a trail down your neck, trying to speak to you while he does it. "So- beautiful- been dreaming- about you- for- months."

Your thighs clench together, eager for any kind of friction. "I've thought about you too," you say.

There's a light glowing in Marcus' eyes. "What have you thought about?"

It's silly, really. To be here, exactly where you want to be, and to get shy now. Marcus' kisses slow down, waiting expectantly for your answer.

"I- I um, I imagined you touching me," you say softly.

You can feel the curve of Marcus' smile against your throat. "How, baby?"

His hand sneaks underneath your shirt, groping your breasts. It makes it harder to focus. "Your hands.” A gasp escapes you, Marcus rolling your nipple between his fingers. “Your m-mouth.”

You’re certain your panties are soaked through now. Any friction you can get from your thighs is not nearly enough to quell the ache burning in your core. You have no idea how Marcus seems so unaffected.

“I didn’t think you’d be so timid, baby. Are you sure you want this?” Marcus asks. His hands still, awaiting your answer.

Panic swells in your chest at the thought of this stopping. Your grip tightens on his shirt. “No, no please, I want this. I just um, I-”

“Need a little guidance?”

You nod, wide eyed and eager. You’ve never had someone affect you like this before.You’re not sure what it is – how worked up you already were, the suddenness of it all, or if it’s just him. The edges of your mind are already rounding out, desperate to please and follow Marcus’ lead.

Marcus guides you off his lap, gently pushing you back against the soft cushions of the couch. "Okay, baby. If anything makes you uncomfortable you say yellow to slow me down and if you want me to stop you say red. You got it?”

You nod quickly. “Yes. Yellow to slow, red to stop.”

Marcus gets down on his knees in front of you, hands slowly trailing up your leg. Your breath hitches as he reaches the top of your thigh highs, gently fingering the garter clasp. He looks up, eyes meeting yours, and you almost want to shy away from the intensity of his gaze. You never imagined it would be like this.

Marcus is always attentive. It’s one of the first things you noticed and appreciated about him. No matter how small or insignificant the topic, Marcus can make you feel like the center of the world – as though every word you speak is pure gold. Right now, he’s making you feel like the center of the universe.

"Can I?" he asks.

You nod your head.

"I need to hear it."

"Yes, Marcus."

He pauses, his gaze becoming pointed. He’s waiting for something. Your mind flicks back to the video and you know what he wants to hear. "Yes, sir," you breathe.

He leans down to kiss the side of your knee. “Good girl.”

Marcus unclips your garter belt deftly, his hands completely steady as he rolls your thigh highs down your legs. You cringe a little, remembering the last time you shaved your legs was months ago, resulting in the panicked urge to hide them from view in case your date chose to be an asshole about it. The concern you feel is quickly overtaken by Marcus kissing his way up both legs without a care, murmuring compliments as he rises.

His hands glide over your hips, meeting at the button on your skirt. “Did you get all dressed up for me? Were you trying to tease me with your cute little outfit?”

You squirm, remembering that you purposely chose the shirt you wore tonight because it’s Marcus’ favorite color. Somehow you know he knows.

“I wanted to tear it off you the moment I opened the door.” He pulls your skirt off, managing to snag your garter belt right along with it. Goosebumps erupt across your skin at the sudden cold air of the room and the thrill that runs along your spine.

Marcus moves quickly from there. He doesn’t bother with moving your panties out of the way, throwing your legs over his broad shoulders and hungrily mouthing at your pussy through the silky fabric. It dulls the sensation, but only ever so slightly. You can feel the way his saliva is dampening them alongside your own slick, his tongue tracing along the seam of your lips. Without thinking, you curl your fingers into his hair and pull him further into you.

He easily overpowers you, a hand wrapping around your wrist. “I’ll let that one slide, but I decide the pace. Do that again and I might have to punish you.”

Your pussy clenches at the thought of all that Marcus could do. How merciless would he be? What could his creative mind come up with? Still, you don’t want to push it tonight. That will be something to test out another time.

He returns to his task, allowing your hand to stay wrapped up in his hair. One of his fingers plays along the edge of your panties and just as you’re about to beg he slides it underneath the fabric and into your pussy. You cry out in welcome surprise as Marcus groans, quickly losing any resolve and using his other hand to pull your panties aside in order to wrap his mouth around your bare clit. You almost don't catch yourself before mindlessly grinding your hips downwards.

Marcus' patchy stubble leaves a perfect burn on your inner thighs. His one arm is wrapped around the top of your leg, keeping you firmly in place. The strength of his grip is not lost on you even as your mind begins to empty out. You haven't felt this good in months, maybe years.

A heady wave of pleasure crashes through you, making you realize how close you are to cumming. You frantically paw at Marcus. "I- I'm going to come, please- please, can I come, sir?"

Marcus' eyes snap open, his mouth barely leaving you. "Fuck, yeah beautiful. Come for me."

He pushes another thick finger inside of you, curling them to hit your sweet spot, and pulls you down onto his mouth. It takes only moments more and with his permission, you come undone.

Marcus works you through your orgasm, accepting your slight push against his forehead when overstimulation threatens to overwhelm. He's quick to reclaim your mouth with his, awkwardly draped over you and the couch. You've never seen him smile so brightly before.

"I knew you'd look gorgeous when you came." Your cheeks burn at the compliment.

Marcus pulls you up with him, taking a moment to make sure you're steady on your feet. You only stumble the tiniest bit. His hands fall on your hips, playing with the hem of your shirt. "Take this off, baby. Let me see you."

You're more than happy to comply. The look in Marcus' eye emboldens you, prompting you to let your bra and thoroughly ruined panties fall to the floor as well. Marcus breathes in sharply before pulling you in for another messy kiss.

"Please tell me I'm not dreaming," he whispers.

You reach down and give his ass a small pinch. "Is that proof enough?"

Marcus chuckles. "Go to my bedroom. I'm not done with you yet."

You take a couple steps away from him, pausing when you realize he's not following. Marcus arches an eyebrow. "Did I tell you to stop walking?"

"No, sir."

"Keep going then. I'm enjoying the show."

You feel like you need a pinch to make sure this is all real. This night began by you hoping to drown your sorrows and now you're living your wildest fantasy. If it isn't real, you hope you never wake up.

Knowing what he's up to, you throw an extra away into your hips, more than happy to give him a show that's worthwhile. The soft groan you hear tells you it works. You pause in the doorway, throwing a wink over your shoulder towards Marcus. His hand is over his groin, the grey sweatpants doing nothing to hide his arousal, even from a distance.

You're not sure what to do once you're in the room. He didn't give you any instruction beyond coming in here. Trying to imagine what he might like, your thoughts drift back to the porn video. Deciding it's better than nothing to go off of, you move towards the bed and kneel down beside it. You place your hands in your lap, patiently waiting for Marcus to enter the room.

No more than a minute passes before Marcus walks in. He's looking directly at the bed before he realizes you aren't on it, but beside it. Your mouth is watering – beyond thrilled that he chose to take his shirt off before walking in.

You adore the way Marcus' body has filled out and softened in the time you've known him. There was never anything wrong with his fit FBI body – but this version of him takes the cake. He's less lean than before, the hard work of fixing up his home and consistent, full meals packing on both layers of muscle and fat. Marcus likes to bemoan the stomach he now has, but you've been kept up late more than once by the simple thought of kissing it.

"Look at you," Marcus says. "So damn sweet, waiting for me. Why didn't you get on the bed, baby?"

He crouches down, cradling your jaw in his hand. He figured out how much you like that quickly. Marcus' affection is laid open and bare across his face, making you want to shy away again. This time, you try to hold firm.

"I wanted to make you happy, sir. I thought you might like this."

"Oh baby, I love it. I want to reward you for already treating me so well."

A smile breaks out across your face, thrilled to have already done so well for him.

"What do you want for your reward?" he asks.

You nearly blue-screen. There are so many options. How can you pick just one? Every fantasy you've ever had comes to the forefront of your mind, all fighting for the top spot. Staring at him before you, you make up your mind.

Your voice falters. Somehow a worry about being too forward wiggles forward in your mind. You've had partners, some of them shitty doms, in the past who haven't liked you being so assertive. Your voice falters. "I- I want…"

Marcus is patient, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Don't get shy on me now, baby. What do you want?"

"I want to suck your cock," you force out.

Marcus inhales sharply. For a moment, you worry you've done something wrong. "Fuck," Marcus says, his voice a little shaky. "You're sure?"

"I can't stop thinking about it."

Marcus kisses you again, quick and dirty. "You're remarkable."

He stands up, now towering above you. He looks amazing from this angle. The soft swell of his stomach, the curve of his chest and shoulders, curls of hair falling forward. You get a real sense for just how large Marcus is. If the outline through his sweatpants is anything to go off of, the same can be said of him everywhere.

You wait patiently, a crackling tension filling the room. There's a chance you could reach out, touching him over his pants, but you don't want to push too far. You're both still figuring out each other's boundaries.

"Go ahead," Marcus says.

Teasing him sounds appealing for a moment, but you've both waited too long for this. His sweatpants slide off of his hips. You gasp at the quick realization that Marcus decided to forgo underwear tonight.

His cock bobs in front of you, curving slightly up towards his stomach. Flushed with arousal, you can finally see the clear effect you’ve been having on Marcus despite his otherwise calm demeanor. Looking up, you can see the tease on the tip of his tongue. It turns into a shuddered gasp instead as you lick a hot stripe up the underside of his cock.

His hands quickly find your head, fingers pushing into your hair to hold steady. It spurs you on, holding the base of his cock and letting your other hand run over his thick thighs. You smile up at him, placing an innocent kiss at the tip.

“Don’t tease me, baby,” Marcus warns. You smile widely up at him.

"Sorry, sir."

You swirl your tongue, humming at the salty taste of his precum. Eager to taste more and avoid another warning from Marcus, you take him into your mouth. His knees buckle slightly and it thrills you to have this effect on him.

Marcus allows you to set the pace. You settle into a suitable position, using your hand to cover what you can't comfortably fit in your mouth. It's been a while since you've been this excited to do this for anyone.

Your fingers itch to reach down and take care of your own growing ache. The noises Marcus is making are doing nothing to help you. You’d ask, but you don’t want to stop what you’re doing. It’s an absurd predicament that simply leaves you dripping onto the carpet.

You hold onto the back of Marcus' thighs, taking him as deeply as you can. Marcus swears above you and you pull back just before you begin to choke. A couple tears well in your eyes at the effort, but you want this, you want to keep going.

You place your hand over Marcus', hoping that he'll get the message you want him to take some control back and to guide you. You trust him. You know he cares about you just as much, if not more, than getting off.

His fingers tighten their hold, moving your head in tandem while he rocks his hips. It's still relatively gentle, Marcus being cautious to not push your limits, but it’s more than enough to let that soft cotton fuzz of submission start to creep in again. You hardly notice the way you’re drooling – unable to do anything about it anyway. Right as you’re beginning to really time your breaths well, sinking deeper into letting go, Marcus pulls away. You whine at the loss, keen to keep going and pleasing him.

“S-sorry baby. I’m going to come if we keep going like that.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” you tell him honestly. His cock twitches.

“The first time I come for you I want to fill that perfect little pussy up. On the bed.”

Marcus helps you up from the floor, your legs a little shaky from kneeling on them like you were. “Hands and knees, baby,” Marcus says, kissing along your shoulder blade. He gives your ass a playful swat as you crawl across the sheets, making you squeak.

Getting comfortable on Marcus’ large mattress, you’re more than ready for him. You’ve been ready for him since the couch. There’s still an ache in your jaw from how ready he is for you. That’s why you jump a little bit when you feel his fingers and not his dick easily slide into your pussy.

“You’re so wet,” Marcus moans. “Sorry baby, I couldn’t help myself. Did you get like this sucking my cock?”

Between the way he’s making you feel and his words you find it hard to reply. There’s a sharp sting as Marcus slaps your ass, this time far harder than before. You moan at the bite of it. “What was that baby?”

“Yes, sir. You make me so wet, no-nobody else.”

“Is that so? Nobody else?” Marcus asks. “Tell me who’s pussy this is.”

Oh fuck. You never expected him to say that. Marcus slaps your ass again when you don’t answer fast enough, his fingers stilling. “I said, tell me who’s pussy this is.”

“Yours. It’s yours,” you cry out, moaning as he pushes his cock into you. There’s no pinch or uncomfortable second that blooms into pleasure – it’s like you were made to take him. A perfect fit.

Marcus shudders, pausing for a moment while he adjusts to the tight clench of your cunt. You want to rock back on him more than anything, but you stay still, waiting for him.

“Good girl, good fucking girl.” He reaches down, grabbing a handful of your hair and begins to fuck you in earnest. Everything that isn’t Marcus leaves your mind.

There’s the slight tug on your hair, the grip of his hand on your hip, the perfect punch of his cock buried inside you. It’s not long before your arms give out, unable to support yourself against the overwhelming waves of pleasure crashing through your body. The noises you’re making are unlike anything you thought you could produce – Marcus alternating between grunts and compliments you can only half hear.

You can feel another orgasm approaching. It only pushes closer as Marcus lets go of your hair, draping his body across yours, and snaking his arm down to rub your clit. Sweat slides between your bodies, Marcus’ breath hot against your ear. Tears are escaping your eyes unbidden, completely overcome with bliss. “Need you to come, baby. Come for me and I’ll fill you up.”

Marcus’ slicked finger moves faster over your clit, his hips keeping a steady rhythm to push you over the edge. He gently bites your shoulder, trying to hold on for you, and that’s what finally sends you over the edge again. Marcus is mere seconds behind, losing himself as you clench around him, milking his cock.

You’re both breathing heavily as you fall back against the sheets. The only noise in the room are your breaths and Marcus’ fan that he keeps beside his bed. Your mind is already swimming.

Did that just happen? If you look over to your right are you really going to see Marcus beside you? If it is him, will he regret this? You desperately hope that the most mind-blowing sex of your life didn’t somehow ruin everything.

You eventually find the strength within yourself to turn your head. Marcus is already staring at you, his eyes brimming with affection and adoration. He rolls onto his side, holding your face in his hand. “You are incredible. I never thought-”

“That I’d be a dirty freak like you?” you joke. Marcus laughs loudly, his smile nearly blinding.

“Yeah, something like that.” He leans in to kiss you, slow and passionate. It’s completely unlike your previous kisses – with your immediate lust temporarily quenched you can take your time with this one. You get lost in the feeling of his plush lips on yours, the gentle press of his tongue. Your hand has a mind of its own while you slowly make out, squeezing and touching any part of him you can get your hands on.

Before things can really start to heat up again, which now feels like an inevitability, Marcus pulls away. “You’re beautiful and I keep wanting to do unspeakable things to you, but I need a slightly longer break. How does a bath sound?”

Even if you wanted to complain about not going for round two right away, Marcus knows he just used chemical warfare. You’ve been begging to use his jacuzzi tub since he installed the damn thing. You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re playing unfair, but I’ll allow it.”

Marcus kisses your forehead before sliding off the bed, confidently walking over to the bathroom. It’s a fantastic show, his back muscles and perfect little ass on display. He comes back out while the tub fills, sitting beside you on the bed and playing with your hair. You know the two of you have a lot to discuss. That can come later. For now this is perfect.

The water is exactly how you like it, the body heat from Marcus only making the tub that much more inviting. Sweat is already beading at Marcus’ hairline. “Did you make it hot enough for me?” you ask, sinking into the water between his legs.

“Yeah, I know your weird cold-blooded body needs it.”

You scoff, even though he’s a little bit right. Your feet have been freezing since he left the bed. The cold tile flooring did nothing to help them. Marcus wraps you up in his arms, allowing you to put your cold feet all over his warm legs.

You stay like that until the water runs cold, talking about things that apparently should have been said months ago. Both of you feel a bit ridiculous for leaving so much unsaid, but it hardly matters now. What matters now is the two of you here, happy, wanting to see where this will lead. Neither of you say it, but you both have high hopes.

The antique grandfather clock that sits at the end of the hall chimes. It echoes, notifying you that it’s now one in the morning. You groan, shoving your face into Marcus' chest. “I wanted to go to the farmer’s market tomorrow.”

“We can still go,” Marcus says.

“Yeah?”

“Sure, if you can still walk.”

You can’t help but laugh, pushing at his chest. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Good, because I’m nowhere near done with you baby.”

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