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bettyfrommars · 3 months

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Whole Lotta Love

Eddie x fem!Reader

18+MDNI, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, pet names like baby and sweetheart, both Eddie and reader are over 20.

I received a request for a fic where, no matter how hard he tries, Eddie can't make you cum, and I was happy to do it because it's a much more common situation than how it's represented in most media. I'm not sure this is exactly what they were looking for, but it was a very fun thing to write. This Eddie had me giggling.

a/n: I wasn't sure I would finish this wip after I wrote the first two lines, but then I was in the mood yesterday and smashed it out. It was a very quick write, definitely not my opus, but a true joy, all the same. I hope you like.

wc: 3.1k

Eddie flopped onto his back, huffing out a satisfied breath. “That was so good,” he hummed.

The fingers of one hand drew a lazy circle on his bare chest as it rose and fell, while his other hand scrambled over to capture yours.

Shifting his gaze, he caught you staring at the ceiling, unblinking. “Was that…did you…?”

“Um,” you paused. It wasn’t that you were afraid to be truthful with him, but the fact that orgasms weren’t flying out of you at the same rate made you feel inadequate, like maybe you were the problem.

He propped up on his forearm, searching your face, brow creased with concern. “Did I hurt you or…?”

“No, no,” you rolled over, pulling the sheet up over your hips. “It felt great.”

At that, he gave an actual sigh of relief.

“But, I didn’t cum. Or at least, I don’t think I did.”

“You’re not sure?”

You chewed at your top lip. “No, I am sure. I didn’t.”

He traced a few hearts on your shoulder with the tip of his calloused finger. “Have you ever? With me?”

Your silence spoke volumes, and Eddie’s mind raced to all of the times you’d been intimate in the past few weeks since you’d been together. He blamed himself for being too eager and sloppy, and shit—he was so crazy about you, it made him dizzy. He couldn’t believe you let him touch you, let alone cum inside.

His head snapped up. “But what about that time I went down on you in the closet at Robin’s party? I swear I felt you—”

“I was close that time,” you admitted, remembering how your legs shook and that heat began to build, in the same way it did when you pleasured yourself. “But then Gareth was shouting, looking for you and it went away.”

“Fucking Gareth,” he mumbled. “You were close then, okay. Can I try that again? Now?”

He was already moving down the bed, palming the crook of your knee to slide your leg open.

You put your hand on his head, glancing over at the digital alarm clock. “Not now, silly, I have to get ready for work.”

You wrapped the sheet around you and got to your feet, leaving Eddie to stare into space, alone with his tortured thoughts. “Come over tonight?” He yelled while you were in the bathroom. “Wayne leaves for work at 6, we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

“I’ll come over,” you said with your mouth around a toothbrush. You spat into the sink and then, “But I might be too tired for…other stuff,” your words were met with nothing but silence from the next room. “We can watch a movie or something?”

Eddie appeared sullen in the doorway next to you in his checkered blue and white boxers. “Do you not want to have sex with me anymore?”

“No, baby I do!” You assured him, eyebrows high on your forehead. You cupped some water into your mouth and spat it out while he ran his knuckle down your arm. “I really really want to, I just don’t want us to force this. It’s okay if I don’t have an orgasm every single time.”

“Yeah but it’s not okay with me,” he muttered.

You turned and planted kisses down his throat, dotting smooches along his collarbone, and then the final peck was on his pouty mouth. You rubbed the tip of your nose against his, “I’ll see you tonight. I love you.”

—------

You parked on the other side of Eddie's van at the trailer that night and assessed the windows curiously. At a glance, it looked like the living room had caught fire from the amount of candles that were lit. The song Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin poured out into the soft yellow light of the porch, and you knocked.

A few raps of your knuckles were met with a loud curse and something like a metal pot crashed to the floor in the kitchen. No one came to the door, so you entered with caution, and your senses were greeted with the smell of something burning in the oven.

Eddie was by the sink and he spun around with a startled look, wiping his hands down his jeans. He wore a Slayer shirt with the sleeves ripped off, and his feet were bare, letting you see the black toe nail polish you’d delicately painted on a few days earlier.

“What’s with all this?” You blinked a few times, marveling at how tidy it was. But also, there were at least 15 mismatched candles ablaze on the side table, the top of the tv, and the counter.

He wiped his mouth and went over to greet you. “I just wanted to set the mood,” he grinned, grabbing onto your hips to pull you close. “I read somewhere that the atmosphere can help with, you know.”

“You read somewhere?”

“Just one of those magazines at the grocery checkout.”

“I missed you,” he smiled against your mouth as you said it. His warm skin smelled spicy and sweet, like he’d recently showered and put on cologne. The yearning you felt for him was all-consuming. A few hours apart weighed on you like an eternity. You tilted your head to deepen the kiss, and already your loins were giving you the nod like, “yep, we need to have him inside of us.” You absolutely craved him on a sexual level, so why was it so hard to find your climax? It seemed to come easy for everyone else in the world: everybody at the party was cumming but you.

Eddie was nervous. He hadn’t felt that out of his mind since the day he confessed he had feelings for you, but if you didn’t feel the same that would be cool, because he didn’t want to fuck up the friendship: you were too precious to him. Your presence in his life made him feel sane and loved and seen in a way he’d rarely experienced in his life, if ever. A miracle happened that day, and you’d flown into his arms, asking him what took him so long.

But what kind of boyfriend would he be if he couldn’t please you? In every way?

You watched a sitcom while you ate dinner on TV trays, and when you came back from using the restroom, he had everything put away, dishes thrown in the sink, and he was sitting very propper at the end of the couch, watching you expectantly.

“Are you, um,” he cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?”

This was weird, he thought. He was making it weird. He needed to loosen up and not be so hyper focused on his mission. Maybe you were tired, maybe you needed to let your spaghetti and burnt french bread settle.

You straddled his lap, brushing hair away so that you could kiss his forehead.

“I think I’m ready to try again,” you whispered, and then you ducked down to nibble his earlobe. “Unless you’d rather stay here and—”

Before you could finish the thought, he was up and the two of you were moving out of the room and down the hall, kissing and fumbling with clothes as you went.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he nipped your jaw and side of your neck, banging the bedroom door open with the side of his fist. “I hate being away from you.”

There were a few candles around the bed too; on his nightstand, and a red one dripped wax from the window sill down the wall.

You stopped abruptly, staring at the bed. “Are those…rose petals?”

“Tulips, actually,” he rushed to the scene and swiped the soft pink curls away with his arm. “That was stupid, I just thought it would be—”

You caught his mouth with yours, tongues lashing at each other in such an erotic way that a small moan escaped him.

He wondered if that night would be the night he came in his jeans.

He wasn’t going to let himself cum before you, that was the plan. He’d jerked off shortly before you’d arrived, but that didn’t mean shit because he was absolutely ready again.

Suck it up, Munson.

All was off but for your underwear and while Eddie licked greedily at one of your nipples, you reached down to undo his button fly. “Release the beast,” you cooed.

He caught your wrist. “Not just yet, I can’t, I mean, I want this to be about you.”

“I need an even playing field if I’m going to be relaxed enough to…you know.”

He couldn’t get his pants off fast enough at the urging of your hand that was quick to breach the waistband of his boxers to stroke him. He was rock hard and the tip was already weeping, needy for you.

“Is this all for me?” You ran your thumb in circles over the tip.

Eddie tensed and huffed out a breath that fanned the hair away from his face. “Fuck, baby, every inch.”

If he wasn’t sharp, he’d cum right there on the spot.

You bounced when your body hit the bed, and Eddie dropped to his knees between your legs. The visible wetness on your panties were taking a toll on his already fragile state. He wasn’t patient enough to take them off of you, he just put his mouth right on the material, nuzzling at your pussy through the fabric in a way that pulled a few sharp gasps out of you.

“I missed her so much,” he pulled back the final barrier with one finger, licking a few times on your swollen lips, and then cursed. “You’re so wet already.”

“Well, that’s what you do to me,” you propped up on your elbows to look down at him, sucking in your bottom lip at the sensation of his breath on you.

He slid your underwear off the rest of the way, trying to recall what he’d read in that Playboy article he read a while back? Something about writing out the alphabet, and the woman you are with won’t make it to “x” without cumming.

“How does this feel?” His tongue rolled along your folds in a way that made you wonder what he was doing. He lost track of the letters at around “M”, hips bucking into the side of the bed, cock pulsing so hard, he had to reach down and take some of the pressure off.

“G-good,” you gasped. “Just like that but then, up a bit higher.”

You weren’t exactly an expert when it came to your own pleasure, either, you only knew what felt good when you touched yourself. If Eddie made you cum, it would be the first time you ever experienced that with another person. You wondered if you should tell him that.

He followed your instructions, swallowing while he consumed you, until he found the tiny pearl treasure at the top and your grip tightened on him.

“Hmm I think I found it. Hey there pretty baby,” he murmured into your cunt rolling his tongue around the spot.

“Yesyesyes, right thereeeee Eddieeee.”

The pressure and the speed was perfect and your hand went to his head for encouragement, but then he slowed down and moved locations, licking up the arousal that dripped down your slit.

“Baby? Could you go back to that thing you were doing a second ago?”

He compiled without a word, trying to find the same pacing again, but the moment was gone.

“Eddie—” you spread your legs wider as an invitation. “I really need you inside of me now.”

Well, he wanted that more than anything. But one pump and it would be all over for his dignity. His eyes were rolling back, seeing cartoon stars just thinking about it.

Truth? He wasn’t going to make it.

You noticed his hesitation. “We can keep trying…after. But I need to feel you. It’s lonely up here.”

“You’re so beautiful it hurts,” he crawled up onto the bed, kissing along your stomach, up between your breasts as he went, and then nuzzled at your neck. “My dick can wait until—”

But he choked on his last words when you took hold of him and rubbed the tip of his length along your wetness.

“Sssshittt,” his whole body trembled.

Sliding himself in, becoming one with you, made him emotional in a way he’d be embarrassed to share with anyone else.

“I love you so much,” your voice came out as a cry when he sank halfway in, locking eyes with you. The stretch made you squeeze around him, eliciting a whimper from so far back in his throat that he wondered if it came from somewhere else, some far off place.

Once he started to move, he thought about that sweet little pearl and lifted up enough to put his thumb there and move it around. Your head went back and you exposed your throat to him.

Eddie grimaced at how close he was, fuck that—he had to slow down. The way he was touching you, it was making you stiffen like you had when he was on his knees, and he was taking note of everything.

But then you started telling him how bad you needed him to cum, to fill you up, to make you his. He tried to hold out but then his eyes locked onto yours when you told him you loved him again and he couldn’t stop the wave once it started, no matter how hard he clenched his jaw and his buttcheeks.

One long babble came out of him as his thrusts got sloppy. “Oh fuck I love you so much I’m cumming so hard, I’m…I’m…holy shit I love you.”

He didn’t ask if you had come that time, because he knew better.

After he caught his breath, he pulled you with him, twisting onto his side, slipping two fingers where his cock had been. “What if I push all of this cum back inside so it will stay there? Hmm?”

You moaned against his mouth, grabbing a fistful of his hair. “That feels good, keep doing that.”

“You like that?” He asked, just to be certain.

You nodded, and then, your hand slotted down between your bodies and his arousal spiked when he realized you were touching yourself.

He curled his fingers to feel that soft, spongy spot, asking how fast you wanted it.

You couldn’t speak, your concentration was intense, eyes screwed shut.

Oh sure, he was getting hard again. The feel of his warm spend in your tight hole was doing nothing for his resolve.

You clenched around him, and then he was whispering, “let me try again,” as he kept his digits buried and made his way down between your thighs.

His mouth had no trouble finding the treasure that time; it practically peeked up at him, begging for a resolution. He relaxed his shoulders, breathed in the musk of your arousal, and took you into his mouth with a vibrating groan.

“Right there!” You hadn’t meant to scream it, but it was an actual eureka moment. “Oh fuck Eddie, don’t stop…keep doing…keep doing that.”

He hadn’t moved his fingers in a while, but when he tried to incorporate that into the mix, you stopped him. “Keep them still,” you held his head, locking him in place—not that there was anywhere else he wanted to be. “Don’t move your hand just…Ahh yes yes…”

Your jaw went slack in a silent scream, but then his pace quickened, and before you knew what was happening, the blinding white wave crashed through you, rolling through your limbs like satin electricity, making you whine an extended, “cummingcummingcumming,” while you clung to his hair so you wouldn’t fall off the earth.

Eddie was astonished to learn that could feel it happening. The juicy walls around his fingers spasmed, fluttering like tight ripples, and he drove his tongue in eager circles, wondering if he could make you cum twice in one go. Was that even possible? His heart all but flew out of his chest, it was beating so fast, and he moaned long and hard.

But after a bit, you were trying to push his mouth away. “Wait wait, now it’s sensitive,” but he was so determined, he didn’t pull off until you physically lifted his head.

He stared up at you, licking his wet, swollen lips.

You were breathless, letting the final bits of glitter swim through your veins. “That was—”

He kissed your cunt one two three times. “That was what?”

He was grinning now, feeling like he’d just won the lottery, or at least a new car. The sense of satisfaction was officially unmatched.

He made his way up the bed to hold you, but you surprised him by taking his fingers into your mouth to suck them clean, dragging teeth along his flesh.

“I’ve never cum that way with anyone else before,” you said in a whisper, but when he finally registered the weight of the words, his eyes widened.

“My sweetheart,” he pulled you flush against him, giddy, holding your face to brush his lips over yours. “I’m really your first?”

You gave his shoulder a teasing love bite. “And my last.”

“Oh nowww you’re in trouble,” he rolled on top of you, interlacing his fingers with yours to brace your hands above your head, and then he went to work munching at the side of your throat, growling as he did so.

You screamed and giggled, realizing he was hard again as it nudged at your hip. “I see you’re ready for battle again.”

“I was born ready, baby,” he straightened to see your face. “You want to try a new position? I was reading this—”

The front door to the trailer burst open.

“What the hell? Edward? You tryin’ to burn the place down?”

It was Wayne.

Shit shit shit shit it was Wayne!

Home hours early from work, for whatever reason.

The door to the bedroom was wide open and his heavy footfalls were rapidly approaching from the hall.

Eddie threw the sheet up over you, and a few tulip petals fluttered to your face. “I’ll be right there!” He shouted, trying to jump into his jeans. He missed a leg hole and stumbled back onto the mattress, making you snort out a laugh.

He got to the door just in time to greet his Uncle, blocking any view of the room, buttoning his pants as he stood there.

You could hear Wayne’s voice change. “Is, ah, is your girlfriend here? Sorry, I didn’t see her car.”

“No that’s cool, we were just—” and then he maneuvered him out into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

You lifted up to listen to their murmuring voices, and then Wayne asked, “why is there wax all over the carpet? Blow these fuckers out before the curtains catch fire.”

You had to bury your face in the pillow to muffle your laughter.

#Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson fic #Eddie Munson smut #Eddie Munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #Stranger Things fanfic #smut

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mystellenia · 3 months

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passionate sex with abby ୨ৎ

summary: you and abby spend the night enjoying each other, sharing a passionate moment.

content: fingering (r receiving), praise, abby literally worshipping you, strap on sex

notes: answer to this req!! can someone get me a shirt that says "baby's 1st strap fic!" this was surprisingly fluffier than i intended but i’m not mad. if there are any typos or grammar mistakes, let me know please! i will never consistently proof read <3 prob like 20% of my work is proof read if i’m feeling quite Professional

(wc 1.6k)

"are you asleep?" abby softly whispered into your hair, careful to not disturb you if you had fallen asleep.

the two of you lay on the couch watching a black and white film flicker across the tv screen, a king-sized blanket bunched around your waist. your arms tuck further into your chest, pulling the blanket up a little higher to your waist.

abby's large hands splayed across your lower back—not drawing little shapes, not tracing your skin, just feeling. she was always touching you, whether it was your fingers laced between hers or just her arm pressed against your side. she'd always say that you grounded her, that just being with you could calm her down from the highest of stresses.

you slightly shake your head, responding to her question. "nope."

"do you still wanna watch the movie?"

you shake your head again. "nope."

turning your head to look up at her from where your chin rested on her chest, you kiss her quickly on her cheek. "let's go to bed."

she doesn't respond, just smooths your hair back with her hand and scoots out from under you, grabbing your hand to lead you to the bedroom. she leaves your dishes behind—a bowl, two empty mugs, and a cookie wrapper sit still on the coffee table, frozen and forgotten by the two of you as you walk down the hall.

abby heads to the bathroom and loads up her toothbrush, and you change from your heavy sweatshirt and pajama pants to one of abby's simple, large t-shirts. you take your hair out of its bun and hear a chuckle from behind you, so you turn and see abby smiling and watching you, her foamy toothbrush hanging from her lips.

you take your hair tie out and set it on your side of the bed. "what?" you ask, to which she just shakes her head and returns her gaze to the mirror in front of her. you walk towards her in front of the sink, looking at her reflection. her eyes drop down towards her shirt on you, and she laughs again, quickly leaning into the sink to spit her toothpaste out.

"what!" you smile, tilting your head at her eyes dancing across your face. she takes her time with finishing, leisurely swirling water in her mouth. she finally spits, drying her mouth with a hand towel and saying, "you're swimming in that shirt."

you reflexively look down at it, smoothing it down your body. "it's not even that big on me—it barely goes past my mid-thigh."

"if you say so," she chuckles, leaning in for a kiss. her lips move slowly over yours, taking her time in savoring your taste.

your lips part, and she turns towards the mirror to set the towel down with a dreamy smile slowly spreading across her lips, her blinks slow and partial. you lean against the doorframe with that same dreamy smile until you move back towards her, your hand moving to her shoulder.

abby is the one who deepens the kiss, tilting your head back to push her tongue inside your mouth and humming against your lips. the bathroom counter digs into your butt, and your knees almost buckle at her unhurried kisses.

both of her hands lift up to your head, grabbing each of your cheeks and pulling back to look at you. her eyes look more black than blue, her blown pupils swallowing up the silvery rings of her eyes.

she turns your back towards the doorway and begins walking you backwards to the bed, the mattress hitting the back of your thighs and folding you onto the duvet, your kiss never breaking once. your legs immediately wrap around her hips, ankles locking on the backs of her toned thighs.

her fingers snake under your shirt, swiping her thumbs over your belly and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. she parts from your lips for air, and you both break out in a fit of giggles.

you calm down and stare into her eyes, hurrying up to her face and dotting kisses all over her face, making her laugh even more.

abby turns her head away to escape your assault of kisses, and you still once she does. "i love you," she lowly says, her eyes lazily looking into yours.

"i love you, too," you whisper back. you feel your cheeks heating, so you cover them with your hands to cool them down.

"aww," abby sweetly coos, "you shy?"

"i have a crush on you," you say seriously, smiling when she laughs at the absurdity of your statement.

"well, shit, i sure hope so," she jokes and lowers herself, kissing you long and soft.

like an unspoken agreement, abby pulls back as you sit up and you both start removing your clothes, one by one, holding eye contact the entire time. the intimacy of it all crashes over you, and you'd drown a hundred times over if it meant you could freeze this moment in time, pause it and restart whenever you choose.

you lay on your back and abby crawls over you, sucking the skin of your neck and making your squirm. you reach to thread your fingers through her hair, but your fingers are stopped by the braid in her hair, now loose and frayed from being in all day. unfastening the rubber band at the tail, you comb your fingers through the braid and undo it piece by piece. once her hair is fully free, you scratch at her scalp, restless from her tongue moving on your skin.

with no warning at all, abby dips her hand into your underwear, tracing a feathery swipe through your folds. obviously, you jump, your nails digging crescents into her shoulders.

she gradually pushes her finger inside you, and you throw your head back with a groan, your legs opening unconsciously. she finds a slow and teasing pace, her thumb mirroring it while she rubs tight circles on your clit.

abby never breaks eye contact, watching you the whole time and how your face screws tighter in pleasure, listening to your closed-lip moans start to spill through your mouth. she never speeds up, though, and the pace is too slow to finish.

"abby... come on," you plead, trying to keep your eyes open long enough to look at her.

"yeah? tell me what you want and i'll do it," she pants, looking at you and begging for an order, for another way to make you feel good.

just one of her thick fingers can push you closer to the edge, but it's still not enough. your cheeks warm, but you find the words to say, "i need you. right now, abby."

not a second passes before she's pulling out of you and leaning over to the side of the bed, lifting herself back up with a black strap in her hand. at six inches, it was a perfect fit for you—not too small, not too big—and for abby—comfortably sitting against her core.

wasting no time, she slides the tip up and down your cunt, lathering it in your slick before pushing her hips forward and sliding in, inch by inch. she hovers close above your face, observing every twitch in your body. her own jaw is dropped all the way, her lids low as she uncontrollably bucks her hips and pushes the last of the strap in. a guttural groan falls from her lips as if she was holding her breath the whole time, a whiney breath followed by a hushed curse coming from you.

she drops to her forearms, her hand moving to thread through your hair and cradle the back of your head. when you start to squirm, she pulls out almost all the way and smoothly pushes back in. finding a steady rhythm, her hips tenderly pump into yours, hypnotized by your little noises and how your hair splayed around your face in a halo.

this was exactly why abby preferred missionary, but right now her pleasure takes over and makes her forget everything but you as her head falls into your shoulder, her hand tensing around the nape of your neck.

"i—" she struggles to get out— "am so lucky to have you. god, i'm so glad you're mine." she continues breathing praises into your ear, your huffs getting louder and her breaths becoming more labored.

she feels your legs trying to lock around her torso, and she pulls back to watch your face as she always does. "look at me, look at me," she rushes out, trying to catch you before your orgasm.

you pry your eyes open and pull her forehead to yours. "together, please."

"i know, i know. just..." she trails off, trying to focus, her hips suddenly jerking with her orgasm

as if on the same wavelength, you cum a second after her, you two sloppily kissing and moaning into the other's mouth. you both twitch and spasm, the sheets damp with sweat and slick.

after taking a minute to catch her breath, abby pulls out, wincing at the strap's base kissing her puffy clit. she quickly takes it off and lays down next to you, you immediately curling up to her.

she rubs her hand on your arm, quietly murmuring, "good night, pretty girl," and pulling the sheets up, rubbing your skin until you fall asleep.

@picklesarenice69 hi queen

click here!! oh and here too!! ˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶

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unholyhelbig · 2 months

Note

fuck yes wandanat!!!

Center picture Cred: Jadiakallisti

Title: The Beast You've Made of Me [Part 1/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Wordcount: 3977

Summary: When reader wakes up in her own grave, she's suddenly aware of a past that spans lifetimes, but she's not the only one. Two Avengers are tasked with keeping readers past a secret, or at the very least, controlled.

Warnings: Being buried alive, claustrophobia, guns, general violence, cold leftovers and horrible grammar.

[a/n: Let me know if anyone wants to join the taglist! I should be able to post every week to bi-weekly depending on some travel! This is setting some things up, but I promise it gets better.]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

The weight of dirt was beginning to make the lid of the state provided casket buckle. It wasn’t very sturdy despite its drastic price that the government contemplated paying. It would have been easier to cremate, send you into the afterlife with the kiss of fire white-hot enough to melt bone. But your will had been specific, not necessarily written by you, but detailing that you must be buried, nonetheless.

No state representative wanted to have the ghost of a twenty-something paralegal on their hands. Though most were Roman Catholic and believed whole-heartedly that once a candle was lit in recognition a spirit couldn’t possibly seek vengeance. Still, they respected your wishes.

No, not your wishes. You were too young to even think of a will, or any specifications that would result in your burial. You still swallowed two cans of candle-flavored alcoholic seltzer with your sad dinner of microwaveable lasagna. You hadn’t made a habit of signing legal documents between sloppy bites and buzzed naps in the sun.

Which begged the question of why you were in a casket in the first place, and why dirt was starting to sprinkle down from the creaking wood above. Doctors made mistakes, but burying you alive? Well- shit, that was less of a mistake and more of a deliberate ignorance.

Your body was stiff, cold and unwelcoming to the life that suddenly thrummed through you. Maybe you had been dead. Nothing two full bottles of Advil couldn’t ebb out of you. Your fingertips pushed against the fabric lining, testing the validity of the box you were in.

This was all somehow extremely familiar; the darkness that swam around you, the putrid scent of your own breath after being beneath the earth for God knows how long. You could taste the film on your teeth and almost craved a toothbrush more than you did freedom. Almost.

Despite the pain in your calves, you situated yourself to where your feet pressed against the lid. With just a little leverage maybe you could push hard enough to free yourself. There was a rhythmic shoveling above; so you weren’t completely packed in yet.

Suddenly, very thankful for the yoga classes Jennifer was making you take, you maneuvered until you got enough strength to push. For a few agonizing moments, nothing budged except your spine. Fuck, fuck, fuck. A few more breaths and a harder push and the latches on the outside of the casket seemed to give way to the pressure with a small pop. You could taste dirt, feel it in your eyes.

Another brisk shove and the lid flung off it’s hinges, crashing loudly against the meticulously carved grave. You winced at the cold soil that suddenly surrounded you. Worms squirmed against your skin and that was enough for you to sit up with gusto, holding back a stomach full of vomit. Formaldehyde? It tasted terrible, either way.

You shivered and dusted yourself off. It was either early morning or just before dusk. You couldn’t tell but the electric blue sky had just started to fade to orange. You wouldn’t have been able to handle the sun being in full force, barely blinking away the color of the world, much brighter than the dark box you’d dismantled.

And boy, did you dismantle it. You’d only intended to push it up, free yourself, but the cheap wood had splintered and crumbled under just a little force. You stood in the wreckage and peered up at the company you had obtained.

“What the fuck?!”

It was a man who looked younger than you in his fear. He held a shovel in his hands, hugging it close to his chest. His mouth was slightly opened and his deep brown eyes were widened in fear and shock. The knees of his dark blue jumpsuit were stained with dirt and water.

“Can you give me a boost?” You croaked.

“A boost… I, fuck, I shouldn’t’ have taken this job.”

“You can quit after you help me out of this hole.” You shivered, looking down at the dirt below your feet. You swore you saw it pulse like a heartbeat. Too many worms, maybe even a few spiders. You’d never been too fond of bugs. You reached your caked hand up. “Please.”

He made a small noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t want to be patient zero.”

“Do I look like a zombie to you?”

“A little,”

“Now I’m offended and freezing my ass off.”

He regarded you, probably checking for a nasty festering bite, yellowing skin and any general signs of reanimation. When he didn’t find any, he reached a shaking hand down to you. Both of you struggled and strained until you found the perfect hold on the side of the grave. God- you were never so happy to touch grass.

You panted and stared up at the sky, stars were starting to pockmark the navy blue. It was, in fact, night. The metal tip of a shovel was pointed towards your neck. “Aw, come on, I thought we bonded there.”

“I’m talking to a corpse, we are not bonding.”

“Where are we?” You ignored his pointed stare and tilted yourself up on your elbows. A cemetery was the easy answer. But you wanted to know which one. There were at least 1,700 in the state of New York alone, and they all looked deceivingly the same. “Do I have to take a cab to Manhattan?”

“Uh, you’re in White Plains. Mount Calvary cemetery. I’m- I’m sorry, is this not freaking you out at all?”

You frowned, patting the pockets of a pair of jeans (why the hell would they bury you in jeans, they were the worst). In a long exhale you said. “Shit. I think worms ate my cash.”

It was a longshot to even think that your phone would be in your pocket. It wasn’t. But that left you stranded almost an hour, by car, outside of the city. It would be morning by the time you made it back and that was if no-one pulled up to the side of the road and tried their luck.

You did the only thing you can think of and peered up at this stranger with watery, wide eyes. It wasn’t a move you pulled often, meaning it still worked on Jennifer, on your mother and your father. This was a last resort and you were certainly willing to use it to your advantage.

“What? No.” He shook his head “No! No! Absolutely not. You just dug yourself out of a grave I fucking refuse-“

His name was Austin and he drove a 2002 Ford that needed to warm up for a few minutes before he even considered pulling out of the gravel drive. He was pressed as far as possible away from you and that didn’t exactly boost your confidence, but honestly, truthfully, you would take what you could get at this point.

Austin asked if you were freaking out, and you were. Everything was patchy and black in some places. You couldn’t remember how you’d ended up in a casket. It was clearly a situation that irked you for more than one reason. The forefront of which; no one had attended your funeral.

You weren’t even from White Plains. You’d known from your day job that this place had more than one government funded cemetery. So, most likely, you were given a half-rate priest with liquor on his breath and a funeral director that may have taken the twenty from your pocket, not the worms.

Your stomach clenched as Austin began to drive. He was tapping his fingers against the steering wheel nervously, and could you blame him? A corpse was in his passenger seat. Though, you felt alive enough.

“What’s your name?” He eventually asked, flicking on his high beams. You were on a long and deserted road flanked by oak trees. The occasional field passed by, the reflective quarter-sized eyes of cows blinking at the truck. “Frankenstein?”

You snorted, “Ha-ha. Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster, you know? And I don’t remember my pitiful grave being struck by lightning.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Perhaps.”

“Pitiful? Really? I work hard to maintain those graves.”

“I’m sure they’re lovely.” There was a rolling beat of silence. He glanced at you twice before shrugging his shoulders and leaning his chest closer to the wheel to see better. “It’s y/n. Wasn’t it written on the stone?”

Austin shook his head softly, “No, they don’t put the stone in until later. I’m supposed to spray paint a neon ‘x’ on the packed dirt, so they know what to make.”

How humiliating. You’d supposedly died, no one came to your funeral, and you were reduced to less than a quarter of spray paint. There was a system to everything, but this one made your self-importance fizzle out like a covered candle. There one moment and gone the next.

“Do you have a plan?” Austin changed the subject.

“A plan?”

“Yeah, like, are you just going to show up and say surprise, I’m alive? I’ve seen a lot of horror movies and that never goes well.”

Well, that was your plan. It was a damned good one too. There was nowhere else for you to go. While this near stranger was nice enough, you couldn’t impose on him for more than a single ride. His kind chocolate stare was telling enough. He would let you stay with him as long as it took to figure all of… this, out.

“Yeah,” You sighed out, leaning your head against the cool glass “That’s all I’ve got.”

Jennifer’s apartment building had a small box that required a code for entry. You knew the right numbers to press in the right order, they had faded away from regular use, but the door was always propped open by a cinderblock to let in the cool summer air.

If it rained hard enough, New Yorkers would take partial shelter under the awnings, and sometimes going as far as to loiter in the front lobby by the large set of mailboxes. They were the oldest and most fascinating part of the building, large and wrought iron. Allegedly, they’d survived three building fires.

Thankfully, no one but you stood in the lobby as you watched Austin’s taillights flicker out of existence. You’d have to thank him later- of course, you hadn’t gotten his number, but you knew where her work. At least where he worked up until now.

Escorting someone who had kicked their way out of their own grave back into the city was grounds for quitting, in your book.

The elevator was the second oldest thing in the building, but you somehow felt a wave of relief wash over you when the familiar warmth pressed against your skin. The mechanics jolted and hummed like an old lawn mower. All of these were comfortable.

Hunger tinged at your stomach in one fail swoop of feeling. You steadied yourself against the reflective interior of the elevator as it rose to the highest floor. Each number was signified in a loud and crude beep. You were tempted to hit the emergency stop; gaging the feeling in your abdomen.

Brains?

Yeah, the thought of them was absolutely unappetizing. Austin had gotten into your head. There was no innate need to dig your teeth into flesh and devour. In fact, you became more nauseous at the idea than before it popped into your head.

Zombies were chained to shitty horror movies you and Jennifer curled up to watch every Friday night, making fun of the gelatin that was used for wiggly guts and the cooked rice substituted for maggots. You could go for rice right now.

Knowing your best friend, she would have some sort of left-over cuisine in her fridge and you didn’t hesitate to run your fingers over the top of the doorframe to procure her hidden key, taped with a single strip of adhesive to the surrounding paneling.

Her apartment was dark save for the small tank with a one-finned goldfish named Gus. He barely regarded you, the dull buzz of his home and the pale blue light gave you all the vision you needed. Again, the familiarity of Jennifer’s apartment warmed you, comforted you. If you stopped for too long, you’d think about it all too much.

Waking up in a grave, not remember how you got there in the first place. When was the last time you’d had a meal? You’d purposefully avoided the side mirrors in Austin’s car, even the rearview was gently nudged by your dirt-caked hand. One thing at a time.

The fridge swung open with a satisfying pop and you were never more thankful for the red and white takeout containers that rested on the top shelf next to a box of wine. Neither of you ever claimed to be fancy.

You knew Jennifer’s order like the back of your hand. Sweet and sour chicken with a side of fried rice and no matter what, you would eat it cold. When the scent hit you, you even considered going forkless. If not for the slick dirt under your nails, you would have.

There was instant satisfaction in shoveling a mouthful of rice into your mouth, you barely chewed before swallowing. The neon light from the open fridge illuminated your shame and you swore that Gus, the one-finned fish, was judging you. He ate flakes for fucks sake, watching you spoon cold leftovers was the least of his worries.

You’d moved on from the rice and to the chicken before you noticed that you had company. It was a shift in the air, the feeling of being watched. But there was something more too, something like an itch on the back of your neck.

In a split second you turned from your cold meal and lifted your hand up with enough time to grip a wedge golf club that Jennifer had gotten from her father for her twenty-first birthday. They collected dust next to her coatrack, and right now, the metal edge was less than an inch away from slamming into the side of your temple.

You’d never been necessarily graceful, nor good at picking up on your surroundings. You never had to be, not with your work as a paralegal. The worst thing you had to look out for was a bad reaction to burnt office coffee.

Jenn was in an oversized Pink Floyd t-shirt and a pair of boxers, her eyes were wild, hair even wilder. A bloom of fondness wash over you despite her attempt at assault. You couldn’t blame her either, your mind so one-track on getting a meal that you hadn’t warned your best friend, not in the slightest.

“Fuck! What the fuck!” she wrenched the club away from you and moved to swing again, holding it behind her head like a baseball bat.

“Jesus Christ! Oh my God, put the wedge down!”

“You’re not-“She gulped in a cold breath of air “you died!”

“Don’t hit me with that thing and kill me again!”

Her chest was heaving up and down, fingers tightening against the rubber grip handle. Her eyes were frantic. “Did you eat my leftovers?”

You blinked at her, not sure what to say. She didn’t give you a chance to answer either, instead she sprung forward and wrapped you in a bone-crushing hug. You breathed her in, her scent of summer rain and freshly cleaned laundry. Her hair tickled your nose but you held her back, held her as if it were the last time you ever would.

Something softly broke within you, and you felt tears well up in your eyes. They slid silently down your cheeks. The fridge closed with a padded thump and plunged you both into the neon blue glow. Eventually, the club fell to the floor with a clank and her fingers fisted your shirt. You were thankful that she didn’t use her full strength.

“How is this happening?”

“I don’t know,” You rasped.

And you didn’t. Everything was so fuzzy and each time you attempted to press the subject in your mind, you felt the start of a headache at the base of your skull. For now, you were perfectly content holding your friend flush against you.

“You smell so bad,” She sobbed.

“Yeah, well, I was dead.”

Jenn pulled back and squeezed both of your shoulders, studying you longer than you had studied yourself, her breath shuddered “Maybe this is one of those Halloween things, like… like you have one night back on earth.”

You gave her a weak smile “It’s June, Jenn.”

She frowned at you, fingers pressing against your goosebump covered skin. “Sweetie, it’s October. You’ve been… gone, four months.”

But you hadn’t been buried since June. You were barely buried this evening. Your body ached from how stiff the casket had been, fingers numbed from the cold. You figured you were jarred, not in a different season altogether.

“I don’t… I don’t remember anything.”

She swallowed hard, linking her hands behind your, they rested at the base of your spine. You could tell that she was afraid to release her hold on you. Her breath was warm against your collarbone.

“You were hit by a car that blew through a redlight.”

Okay- anticlimactic. You worked alongside Jennifer at Goodman, Lieber, Kurzberg and Holliway on cases that were focused on Inhumans, superheroes and supernatural beings that had gotten themselves into legal trouble. Being taken out by a car accident wasn’t on your top-five ways to go.

“It was all very… weird. They wouldn’t’ let me see you, and at first, I thought it was because we’re not family, but they didn’t let them in either. I even pulled the attorney card, which I’m not proud of, but they refused to let us even identify you.”

She withdrew her touch and started to pace around the kitchen. It was her way of thinking, and now that she was sure that you were a solid being, she was free to move around. “Even when I got six feet tall, mean and green, they wouldn’t let me in. I was two seconds from calling Bruce.”

Jenn stopped and lifted both eyebrows at you “You look remarkable for someone who has been under the earth for months.”

“I was being buried today in White Plains. I’m assuming there was no funeral, then?”

“No… no. They had said that private arrangements had been made and it’s my guess that those were keeping you on ice until now.”

You winced at the phrasing. You were never too fond of hospitals and the blocks in your memory scared you more than anything. If what Jennifer was saying was right, then, you may not have died in that intersection. You may have been through something much, much worse.

“Sorry,” She sighed out, desensitized just as you were. “Y/n, you can’t remember anything?”

“No,” The word came out as a broken whisper.

The two of you stood in a quiet moment. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, and you held onto that feeling. It was there, you were there, pockmarked memory and all. You felt the urge to reach out and hold Jennifer again, suddenly so exhausted you didn’t’ imagine your legs holding you up much longer.

Her eyes flickered down to the center of your chest and then back up to your stare with an immeasurable amount of fear. When you gazed down at the dirt-stained shirt, you saw a red dot, quivering as if a hand was behind it’s direction. Your shoulders slumped.

“aw, fuck.”

Jennifer let out a scream as her front door was splintered open and flung with great force across the room. The two windows that overlooked the view of the city shattered as heels broke against the panes. The one singular dot had changed to seven, long-range rifles aimed at you, and you were suddenly very sad that your last meal would be cold leftover rice.

Even in the dark, you knew that they had knocked over the fishtank holding Gus, multicolored rocks and glass slid across the wooden floor. There were light gray circles against the breasts of these intruders, a bird with outstretched wings in it’s center.

Your hands went up reflexively, both you ducked behind the breakfast nook, you were close to plugging your ears, the red dots trained on the fridge now, “Oh my god, did you call SHIELD?”

“No! No, I didn’t even know you were alive three minutes ago, I was going to hit you with a golf club and call the cops, not SHIELD.”

They were assholes and tight-lipped about everything, always. It was hard to get a phone call back from them divulging information about ongoing lawsuits, but now they were in front of you, guns raised and depriving Jennifer’s fish of life.

“Gus is going to drown,” You whispered harshly back.

“He’s a fish, he can’t drown.”

“In air.”

There was obvious shifting of firearms. The Agents were all calculated and still with their movements, there wasn’t subtle noise without intent. A gruff, raspy female voice called out to you. “Come out with your hands up, y/n.”

You peaked over the breakfast bar and squinted into the darkness. Your body was not equipped for this. It was already protesting from kicking open the casket with a bought of strength. It certainly wasn’t prepared for this.

Most of the agents were in swat gear, bullet-proof vests and helmets, their faces were covered with balaclava’s, leaving only small strips of exposed skin and eyes trained on you. You hadn’t had this much attention directed at you since your fifth-grade talent show, and you figured the last time would be your funeral, but that hadn’t gone exactly to plan.

The woman who was speaking was in a tactical suit. She didn’t’ bother to cover her identity, she didn’t have to. This was the Black Widow. Natasha Romanoff. Jennifer had gotten drunk one night after a losing case and told you about her cousin having a bit of a fling with her. You’d met Bruce, and that was… unbelievable in the nicest way possible.

Her emerald eyes were trained on you, serious and hard. A tingle ripped up your spine and your stomach squirmed at her scrutiny. Maybe it was the rice and the chicken, but you felt the urge to vomit. You wanted her to say your name again, despite not understanding why she knew it in the first place.

Jennifer gripped your ankle, shaking her head ‘no’ vigorously. Really, you should trust your lawyer friend.

The Black widow let out a sigh, the tip of her handgun pointed to the ground. “You can either come out, or I’ll blow a hole through your chest. Your choice.”

Your gaze flashed down to Jenn and she seemed to have changed her mind within a second, nodding with caution. “Okay, okay.”

Once you were at full height, the room bustled in movement. Your eyes remained on the Black Widow, and hers on yours. Your mouth felt dry, the tip of her gun pushing against your ribs before she flipped you and bent you over the granite counter. Jennifer was using her heels to scoot back to the fridge, trying to avoid the agents swarming around.

Metal cuffs were slapped against your wrists. The Black Widow was pressed flush against you, her warmth dominating. She grasped the back of your shirt and pulled you up. You were, for a fleeting moment, at her mercy. Her fingers searched your pockets, padded down your sides. Once she figured you clean, she holstered her weapon. “Y/n Y/l/n,” she husked in your ear. You suppressed a shiver, knowing she’d feel any move you made right now. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Taglist: No one yet :(

#natasha romanov #Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanov x reader #Natasha Romanoff x reader #Wanda Maximoff #Wanda Maximoff x reader #Black widow #Black widow x reader #Scarlet witch #Scarlet witch x reader #Wandanat #Wandanat x reader #Marvel #Jennifer walters #She-hulk

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satorusplayplace · 10 months

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gojo never wanted you to leave. honestly, he would’ve made you stay if he could. god he misses your smell, your touch, the food you would cook, whenever you came home late and he was already home and you melted into his arms because of how tired you were. he missed you so god damn much. but why did he fuck this up? why does he always fuck up everything that’s good for him?

“seriously satoru?” he hears while laying in bed, his eyes are red and puffy, he’s holding a piece of her clothing, her favorite shirt. he didn’t even want to look up.

“satoru, get the fuck up.” he looks up, his hair a mess, he hasn’t shaved in a while, so a little stubble is growing. his eyes have eyebags, they are so red and puffy, she can’t see his pretty blue eyes.

“satoru, i just only said we needed a break. i didn’t say we broke up. i said i’ll be back in a week!!!” she yells and cuddles into him trying to get him to smile.

“but-but you looked so mad and i couldn’t. i thought this was the end. you scared me. i hate you.” he sobbed between his words, making her want to cry but she didn’t. she rubs his back and starts to kiss his cheek.

“oh my big baby, what am i going to do without you? i love you so much satoru. we just needed a tiny break, especially me. that argument had me thinking about our lives, what should we do better and i just, i needed time to think by myself honey. i just wanna know what do you think about getting marr-“ immediately she gets cut off by the white haired man saying, “yes. i wanna marry you. i wanna have kids with you. i wanna do everything with you.” he turns around throwing her favorite shirt somewhere resulting with her hitting him lightly on the shoulder, he cuddles into her.

“well, surprisingly! i can fulfill one of those sentences right now.” she pulls out something from a bag she was carrying. satoru looks at the pregnancy test and get stares. his eyes start to fill with tears again.

“you’re gonna be a mom? and i’m gonna be a dad? we’re gonna have a baby? we’re going to be parents? babe.” he couldn’t handle his excitement, he hugged her and started to kiss her everywhere.

“first we need this house cleaned. what the fuck were you thinking? did you not think i would come back? you should’ve been ready for me. you don’t have our house cleaned! i will make you scrub the toliet with just a toothbrush satoru.” her voice gets stern and he shot up in the bed and started to clean.

in the end, no matter what they go through. they will always stay together. y/n is his sun, while satoru is the moon. in the end, she will shine bright for him while he will shine bright in the shadows for her.

—

hey guys! i wanted to try a new format! so this is just a little drabble :) but yeah! i’m gonna start trying new formats. this was to get my brain in gear again because i want to write all the requests and get them done :) but here’s a little something to keep you entertained! i want to do a gojo x pregnant!reader series soon so i guess here’s a sneak peak of what’s in my mind?

#jujutsu gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #romance #x reader #gojo satoru #fanfic #fluff #angst #comfort #gojo x reader #pregnant reader #gojo is so cute!#gojo satoru x reader

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azzibuckets · 3 days

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now that we don’t talk [paige bueckers]

paige bueckers x fem!reader

summary: you and paige break up and neither of you know how to move on properly with your life

a/n: decided to go for some angst again…didn’t really have an aim or a direction when writing this so not sure if i should turn this into a series or not ? lmk what yall think

word count: 1.5k

masterlist

The First Week

In the first week, Paige had fallen into her daily routine. Her moments of forgetfulness were instinctual; she’d laid a dollop of minty Crest toothpaste on her blue toothbrush before doing the same thing to your red one, leaving it hanging over the edge of the counter.

The first time she did it, she’d hadn’t even noticed. It was only when she’d turned her mouth to catch the water under the faucet that she’d spotted your toothbrush that she’d set up, ready with Crest, as if you’d pop in any moment to stick it in your mouth and start scrubbing. Paige had almost choked on the water she’d been gurgling, grief worming its way up her throat and making it hard to breathe.

Heaving, she’d stood over the sink, hand gripping both sides of the counter to support herself until her knuckles turned white. It took all her strength not to buckle over from the precipitous wave of agony that had collided into her with gut-wrenching speed.

But for some reason, Paige had stuck your toothbrush under the stream of water then placed it carefully back in its cup. And so she’d made the same mistake the day after. This time, when she realized what she’d done, it wasn’t the weight of sadness that compressed her lungs, but a brewing storm of fury. Her vision had gone red, and she’d grabbed the toothbrush and hurled it against the wall as hard as she could, with a strength that she didn’t even know that she’d still had. And this time, when Paige stared at the toothpaste dripping slowly down the wall, mocking her as it made a mess on the floor, the counter couldn’t save her. She’d succumbed to the force of her fury dragging her down, and had crumpled to the floor, sobs racking her body.

The First Month

Your room was dark, in almost sub-freezing temperatures with the windows wide open to welcome in the frosty, bone-chilling winter air that Connecticut was known for. The only light in the room came from the dim glow of your laptop screen, opened live to the UConn women’s basketball game playing live on ESPN.

At first, you’d attempted to be nonchalant whenever Paige sunk yet another basket with ease, making the crowd and commentators going feral as she celebrated with her signature moves. But as the game between UConn and USC got closer and closer, you couldn’t help but smile when Paige crossed over her defense, sending them flying to the floor and leaving her wide open to score yet another 3. It reminded you all too well of the Paige you’d met and fallen in love with, whose confidence on the court had made you start viewing her as more than just your teammate.

But any trace of smile on your face quickly vanished once you watched Paige’s post-game interview during the livestream. “You’ve had quite a run this season despite being out for most of your sophomore and junior year due to injury. Who would you like to thank for your unpredented comeback?”

“I’d like to thank God. He’s been with me through everything, given me trials to test my resilience. In fact, he’s made me stronger than ever.” Paige had paused. You’d recognized her hesitance; the way she nibbled her bottom lip, her mouth half open as she debated a response, the uncertainty in her eyes as they flickered. But she seemed to recover from any reluctance, and what she said next made your heart drop. “I’d also like to thank my girlfriend, Leslie.” She motioned to someone off camera, and soon the frame was filled with tousled brown hair and soft green eyes.

Paige pulled her in close, and your world spun as you watched Paige, your Paige, press her lips against the brunette. Your hands had reached up to tear your headphones off your head, unable to further listen to the claps and hoots of the crowd along with the cooing of the commentators without feeling the need to throw up. But before you could, Paige had started speaking again. Your hands froze. You hated yourself for it, but you had to listen.

“She’s been with me through everything, from freshman year to now. She was my number one supporter when I got injured.” She wrapped her arm around Leslie’s waist, staring intently at the camera, and never before had you been this sickened staring at the blue eyes you’d once adored, could’ve spent hours getting lost in. “But even outside of my injury, Les has been on my side. Especially with all the immature drama that happened on the court last year, she was really a clear voice in all of that. So I’m pretty grateful for her.”

Leslie’s mouth split into a grin, and she turned to pull Paige in for another kiss, and that was when you slammed your laptop so hard that when you opened it the next morning, you were surprised to see that the screen hadn’t shattered.

You were not someone who cried. Your family members, your friends, Paige could all attest to that. But the torment that was clawing its way through your body, threatening to suffocate you, finally exploded. Tears had surged from your eyes, seemingly never ending, and you’d cried so much that night that it suddenly made sense why you’d almost never cried before; it was like all the tears in your life had been pent up, waiting for this moment, for when the pin fell.

That night was the lowest you’d ever felt in your life, and possibly even the lowest you’ve ever acted - blinded by a jealous rage over the girl that Paige had always promised you not to worry about, the girl Paige was basically making out with on live television just one month after you guys had broken up (and when it’d taken her two years to show PDA with you), you’d gone on all your social media accounts and blocked Paige on every single one of them.

Then an idea came to you. An act of retaliation that would hurt Paige as much as she hurt you. So you’d reopened Twitter, unblocked Paige. You’d scrolled until you found the perfect tweet. Your thumb had hovered for a split second over the like button, haunted by images of Paige’s hand trailing your stomach, her hair brushing your eyes, her mouth on your neck, before it was violently replaced by the image of Paige locking lips with the brunette flooding your mind, causing you to jam your thumb down with ferocity on the like button. You’d slammed the final nail in the coffin by deleting the app so that you couldn’t go back and undo your action before word got around to Paige.

The First Year

You thought you knew grief. You thought you’d familiarized yourself with every aspect of mourning: the realization in the morning, when your eyes open and you lose the blissful state of dreaming and you’re confronted with the harsh truths of the world. Or the late nights, when you’re restless and can’t sleep because of jealousy plaguing your mind. Even the deep longing of missing someone’s touch so bad that you swear that you can almost almost smell their perfume.

So you thought you knew grief - until your grandma died. It had been a matter of time. She’d had breast cancer, and for years now the doctors had been saying any time. But that still didn’t prepare you for the overwhelming pain that consumed all your senses, making it hard to think or eat or sleep or even breathe.

The first few nights after you received the news, you stared at the ceiling, unblinking until the early hours of the morning when the sun started creeping up through your windows. But you couldn’t even cry; you felt like a broken faucet. What the fuck was wrong with you? Sobbing over your stupid ex that you’d broken up with an entire year ago, but unable to shed a tear for your grandma, the woman who had single-handedly raised you. You were exhausted to the point of no return. When would everything stop hurting?

You’d only torn your eyes from your ceiling when your phone had lit up. It was 4 AM, and you wondered who it could be. You checked your phone, and every part of your body froze when you read the notifications.

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

I’m so sorry

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

I just heard the news

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

Don’t know if you’re even active on here anymore but it’s the only way I could reach you. If you see this, I just want to ask you to not keep your grief to yourself. Isolating yourself won’t make the pain go away. Make sure to talk to someone

Your heart had ached, your phone trembling in your hand. Because Paige had cared enough to send you a message, on the same app where you’d given the tabloids a wet dream and caused the UConn fandom to go into a spiral by liking a hate tweet about Paige. She’d cared enough to disregard all that to make sure you were okay. But she still hadn’t cared enough to offer to be that someone that she wanted you to talk to so bad.

So you’d left her on read, without responding. Had slipped back into your sheets, your head pounding and your lungs aching. This time the tears fell out easily.

#paige bueckers #uconnwbb #wbb #wcbb #paige bueckers x you #angst

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macfrog · 9 months

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faire l'amour sex on fire chapter five

alright babies. grab the nearest museum tour guide, don your finest gumball machine jewelry, strap into your lifejackets and get ready to fall in love in paris - we go again one last time. i could've written about these two in france forever; i kinda want them to retire together and just move to europe and live out their days drinking good wine and baking in the sun. anyways hope u enjoy love u bye!!! 💘

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: it’s your last day away with joel. impulses are getting harder to control, feelings are getting harder to hide, and secrets are threatening to spill over…

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalanced power dynamic, sugardaddy!joel, cursing, mention of oral (m receiving), ostentatious displays of wealth, probably inaccurate french language, jean-marc makes reader feel uncomfortable, some objectification, alcohol consumption, protective!joel, lil bit of fluff, teasing and excessive flirting obv, a Totally Not Romantic boat trip, reader (nervously) shares personal stuff with joel, themes of heartbreak and guilt, reader sort of panics/spirals a little again, daddy kink, facesitting (f receiving), assplay/fingering, softdom!joel, unprotected piv sex, creampie, angst?? kinda??

word count: 9.4k

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“Come – here,” he says, sterner. Eyes dark, flitting up and down your skin, settling between your legs. You obey him, shuffling further up the mattress until you’re hovering over his face, knees digging into the cushion by his ears. “Sit,” he instructs. You stare blankly at him. Your body doesn’t move. “Wanna taste you again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, eyes stuck on your wet core just inches from his lips. “Gonna make you feel better.”

The suite is drowned a milky blue in the morning light. The sky is white – cloud cover as far as you can see. You tug your robe tighter around your body and turn from the window, rounding the bed to join Joel in the bathroom. He’s in the shower, humming some song you’re distantly sure played that night in the dive bar.

You’re meeting Jean-Marc in an hour, in the penthouse of his hotel. He owns four across the city. Joel has told you three things so far: he’s pretentious, he’s a little in your face, and he’s always wearing a blue velvet robe.

He hasn’t told you much more than that.

You click your toothbrush on, and it whirs around your jaw for all of ten seconds before cutting out. Your thumb presses the button twice more, pulling it out of your mouth to find the red light at the base of the handle blinking. Like it’s snickering at you.

“Fuck,” you moan, head tilting back.

“’s wrong?” Joel asks, stepping out of the shower and reaching for his towel.

“My toothbrush just died. Do you have a charger with you?”

He shakes his head, wrapping the towel low over his hips.

“You didn’t bring a toothbrush charger?”

Joel walks around you, eyes never leaving yours in the steamy-edged reflection of the mirror until he’s by your side, when you watch him glance down to you. “Is my toothbrush the one that’s dead, baby?”

You sigh, sliding the brush across the marble countertop.

“Here,” Joel says, chuckling, “just use mine.”

“Uh,” you hold a hand up, grimacing, “no, thanks. Gross.”

“What?”

“You want me to use your toothbrush? That you’ve already used? In my mouth?”

“Same mouth you had wrapped around my dick half an hour ago?”

You stare him down in the mirror, jaw slack with shock, eyes thin. Trying to form words, but he’s smiling so cockily, so amused by the look on your face. He’s proud of that one, ain’t he?

You slap his arm away but snatch the toothbrush from his hand without a word, loading it with toothpaste and flicking the button.

Joel laughs again, nose nudging into your hair as he hooks around you, dappling kisses up your neck, still sticky from the shower. “You look hot when you’re pissed.”

Your words, though muffled by the white, minty foam, are clear enough that they make him laugh even harder. “Fuck off.”

Finding an outfit you think appropriate for breakfast with one of Joel’s rich friends – is Jean-Marc a friend? You don’t know enough about him to call it – whilst also staying in the realm of professional work trip is tough. You want to look nice, look…Parisian, but also look personal assistant. And definitely, definitely avoid looking I’m-sleeping-with-my-boss, by the way.

You settle for a deep red floral dress, split hem running just above your knees, and a pair of white heels that wrap around your ankles. Joel approves, judging by the placement of his hands when he appears behind you in the mirror. You lean back into him as he lifts your skirt, running a light touch up the inside of your thigh, a low growl passing his lips when his fingers meet your lace –

The suite phone jolts you back to reality. Joel sighs, shifting off to answer it.

“Yep?” he says into the receiver. Car’s here, he mouths to you. “Alright, thank you, ma’am.”

He nods toward the door and you follow after him, swinging a clutch under your arm and giving your hair one last toss in the mirror.

“What’s he like?”

“Huh?”

You lean back against the elevator wall, watching the rustic arrow arch across the floors of the hotel. “Jean-Marc. Aside from the blue robe and pretentiousness, what should I expect?”

He clears his throat. Sniffs. “Uh,” he scratches the bridge of his nose, “he’s fine. He’s…You’ll do fine. Don’t overthink it.”

Alright.

But Joel’s being weird. He’s silent when he ushers you into the back of the car, he forgets to put his hand on your thigh until you take his wrist and guide it there, and he doesn’t even hear you when you gasp and point out two white poodles on the street. He barely says a word until you’re being welcomed through a huge golden doorway into a regal penthouse suite, gleaming floors and decorative walls.

Very in-your-face. Very Jean-Marc, going by the little you know.

“Joelie!” he sings, coming over to meet you both with his hands out, shaking Joel’s and patting him roughly on his bicep.

He’s a small man – smaller than Joel, anyway. Hair more salt than pepper. Clean-shaven, pointed chin. And no blue robe, disappointingly. He’s just in a white shirt, unbuttoned far lower than you would’ve left it, had it been up to you, and smart blue trousers. A pair of patterned loafers, too, a huge gold buckle on the top of them.

Joel turns, robotically, to introduce you, and places a hand on the small of your back. You step forward into Jean-Marc’s open arms. He leans in, places a kiss to each cheek, and leans back out, almost like he’s surveying you. Up and down, and back up again. Joel’s hand doesn’t leave your back.

“You are the assistant,” Jean-Marc remarks, clapping his hands. “How beautiful! You are much too beautiful to be in such a boring job. Blegh.”

You laugh, not entirely sure why. Probably nerves. Sometimes it’s easier to laugh uncomfortable moments off, makes them pass quicker, though it pisses you off. Joel’s hand presses a little into your skin, you feel his fingers grip around the material of your dress.

“We are eating on the terrace.” Jean-Marc steps away, fingers snapping to beckon you both forward. “It has a fantastic view of the city, doesn’t it, Joel?”

Joel smiles, but doesn’t say anything. You fucking wish he would. Why is he so quiet?

You both follow Jean-Marc outside, sun peeking weakly through the clouds onto the paved patio, fenced by an intricate wrought iron railing, and covered in what looks like a jungle of vibrant green plants. He leads you over to a huge glass table, set with spotless white crockery and shining silver cutlery, wine glasses at each setting.

“Please,” he holds his hands out, “sit.”

Joel pulls one of the chairs out and looks to you, waiting for you to slide into it. When you do, you watch as he sits silently next to you. And then he finally fucking does it.

His hand slips onto your thigh under the table. Gives the top of your knee a gentle squeeze. The relief washes over you like waves of cold water on a scorching day. Your lungs fill with air and your shoulders relax.

“So, you have worked for Joel for…how long?” Jean-Marc asks, pouring his first glass of wine. He holds the bottle up to you and Joel and you both hold your palms up in unison, opting for the freshly squeezed orange juice instead.

You answer politely – you answer all of his questions politely, with a tight smile on your lips that hurts when you hold it for too long. He asks what you do for Joel, whether you like it much, how you’re finding your trip to Paris. All the while, Joel sits beside you, feeling more stone than human, observing, listening and grunting in answer anytime Jean-Marc makes reference to him.

On your host’s second glass of wine, a flurry of waiters in all white spawn from the penthouse and lay dishes of extravagant food before you. Eggs benedict is about the only thing you recognize, aside from the toast in the rack in the middle of the table, and a bowl of fresh cut fruit beside it.

A tall, black-haired assistant swings over to Jean-Marc when he clicks his fingers, craning around the old man like a raven perched on his shoulder.

“Ce serait bien d’avoir un joli visage comme celui-ci travailler avec nous, non?” Jean-Marc utters in the man’s ear, and they laugh. A little too hard. Laughter that hits your ear like a foul ball.

You decide to break your porcelain polite smile, laughing with the two men. The tall man straightens and glides off behind the table, and Jean-Marc wipes the corners of his mouth before turning to you.

“So,” he says again, another question approaching, “what did you study? At university?”

“Business management,” you reply neatly, lifting your glass.

Jean-Marc’s head wobbles in a nod as he cuts into his meal.

“And French.”

Joel chokes into his glass of orange juice. “Sorry,” he sputters, coughing into his fist, covering a laugh. “Sorry.”

You mask your own smile behind your drink, the sound of Joel choking on his juice making your shoulders shudder with a giggle which escapes in short bursts through your nose.

Jean-Marc’s eyebrows rise, amused and…fascinated. “Even better, hm?”

Joel’s still clearing the orange juice from his airway. Patting his lips with his own napkin. He pauses and his hands fall to his lap when Jean-Marc asks, “Where have you been hiding her, Joel?”

You wince. It’s a gross question, it is. And you know Joel thinks so, too, maybe even worse by his reaction. He sucks in a deep, sudden breath, eyes narrowing toward Jean-Marc. His chest rises and falls abruptly, jaw clenches tight. And then his hand is back on your leg, and you quickly lay yours atop, softly squeezing it. It’s fine. It’s fine.

His thumb strokes your fingers lightly, but he doesn’t react more than that. He doesn’t say much for the remainder of the meal, either. Just cuts pieces of egg and bacon roughly and – though this might just be you knowing him well enough – pretty aggressively, dragging them off of his fork with gritted teeth.

You keep up lighthearted conversation with Jean-Marc; the weather, your flight (at least the PG parts of it), how much of Paris you’ve seen since you landed. You study him when he’s not staring you down, watch the way his delicate fingers slice through his food, throwing it into his mouth in tiny pieces and humming to himself as he looks around at the skyline.

He’s like a mouse. Like some small creature with enough brains and quick wit to keep you on your toes. Everything is like a dance – you find yourself picking up on nuances in his conversation, words which point one way and yet, a shift in tone which points in the complete opposite.

It’s always when that tone shifts, and your eyebrows pull together, polite façade slipping some, that you find yourself leaning more into Joel. And he’s there each time. Steady as a rock, quiet, watchful and protective. A scent that comforts you, grounds you anytime you begin to feel yourself floating off with one of Jean-Marc’s stories.

“Madame,” a voice murmurs behind you, and you turn to find the raven man stood over you like a shadow. He hooks his fingers, nodding over to the edge of the terrace.

“Ah, yes,” Jean-Marc nods, “go, please. My assistant will be happy to show you the view. It is a panoramic view of Paris.”

You nervously stand, letting go of Joel’s hand. He watches you follow the tall figure over to the black railing, where he points to landmarks you’ve already seen from your own terrace. When his ghostly finger points out the Arc de Triomphe, you sneak a glance over your shoulder back to Joel.

Jean-Marc is now sat in your chair, leaning into Joel and talking at him. Chittering, like a bird in his ear. Joel’s face is flat, he looks thoroughly unimpressed at whatever the hell Jean-Marc’s saying. Looks pissed, if you’re honest.

Suddenly Jean-Marc leaps from the seat and claps his hands, announcing that he’d like to take you and Joel on a drive. But as soon as he’s finished the sentence, Joel’s broad figure is standing up to height beside him, towering over him.

“Actually, we, uh…we have other plans today. Maybe some other time.”

He nods quickly to you and you almost throw yourself to him in response. You collect your bag from the table and line yourself beside Joel, nodding graciously to Jean-Marc and thanking his assistant for showing you the view.

“Anytime,” Jean-Marc says, taking your free hand. “It was wonderful to meet you. I hope that we will again soon.”

Before you can respond, Joel’s dragging you off the terrace and through the penthouse, muttering, “Thanks,” as you pass more servers into the elevator again.

“What’s wr–?”

“Nothing,” he cuts in, exhaling when the doors close over. His stare won’t lift from the floor. “Nothing.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you. It’s nothing.”

“Ooookay,” you reply, lifting your eyebrows. The elevator plummets; you both fall into silence with it. Joel’s shifting between feet, arms crossed, hands tightly squeezing into his upper arms.

“What’s next, then?” you ask, trying to crack him.

His shoulders rise with the breath he takes. “Nothing, baby.”

“Stop that. Answer me, Miller.”

A smile pulls at his lips. “I am answerin’. I got nothin’ for the rest of the day. I’m all yours.”

The elevator stops and slides open. Joel leads you out through the lobby, toward the front door through which you can see Denis’s car waiting.

“Then, why aren’t we flying home today? Why wait until tomorrow? I thought you had big work stuff all weekend.”

“Because. I didn’t wanna come here just to work. Why’d you think I brought you here, if I was just gonna work the entire time?”

You toss him a look and he laughs.

“Alright, no,” he says, opening the car door for you. “I wanted to spend time with you, darlin’.”

You scoff, settling in the backseat. “Hi, Denis!”

Denis nods in the mirror to you, cheeks plump with his warm smile, then looks to Joel. “Where to?”

Joel turns to you. Lifts his eyebrows, opens his hands.

“Wh–? Me?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “where d’you wanna go, pretty girl? We’ll do whatever you want.”

You stare at him, a little dumbfounded. But then he smiles again, so sincere, so gentle, and you fold.

Since you were a kid, old enough to hold a pencil, you drew. Crayon doodles of you and your mom stuck to the refrigerator turned to being hunched over a sketchbook in art class, wrist aching by the end of the day when you’d rush home with it between your fingers to show her what you’d drawn. And that turned to tiny sketchbooks you’d carry in your purse for when college became too boring, sneaking them out to draw the face of the professor, stern lines in black ink as she detailed the components of a business model. And that turned to an entire corner in your apartment dedicated to canvases and paints, sketching pencils and watercolor inks – your very own little studio for whenever you had the time.

It'd been on your bucket list probably since that first crayon made its way into your little hands. You imagined wandering around for the day, drinking in all the art, marveling at the size of some of the paintings, walking two, three times around the sculptures. Seeing the Mona Lisa.

“The Louvre?” you ask Joel, tilting your head.

“The Louvre, Denis,” he says, and takes your hand in his.

----------

It’s like a dream. You’re sure you’ve looped the same rooms twice, maybe three times over. And it still doesn’t feel real.

Joel’s been following you the whole time, his fingers intertwined with yours – watching as you lean as close as possible to each painting, eyes studying the detail intently, and then back again, taking it in in its entirety; pointing to the tiny plaques with the information on each piece, reading them to you as you muse over each one.

Your neck aches from turning all over the place as you walk around, looking from wall to wall, up to the ceiling panels, ornate in gold and bursting with colorful, dreamy paintings of the skies.

When you reach the Mona Lisa, you queue for twenty minutes. Joel stands by your side the entire time, one arm comfortably slung around your back as you meander across the wooden floor toward the glass case. He asks you which piece has been your favorite so far; you tell him the one right after he almost got hit on the head by some kid with a selfie stick. He lowers his brows and shakes his head at the memory, and you hit his chest playfully, trying to conceal your laughter from his grumpy face.

When you reach the center of the painting, the enigmatic face staring straight back at yours, Joel taps your shoulder.

You spin around.

He’s holding his phone up, leaning back to get both you and the soft-smiling face behind you in shot.

“Joel,” you laugh, and he waves his hand.

“Smile,” he tells you.

And you do. You prop one elbow on the wooden barrier, lean in to the frame like you’re snapping a pic with a best friend, and push your cheeks up. The camera shutter sound echoes from his phone, and he brings it down, checking over the picture.

“Cheesy,” you mutter, leaning in to get a better look at your upside-down face.

“She’s beautiful,” he replies with a smirk, scooping you off to round the room toward the exit.

You glance back at the Mona Lisa, arm linking with Joel’s. “She is, right?”

He doesn’t respond. When you turn back, he’s smiling to himself, eyes on the floor.

You click alongside him in your heels, weaving between tourists taking photos and guides showing groups of wide eyes and slack jaws around. As you pass them, Joel leans in close to you.

“I don’t wanna take you away from all this,” he utters, “but I got somethin’ booked for us.”

“Somethin’ booked?”

He nods. Hands you a guilty look, and asks, “Mind if we call it a day?”

You shake your head, a little more enthusiastically than you meant to, but you’re trying to tell him you don’t mind. At all. Whatsoever. He’s paid for this entire trip, and apparently has more instore. What you feel right now is the complete opposite of minding.

You let him take you back up the escalators and out of the museum.

Denis sits by the curb, waiting for you both like he always is. He drives you, hand in hand, around the city to the edge of the Seine, where Joel leads you out of the car and begins strolling down the riverside.

The early evening sun bounces along the water, reflecting ochre and amber in gentle ripples. Your arms cross over one another, hands rubbing the cold skin above your elbows, and without a word, Joel pulls his jacket off and sits it loose over your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you whisper, as he wanders along beside you. “So, where we goin’?”

“You’ll see,” he says, smiling. “You really loved it in there, huh?”

“Mhm,” you nod, nudging into him, “thank you for taking me.”

“Didn’t know you were artsy. You knew your stuff.”

“You don’t know a lot about me, do you?”

There’s something in his eyes when he looks back at you. Words behind them that he thinks twice about letting slip. Instead, he says, “You keep surprisin’ me.”

You’re walking under the shade of a line of trees, benches sat in between each trunk holding couples enjoying the view, families snapping photos. You turn to watch a couple of kids run by, hoping that by the time you turn back, your cheeks are a little less red.

“Hm,” you muse, “I always wanted to be an artist. A painter. Wanted to sell my stuff, make money turning people into portraits. It was my stupid little pipedream.”

“’s not stupid. Not a pipedream, either.”

“You haven’t seen my stuff.”

“Alright, then show it to me.”

You scoff, tightening your grip around your body. “Maybe. Maybe when we’re back home.”

“Holdin’ you to it.”

You smirk, brushing the hair out of your face. “What’s yours?”

“My what?”

“Your pipedream. You wanted to be a businessman your whole life?”

Joel’s eyes are fixed on the pathway in front, widening a little as he nervously laughs. “I, uh…Not my whole life, no.”

“What was it before, then?”

He seems to stiffen. Runs his fingers through his hair, unglues his eyes from the ground and looks across the water. “Me ‘n my…my brother, we had this idea to buy a ranch. Raise sheep, cattle, few horses maybe. Out in the country, y’know? Looked into a few places, but…I guess life got in the way.”

Joel Miller, a farmer. Moreover, Joel Miller, a brother. How come, in three years of knowing him better than most, you never knew he had a brother?

He answers awkwardly when you ask. “Just don’t see ‘im much, is all. He lives out west.”

His gaze falls again and you know that’s as much as you’re going to be able to draw from him. Know he’s keeping that particular card close to his chest.

You turn back to the view ahead, eyes flitting from bench to bench as you pass, catching on something in the distance. Something small, red, tucked behind one of the uniform trees. The glass sphere atop it shines in the wilting sunlight.

“Hey.” You take Joel’s elbow, dragging him over to it.

“A gumball machine? What are you, ten?”

“’s not gumballs. It’s a lucky draw. Like, toys ‘n stuff.”

“Alright, what are you, five? C’mon.”

You stay where you’re standing, crouched to look inside the glass dome at the small multicolored balls, each one filled with a tiny prize. “Joooel,” you groan, and he turns back.

“Baby, we’re gonna be–”

“You said we do whatever I want. I want a fuckin’ toy outta the French gumball machine.”

His lips widen, ready to say something back, and then he thinks better of it. You know him, and, equally, he knows you. You won’t walk away from this damn machine, no matter what he says.

“You know what…?” He steps forward, fishing in his pocket for change. “I notice I’m payin’ again, by the way. First the jukebox, now this.”

You clear your throat, lower your voice, and mimic his Southern drawl, repeating what he said in the Gucci store yesterday. “All expenses paid, baby.”

Joel lifts a finger, pointing at you. His voice is short. A warning. “Cut that.”

He slots a euro in the silver contraption and steps back, holding a hand out for you to do the heavy lifting. You leap forward, twist the lever, and a small red ball rolls down the chute, falling into your open hands.

For a man who wasn’t interested in the machine ten seconds ago, Joel leans in pretty quick to watch you pop open the plastic ball.

“A ring!” you exclaim, slipping the ruby ring from its globe and holding it up in the light.

“It’s plastic. It’s a plastic kids ring.”

You slap his chest. “I like it.”

Joel shakes his head and takes your wrist, pulling you further along the river’s edge as you survey the newest addition to your jewelry collection. It’s tiny – he’s not wrong about that – and it only just fits on your pinkie finger, but you wear it proudly as you follow him along the cobbled pathway to…

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Joel turns, smug grin on his face. “Nope!” he calls, stepping down onto the bank to a private fucking boat.

“You have a jet and a boat? Tryna kill the planet one form of transportation at a time, aren’t you, Miller?”

He snorts, helping you down alongside him. “I rented it, and you’re fuckin’ welcome. Thought it’d be a nice way to end the trip.”

“It is nice,” you concede, feeling a little embarrassed. “It is. I’m just…You said I keep surprising you.”

He holds his arm out as you step over the edge of the varnished wooden boat, wobbling a little when you land. A man in a navy button up greets you, shows you down a couple steps where there’s a white leather couch and a table, bucket of champagne sat on top.

“Damn…” you whisper, feeling Joel’s weight behind you.

“We can get back off, though, if you wanna go play some more with the gumball machine.”

You roll your head back to look at him and he smiles. Gleeful. Like a little kid.

Probably like you did, when you uncovered your ruby ring.

Different strokes for different folks.

Joel settles back against the leather couch and you stand, looking down at him for a second before he’s gesturing you to join. The boat sets off as you shuffle in beside him, leaning back until your body’s encased in his, his arm wrapped around your waist, hands interlinked at your tummy.

You lean your head back against his shoulder, watching Paris sail by, feeling the cool breeze as it whips across the surface of the river and lands gently on your face, and smelling Joel all over you. It’s peaceful. It’s quiet, and it’s still, and it’s…totally not romantic at all.

None of this should be romantic. None of it should have your heart skipping beats, praying Joel can’t feel them through his fucking coat still on your shoulders.

So why does your breath catch when he leans down and quietly asks if you’re okay?

“Yeah,” you say in a choked voice, feeling his beard scratching your ear. “I’m g–I’m good.”

You’re thankful when he gives you something else to think about, in the form of a question: “You like the view from Jean-Marc’s terrace?”

Your shoulders jerk with a laugh. “Ha. It’s not as nice as ours.”

“Nah. That assistant guy say much to ya?”

“No. Why would he?”

Joel shrugs. “No reason.”

He says it like there is a reason, though. Like your answer caught him off guard. He was expecting you to say something else.

You draw shapes in the palm of his hand. “You gonna tell me what Jean-Marc said to you yet?”

“Nope. None of your business, pretty girl.”

You smile. “He was alright, you know. Bit on the nose, but he had a cool outfit. Cool plants, too.”

You feel the rumble of Joel’s response on your back – the way his chest vibrates with the noise he makes. A typical Joel grumble, a Yeah, but also no. There’s a tension between you two, some sort of roadblock with the name Jean-Marc scrawled into it. It feels awkward, and sticky, and those are things you’ve never felt before with Joel.

His fingers are twirling the ruby ring on your finger, round and round. Your eyes fix on the way the sun lights the plastic gem, burning it into your corneas before your brain finally forces something out in attempt to break that weird wall down.

“Bet Martha hangs me out to dry for this when we get back,” you snort, “I can hear her now: Two different rings off a’ two different men!”

Joel’s fingers stop. You feel his cheek turn, his jaw brushing against the side of your head.

“Two rings?” he asks.

Fuck. Wrong thing to say. Fuck.

“I, uh…You know. That was just a joke.”

“What d’you mean two different men?”

Fuck fuck fuck.

“I meant, like…I meant…”

You sigh and sit up straight. You meant what you said before: there’s a lot Joel doesn’t know about you. One huge thing in particular, that you only happened to share with Martha one night after Joel had left the office – the two of you working late, checking off a to-do list the length of your arm and relying on caffeine to stay awake. Sharing stories and secrets in the dark office, freeing skeletons you figured you’d never have the guts to let roam in daylight.

Well, you just hammered the whole closet down. Accidentally.

“If I tell you this, it’s between us, okay?”

Joel clasps his hands. Nods once. “And Martha.”

“…Yeah, and Martha. Whatever. She doesn’t know very much about it, anyways. But no one else. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“’cause I don’t like to talk about it much.”

“Baby. I got it.”

The words are drawn from your lips like blood from a stone. They’re heavy, come tumbling out of your mouth like they’re made of lead.

“I…I was…engaged. Years ago.”

“Right.” Joel points to your ruby ring. “I got that much from the rings part.”

You sigh again. Why is this so fucking hard? It’s only Joel.

But then: it’s Joel.

“Not for long, or anything. It was a kind of high school sweetheart thing. We were together for, like, six years – all through senior year and college. Blake Carter. He studied, um, computer science. And on the night we graduated, he proposed. Right on campus, right on the quad. Had this big diamond ring, I think it was his grandma’s, or something.”

“And you said yes?”

“Well, I– Yeah, I said yes.”

Somewhere in the conversation, you’ve leaned back down, back against Joel’s body. Head turned into him, eyes scanning the riverbank, watching the buildings and the trees and the people pass by. You barely even notice until he shifts, clears his throat, and asks:

“’n then…it ended?”

“I ended it. Two days later, I…ended it,” you repeat, with a certain nod. A definite nod, like you’re still trying to convince yourself that yeah, you ended it, and yeah, it was the right thing to do. All these years later.

“Why?” he asks, earnestly. There’s no judgement in his voice, no prying. He just wonders.

“Um…” You shift now, tossing answers over in your head before you land on one that makes you think fuck it. “Just…realized I was more turned on by the degree in my hand than I was by the man on one knee in front of me.”

It draws a laugh from Joel’s lips. A laugh that vibrates through his chest, through your back, and pulls a smile across your lips.

“I was,” you say, holding back a nervous giggle, “I know that’s bad, but I was.”

“And you said yes to ‘im anyway?”

“Yeah.” You shrug. “Said yes in the moment ‘cause I didn’t wanna look like an asshole, but…well, you’re an asshole either way, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” Joel mumbles, and you almost slap him playfully. But then he says, “You’re an asshole,” with a sarcastic dryness, and you realize he’s not teasing, he’s disagreeing. Genuinely disagreeing.

You sit up again and turn to face him. “I’m not an asshole if I say no to someone asking me to marry them?”

He’s just as defensive as you are. “Not if you don’t want to. What’s asshole about that?”

“Joel, he was on his knees with a ring in his hand.”

“And you didn’t want to marry him. Big deal. I’m sure he found some other girl who wanted that ring on her finger instead, didn’t he?”

You scoff, turning away to look out over the water. He’s being blunt about it, a little uncalled for, but he’s not wrong. You tell him as much.

“He married some girl I don’t know. All I know is she works at some firm, and now they have a son. I check his Facebook every now and then. They just got back from Hawaii with his parents. He cut his foot on something at the beach.”

Joel keeps up the sarcasm. “Sounds like you’re missin’ out on a lot of fun there.”

There are a million thoughts racing through your head. More you want to tell him; more you feel the need to confess. More to justify what you did, more to explain yourself and convince him that, sure, you broke Blake’s heart, but now he has a wife and a kid, and he seems happier. And you’re happier, too, so it wasn’t that bad after all.

But Joel doesn’t expect it of you. None of it. He doesn’t make any snide remarks, doesn’t ask questions that frame it as if it were all just one big bout of insane impulsivity. Just accepts what you’ve told him, takes it in with a nod of his head, and then stops talking about it.

He’s so fucking nonchalant it drives you crazy. Everything just is what it is.

Defeated, tired, and quite frankly stunned by how little anything you say seems to bother him, you quietly stare at the water, the yellow orbs of light from the street above bobbing in the black reflection.

Then Joel takes a deep breath, squeezes your knee and asks, “Wanna go get some dinner?”

“Yeah,” you nod gratefully, “that’d be nice.”

It’s a short walk back to the hotel once you’re off the boat – back along the riverside and down a couple of small, quiet streets. Joel holds your hand the entire time and, when you complain about them hurting, carries your heels for you.

Your eyes stay glued to the sidewalk, watching your shadow as you pass under orange streetlights. Your figure, barefoot, skirt swaying as you walk, hand linked to Joel’s, his frame taller and wider, a pair of heels dangling from his right hand.

He orders room service. You vote for pizza, and within twenty minutes, Joel’s bringing it through to where you lay on the bed, already stripped down, makeup wiped off, wrapped in your bathrobe. He made you put the Bart Simpson socks back on. Said they were the comfiest ones you own, baby, he’d chuckled. They’re rolled halfway up your leg, his impish grin on full display.

You pick up a slice of pizza as Joel scrolls through the channels on the TV, eventually settling for American Pie before he lays back alongside you. You blow on the piping hot cheese and take a bite.

“Nice?” Joel asks.

“Mhm,” you reply, hand coming up to cover your mouth. “’s hot.”

He leans over and hits a switch on the wall above the bed, drowning you both in the dull dusk seeping in from outside – aside from the screen which lights Joel’s face in a pale white, like moonlight. There’s a wash of warm light creeping in from the hallway, futilely clawing its way across the walls by the bedroom door but dying on the beige surface when it meets the glow of the TV. Like the sun and the moon blending together. Like day and night mixing right in front of you.

When you’ve had enough pizza, Joel shifts the golden tray from the bed onto the floor, flopping back down on the springy mattress with a sigh. You lay back, upper arm brushing against his, cheek leaning on the tip of his shoulder. It jumps every now and then whenever something funny happens onscreen and Joel snickers. You’d be laughing, too, if you were paying attention, but Joel’s voice is still echoing around your ears.

Sounds like you’re missin’ out on a lot of fun there.

Sure. A lot of fun. Slipping that diamond ring onto your finger, and waiting for his grass-stained knees to lift him back up to you to kiss him on the mouth and say Yes over and over, and then run back to your friends and show off the ring and clink champagne glasses, and then go pick a huge, obnoxiously white dress that makes your mother cry and girls you haven’t spoken to since middle school comment on your Facebook posts –

Joel murmurs something with a laugh and your eyes find the screen again; Stifler just walked in on his mom and Finch. It holds your attention for all of three seconds, before you’re back to picturing maple trees swaying and his suit trousers stained green and thumbs on your knuckles and –

– and then meet him at the end of a ridiculously long aisle covered in rose petals, and swell with his kid inside you and raise it and convince yourself that you love it despite the puke and the piss and then stand bouncing it on your hip in an emergency room while it screams the fucking roof down, all the while your boring, bland husband has the sole of his foot sewn up after two weeks playing card games with his even more boring, bland parents and hearing about their neighbor’s new Prius and why it’s not actually any better for the environment, that’s just what the companies tell you to get their claws into you and –

“Baby, you–”

A whole lot of fucking fun.

“–okay?”

“Huh?”

“You okay?”

Joel’s sitting up. The film’s paused. He’s staring at you, eyebrows arched, hand on your arm.

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

He tugs on your arm and pulls you up to him, hand cupping your face as he studies you intently.

The sun’s setting outside, washing the sky a faded pink which dies out as it climbs higher. The city’s lights blink at you, like a million eyes peering in from a distance.

“Where’d you go?” he asks.

“Nowhere,” you lie.

“Went somewhere. You were starin’ off into space.”

“I didn’t go anywhere. I’m watchin’ the movie.”

But he’s looking from your lips to your eyes, passing across the bridge of your nose as he goes. And you can feel the heat from his body even through two layers of terrycloth, can practically feel his pulse through the huge, steady hands he has resting along your jaw. And there’s a feeling brewing in your stomach – like pain and hurt that mixes up and confuses itself for longing – which drifts further down until it’s an ache between your legs. And that feels easier to deal with, simpler to untangle. Especially when Joel’s right fucking here.

“Just…c’mere,” you breathe, pushing his shoulders back down onto the bed and leaning over him, legs parted.

You want him to fix it. Fix you. Use his hands, and his lips, and his body to make you better. Kiss away any memories of Blake, and that fucking ring, and the way his face twisted when you told him you were leaving. Do more than just kiss them away – tear them from your mind with his teeth on your skin, each mark he leaves just more evidence of your belonging to someone else, someone new.

Someone you wouldn’t recognize if you met her five years ago.

“Baby,” Joel whispers into your mouth, kissing you back as roughly as you’re kissing him. His hands come up to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as you fumble with the belt of his robe and tug it open.

His lip still on yours, he hauls the shoulders of your robe down, the curve of your breasts spilling out over the white fabric. You sit up and untie the belt, shaking it off yourself properly before you’re back on him, pulling his arms free from his sleeves and pinning them down on the mattress.

“Let me – fuck you,” you breathe, grinding your core down on his already bricked length.

Joel’s hands rest on your hips; he’s looking up at you almost awestruck. Words stopping short in his throat.

“Need to fuck you,” you repeat, cunt slipping around him. “Need it, daddy.”

“Alright, babygirl,” he says finally, hips moving in time with yours. There’s a look in his eye that makes you think he knows what you’re doing, understands every one of your thoughts and worries without need to voice them. “I got you. I’m all yours. Just – come here.”

His hands scoop under your ass, lifting you from his waist, and he tilts his chin up. Pushes on the back of your thighs, nudging you further up his body.

“Joel,” you breathe, and his fingers squeeze into your skin.

“Come – here,” he says, sterner. Eyes dark, flitting up and down your skin, settling between your legs.

You obey him, shuffling further up the mattress until you’re hovering over his face, knees digging into the cushion by his ears.

“Sit,” he instructs.

You stare blankly at him. Your body doesn’t move.

“Wanna taste you again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, eyes stuck on your wet core just inches from his lips. “Gonna make you feel better.”

He angles his jaw up again, almost like he’s desperately reaching out for your body, and this time, you meet him halfway. Widen your legs, lower your hips until his lips are on you, and you fold forward with a gasp.

Your left hand hits the mattress above his head, right lowers to grip his hair. Joel’s arms wrap around your thighs, a tight, inescapable hold as his mouth opens wider, tasting more and more of you with each stroke of his tongue.

His tongue which dips inside of you, collecting your slick and fucking you gently, soft and wet and warm. He’s groaning as he tastes you, a low moan which vibrates against your cunt and elicits a similar sound from the bottom of your throat.

You need this. You fucking need this. Need the distraction, need the attention. Need to push every thought out of your brain for five minutes, replace them with pure pleasure. Replace them with Joel.

You’re grinding, rutting against his mouth as your knees slacken, all of your weight held up by your one palm splayed out on the bed, fingers curling around the sheets as you’re edged closer and closer to your high by Joel’s lips.

His hands become rougher, moving up to hold your ass, squeezing the soft skin until he’s running his hands between your cheeks, fingers pushing on that same sensitive muscle as last night.

“Fuck–” You jolt with a gasp, head rolling back in pleasure, core rocking hard against his lips.

Joel mutters a, “’s okay, babygirl,” and cups his mouth around your clit. He nudges one finger against your tight hole, pushing in slowly, and that feeling overcomes you all over again – your body pulling him in, throbbing around him, cutting your breath short and shocking you motionless until he removes his finger.

You whine, opening your eyes and catching a hazy glimpse of the ceiling for one second before he’s inserting two fingers, tight together, drawing a loud cry from your lips.

“’attagirl,” he mumbles against your cunt, only coming up for air long enough to utter that one word before his lips are back on your clit, sucking and flicking his tongue across the sensitive bud as his fingers push deeper.

You pant, whimper a weak, “Daddy…” while Joel moves faster. “’m gonna cum,” you whisper, and you feel him nod under your vice grip, encouraging you to fall.

Your hips move in time with your chest, heaving with the breaths escaping your lips as he pulls you down harder, heavier on his mouth. He’s fucking covered – beard soaked in your arousal, swollen lips pressed against yours, moving, kissing, fucking you so good you start to feel lightheaded.

“Keep – going – daddy, fuck, yeah…”

The feeling starts between your shoulder blades. A sparkling, tickling feeling, creeping up your neck and wrapping around your body, warm and snug. Running across your bare chest, focusing on your hard nipples, and then plummeting down between your legs like a bullet, coming to a climax right where Joel’s lips are.

You scream out, your right hand forced from his dark hair to hold yourself up as your orgasm bears down on you. Your hips grind against his mouth, rocking back and forth as your body is overcome with sensation, with pleasure, with him.

Joel moans beneath you, your soaking cunt all over his tongue, giving you both what you each should’ve had yesterday, before he cut it short.

You figure he’ll never do that again. Never deprive you of it again, never deprive himself of it again. The sounds he’s making, the way his jaw shudders around you, it’s like he’ll never again be able to go a day in his life without tasting you, without feeling you contract on top of him, your sweet release washing over him like an oasis.

And you figure you won’t, either. Won’t ever stop thinking about this feeling, replaying it over and over in your mind. Your legs draped over his shoulders, his face beneath you. His hand massaging your ass, fingers curving somewhere deep inside you. Dragging your hips across his open mouth, his nose bumping gently on your clit as you come down.

Your orgasm fading into gentle ripples of pleasure, Joel slips his fingers out of you and you push yourself off of him, sliding back down until you’re straddling his naked waist again. His hard cock brushes against the curve of your ass when you settle.

“That better?” he asks, voice rough and strained. “You get what you needed?”

“Mhm,” you moan, flicking your hips and running your sensitive folds up and down his shaft.

In an instant, he’s got you in his arms, flipping you over and throwing you down on your back, bouncing on the soft mattress beneath you.

With a squeal, you take hold of his shoulders, smiling as he lowers his jaw and trails wet kisses along your neck, stopping when his lips line with your ear.

“Gonna let me do my job now, pretty girl?”

“Yeah, daddy,” you purr as he lines up. He’s so fucking turned on, so hard that you’ll be surprised if he lasts two minutes.

But then he pushes in, slow, and you realize he’s not looking just to cum. He’s not chasing any kind of high. He wants to feel you, wants you to feel him, too. He wants to really fuck you. Properly. If you were reading into it any deeper than just sex, you’d swear he wanted to answer your silent request. You’d swear he wanted to fuck the pain away.

You both groan, your wet soaking him, his thickness already pushing you open before he’s even halfway inside. He holds you steady by the hips, filling you up inch by inch, your back curling more and more the further he goes until you’re chest to chest and full of him.

You’re so tight, and he’s so fucking big, that feeling him inside you at this angle steals the air straight from your lungs. Your mouth lies open in a silent moan, your brows knitted together.

“Take it, baby,” he groans, arms scooping around your shoulders as he starts to slowly pump in and out. His expression mirrors yours. “Know you can take it all.”

“Joel – fuck – daddy – right there,” you’re whimpering, forehead stuck to Joel’s, eyes flitting from his lips to his dark lashes.

“Yeah?” he pants.

“Yeah,” you repeat, “keep doing that.”

His hips drive deeper, still hitting the same spot, same pace, only harder, with more weight behind it, sending you into a dizzy blur of pleasure and pain. He takes one of your hands in his, lifting it to pin it down on the sheets above your head; your free arm wrapping around his shoulder, pulling him closer.

Something digs into the skin around your little finger, something sharp. You hiss, craning your head up – noticing Joel doing the same – and your eyes land on your little ruby ring, still wrapped tight around your pinkie, digging marks into yours and Joel’s hands with each movement.

When your chin lowers again, face to face, he presses his lips to yours. You can taste yourself on his tongue – you and Joel, your bodies and your wet, mixing as one between breaths and whines and whispers of one another’s name. You moan into his mouth, his hips smacking into you quicker now.

It’s working – whatever the fuck he’s doing. He’s driving every thought straight out of your mind before it’s even settled. Scaring them all away, sending them back to the shadows. You’re overcome by him – the sound of him, the feel of him, the smell and sight and taste of him.

And he’s sent spiraling by you – every sound which passes your lips is echoed by Joel; your gasps filter into growls from behind clenched teeth, your whimpers translate into groans from the bottom of his throat.

His eyes stay locked on yours the entire time; whispers of praise make the short journey between your lips – ‘atta fuckin’ girl, my good girl, look so pretty like this, feels good, doesn’t it? They pass your own desperate mutterings on their way – all the places you need him, all the ways you want him to do it. Harder, daddy, faster, fuckin’ me so good.

And then you’re pulling him in in more ways than one, clenching around him, feeling him twitch deep inside you. You’re both right there, right on the other side of that thin glass pane.

“Want – to,” you pant, “to cum – together.”

Joel nods, glancing down to watch where your bodies connect, where his hips push into yours, his cock burying deep between your legs.

“You ready, babygirl?” he asks, eyes still glued to your sex.

“Uhuh,” you moan, head falling back.

“Show me,” he whispers, lifting his head and taking your neck in his teeth. “Show me how good it feels.”

The glass pane shatters. Joel takes you in his arms and sends the two of you hurtling through it.

You scream out, knees pull together around his waist, pussy clenches tight around his cock which throbs, shooting cum somewhere deep inside you.

His head falls limp in the crook of your shoulder, the moan which escapes his mouth vibrating off of your body – your name laced through a whine driving into your hot skin.

And he stays there, for what feels like hours, just lying on top of you, chest meeting yours when your lungs fill, and unsticking when you exhale. His length relaxing, still deep inside you; face still buried in your soft skin, glistening with sweat, lips pressing barely-there kisses in the curves of your collarbone whenever he musters the energy.

He’s still panting. Shoulders rising almost violently, jumping when you ghost your fingers over them. You run your nails through his hair, soaked with sweat, and massage his head, pulling another whimper from Joel’s lips. His head turns, lips against your ear, glazed eyes fluttering open to stare at the city view.

“You okay?” you ask the quiet dark.

There’s nothing between you. No clothes, no sheets, no air, nothing. The room feels huge; you and Joel feel tiny. Lost in your own little world, lying in the blue hue of the still image on the flatscreen. Feeling your hearts thrumming against one another, like they’re communicating through the walls of your chests. Like they’re exchanging words you two haven’t heard of yet. Haven’t learned the meanings of.

“Yeah,” Joel eventually whispers, voice muffled by the way his lips press against your skin. “Never been better.”

----------

Late in the morning, Joel passes you his toothbrush without a word. Without some dumb joke to go with it. Likewise, you take it silently. Rinse it once, load it with toothpaste, and flick the button. He kisses the crown of your head and leaves you alone in the bathroom.

You feel split open. Like you’re walking around with a huge, gaping wound in your chest, your heart on full display. And not just flesh and blood, but the secrets that live in there, too. Secrets that now, Joel knows. He’s heard them pass your lips. Filled in the blanks himself, the parts you held back.

You feel scared. Small. As if every head turns to look at you when you walk into every room.

The only thing that helps is…well, him.

Joel.

And that scares you just as much.

The way he leads you out of the suite and into the elevator, always first, always in front. The way his body is big enough to hide yours behind it, wide enough that you can pull yourself as close to his back as possible and sneak by anyone as though you’re one person.

He only breaks apart from you twice: the first time is outside the hotel, to help Denis lift the cases into the trunk. You linger by the open car door, staring up at the hotel building, the lion heads cast in stone watching over the avenue below. Joel calls over to you and asks if you’re ready to go, and you slip into the backseat alongside him.

The second time is at the airport, where he does the same thing. Gives your hand a squeeze and then jumps out to help his driver hoist the luggage from the car over to the jet. You slowly follow them, this time staring at the white plane in front of you and feeling yourself being slowly dragged back to real life, claw marks in your Parisian dreamscape as it’s pulled from your clutches.

Denis’s smart suit struts toward you and you feel a light hand on your shoulder.

“I hope you enjoyed your trip,” he says, as softly as he can over the rumble of the plane’s engine.

“I did,” you reply, though the nod of your head probably does better to communicate than the pathetic whisper of your voice. “I don’t wanna go home.”

He smiles warmly. His gray eyebrows lift, blue eyes twinkle beneath them. “You are welcome anytime. You will have my email address, please let me know if you are ever back in Paris.”

You return his grin, mouthing Thank you, and he taps your back once more, sending you off in the direction of Joel, who’s waiting for you at the bottom of the steps.

“You good?” he asks, wrapping a tight arm around your shoulder.

“Mhm.” You nod, and glance over your shoulder as Denis’s Maybach rolls away back toward the airport and, with it, takes every last drop of the last couple of days.

The plane cabin feels smaller, somehow. Less spectacular than it was when you were flying over here. The pristine walls feel plain, almost boring. And claustrophobic, like you’re in a padded cell or something.

You sit in the same seat by the window, Joel takes his place opposite you, and you fasten your seatbelts for takeoff. You watch through blurry eyes as Paris shrinks to nothing but shapes from the sky – roads like scratch marks in the surface of the land, the Seine you were sailing down less than twenty-four hours ago now like a tiny, winding snake.

Joel’s watching you. You know it, can see him from your peripheral. You’re deliberately ignoring the look on his face.

He leans forward and rests a hand on your knee. “You wanna go lie down?”

You shake your head, wrapping your fingers around his. “Wanna stay with you.”

“I’ll come,” he mumbles, thumb rubbing across your fingers. “I’ll come, darlin’.”

You lift your head and look him in the eye, finally seeing his expression. And it’s not one you usually spot on lighthearted, borderline-blithe, kinda-cocky-about-it Joel Miller. He looks…he looks concerned. Looks imploring, trying to work out what’s gotten you so quiet all of a sudden.

You offer him a weak smile, an attempt to convince him you’re okay that doesn’t land with him at all, and you know it. So instead, you take a deep breath and nod, and Joel instantly stands up, folds his laptop under his arm and lowers his hand to you.

You take it, letting him lead you back to the bedroom, where he pulls back the sheets and lets you climb in.

“Get some sleep, baby,” Joel whispers, and then slots in beside you, settling the laptop back on his knees and leaning over to shut the window shade. He’s mid-reply to some email from Ken. Another painful reminder of the normalcy you’re hours away from returning to.

You hook your elbow around his, press your cheek into the soft fabric of his t-shirt sleeve. Watch his wide knuckles as they move across the keyboard, typing about buyouts and dividends and other corporate words that all fade into a blur of black strokes on a white screen as your eyes start to roll closed.

The last things you remember are these: the light feeling of Joel’s shoulder moving as he types, the smell of his cologne, and the sound of your voice mumbling something to him. And then you pass out.

----------

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frannyzooey · 1 year

Text

Short Days, Long Nights: 1

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Rating: none — I’ll change it to E when we get there (slow burn, forced proximity, age gap — no age actually mentioned but rather more implied, competence kink)

Summary: Part of a band of travelers, your party is slowly picked off one by one, until there are only two of you left. Finding an abandoned cabin in the woods, you decide to make camp there until you figure out your next move. As the seasons change, the nights get longer and longer…..

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @mourningbirds1 for the incredible feedback, beta, and comments. As always, I couldn’t do it without you. Thank you also to @write-and-buried for her TLOU knowledge and constant support, and @the-ginger-hedge-witch for reading this one over and making me confront how much Joel Miller has rotted my brain 😉 Enjoy!

—

SPRING

The copse of trees surrounding you is dense, and from the overgrown path you’ve been following by groove alone, you almost miss it. A flash of muted, dingy blue in a sea of green.

“Hey,” you call to him. “What’s that?”

He turns, his features and body already taut with a practiced, ready tension and when he sees your face isn’t one of concern but rather curiosity, he relaxes. Walking over to you, he follows the line of your finger with his eyes.

At first, he sees nothing. Just a wall of clustered vegetation: sturdy trunks that hide behind branches heavily weighted with rain, the floor beneath them obscured by ferns that brush against your legs and growth that softens your footsteps. His eyes catch on something too angular for the setting and he frowns, focusing on it.

Barely visible in the distance and seen only through the filtered sunlight that catches the sharp edge: a moss covered roof. A structure, isolated like the two of you.

He glances over at you for a moment, reflexively reaching back for his rifle.

“Let’s take a look.”

Weapon out with his steps steady and slow, he approaches the cabin with a careful, defensive slink. As it slowly comes into view, you brace yourself for any type of movement. Second nature to now activate the constant thrum of self preservation inside you, you check for visible traps as you follow him, your eyes flitting between the building and the ground.

A specific sort of tension fills the air when something is close: you know that feeling now, have become so sensitive that it can wake you from dead sleep the second you feel it. Like a sixth sense forced to emerge due to evolution, you focus on it and feel none of that tension here: just the trilling sound of birds, the soft crunch of pine needles underfoot and the peaceful silence of total seclusion.

Joel catches your attention with the jerk of his head, motioning to stay close.

You approach the front of the cabin together. His hands white knuckle the gun, the butt tucked tight against the worn strap of his backpack where it curves around his shoulder and as his fingers flex in anticipation, you hold your breath.

There is a weighted beat as you wrap your hand around the knob and turn.

In the end, it’s all for nothing - the cabin you find, after roughly working the warped door open, is abandoned.

–

It’s like a time capsule in the middle of the woods.

A thick layer of dust covering everything, motes of it swirl lazily in the beam of Joel’s flashlight as you wander from room to room. His boots scrape against the floor with heavy footfalls, the two of you silently surveying the causally cozy and completely still disarray: a moth bitten handmade quilt thrown over the back of the couch, outdated magazines in a stack on the counter, cobwebbed toothbrushes by the bathroom sink. Bookshelves packed with faded spines, grime covered windows, dead plants in pretty pots lining sills.

Someone loved this cabin once.

Used to your partner through circumstance by now, you anticipate an order to scavenge for everything you can carry and then move on, so you’re surprised when he sets his pack down on the floor and lets himself fall back onto the couch. A cloud of dust bursts into the stagnant air, his hands coming up to wearily scrub his face. They rake through his damp, messy curls as he closes his eyes before laying his head back and letting out an exhausted sigh.

“This should do for the night,” he says. “Could stay until the rain lets up, at least. Be nice to sleep on something other than the ground for a change.”

You nod in agreement, rolling out the kink in your shoulder you woke up with. Your eyes drift over the exposed line of his tanned throat, lingering on the hollow just above his collar. You force yourself to look away. “Yea, the beds didn’t look too bad.”

There had been two of them, across the hall from each other and the idea of a mattress - no matter how old - had you yearning to climb into bed already. Nothing saying you can’t, you reason with yourself. Not when time is more of a concept than anything else these days but the gnawing hunger in your stomach immediately disagrees, knowing exactly how long it’s been since you’ve last eaten.

“I’m gonna go look for some food,” you tell him and he hums in acknowledgement, seemingly indifferent.

Not really expecting to find anything of substance, you feel a swoop of scarce felt joy when you discover a cache of canned goods in the pantry. A treasure trove.

“Hey Joel,” you call, wiping your thumb over a peeled, dried out label. “I think I found dinner.”

He doesn’t answer, most likely asleep given his ability to succumb whenever and wherever he can when he gets a moment and you take several, bringing them over to the counter. Brushing away the dust that sticks to the labels, you survey your choices: baked beans and peaches, two of each. Just what you would expect at a lake house.

Letting him rest and holding the beans in your hand and a spoon you find in another, you take bites straight from the can as you wander down the hallway of the cabin, looking at the pictures on the walls. Using the heel of your hand to wipe away the dust that covers the glass, smiling faces emerge from the fog. You study them one by one, slowly chewing.

They look like stock photos you used to see in stores: generically bland smiles, posed to perfection. An elderly couple with their children of various ages, a large family gathering photo, parents with children sitting between them. You try hard to picture those people here: sitting in the living room, sleeping in the bedrooms, playing outside. The concept seems too foreign to grasp, too far away to be real and you take another bite of food, pushing away the sudden unbidden reminder of similar photos you once had in your own home, now lost.

You hear the couch protest as Joel gets up, coming to pass you in the hallway. He stops for a moment behind you, looking to see what you’re staring at and when he sees what it is, he frowns. Letting a deep sigh escape him, he keeps moving down the narrow space and with his pack in his hand, disappears into a bedroom.

–

Wanting the safety of his nearness and given that it’s the only other bedroom, you set up across the hall when you’re done eating. Placing your own worn pack on the floor, you start to methodically strip the mattress, shaking out the bedding. Minimal creeping mold darkens the seamed edge of a mattress in otherwise good condition and you flip it, hoping for the best. Shaking out the pillow to make sure there is nothing hiding in it, you take the pillowcase with you, wanting to air it out on the deck now that the rain has stopped.

Wanting to do the same for him, you walk into the bedroom he’s claimed and even though he’s not in there, it already feels like an invasion of privacy to be standing in it. His pack slumped on the end of the bed a visual claim, you grab his pillow off the bed and start to tug off the case.

What does he look like, sleeping in a real bed? Does he bunch the pillow or tangle himself in the quilt? When he gets up, is there a rumpled form left behind, still warm with the heat of his body pressed into the sheets?

For all the time you’ve spent with him, the majority of Joel is a mystery to you. He gives away more than he knows, but that’s still not a lot. You knew of him back in the QZ: his broad frame a hard one to miss, his reputation even bigger and while your paths rarely crossed within the borders of those high walls, once you set out, it was hard to stay out of his orbit.

His handsomeness drew your eye initially, but it was his usefulness that made you stay in his shadow. His determination to fight for his own made you feel protected by proximity, even more so when he extended it to you.

Had to, once your group got picked off one by one.

You had been thankful, in a sick way, that he was the one that remained. The best one. The most ruthless one. A ruthlessness you admired, then revered, then thought about at night as you tried to drift off to sleep.

Without needing to sleep clothed to protect himself from the elements, does he still sleep in them, or will he be in less? If so, how much less?

Sharply snapping the pillowcase in the air, the sound brings you back to the present and you shake away the thoughts, leaving the room.

“Whatcha got there?” He’s sitting on the couch, a can of peaches in his hand and when you face him, you have to look away from the glistening juice on his lips.

“Oh, I was going to hang these outside, see if I can get some of the dust smell out.” Your nose crinkles and he smirks, taking another bite and shaking his head.

“Thought you’d be used to that by now.”

You shrug, taking a seat in a chair by the woodstove. Leaning forward to inspect it, your chair wobbles; the front leg rotted.

He nudges his chin in the direction of the stove when you open its door. “I thought about lighting it, but we better not. Don’t want the smoke showin’ people someone’s here.”

You nod, sitting back in the chair. “I can’t believe what a good find this is. There’s all sorts of stuff. I found some clothes in the closets, some more blankets too, if you need one.”

You watch him chew, his jaw flexing under the salt and pepper of his beard.

“There is more food where that came from, if you’re hungry. The pantry is pretty full.”

He acknowledges it with a nod, taking another bite and you glance towards the windows that run the length of the room. A miracle none of them are broken, thanks to the secured tarp that lined the outside.

“I think I’m gonna clean some of these and see if I can get a better view.”

“Cleanin’ the windows, doin’ the laundry. You lookin’ to move in?” His teasing tone is a dry one, and you smile, shrugging.

“Just so we can see what’s out there. In case someone comes.”

He looks at you, his eyes narrowing for a moment before he finishes the can, drinking the juice.

“Well don’t wear yourself out too much,” he says, standing with a soft grunt of pain. “We ain’t gonna be here that long. Not worth makin’ it all homey.”

He sets the can down on the counter, grabbing his bow and supplies off the surface. You watch him check his stock of arrows before reaching back to feel for the knife strapped to his belt.

“I’m gonna go see if I can find us something for dinner.” He gives you a look, his eyes quickly sliding down over your form and then back up. “Yell if you need me, okay? I’ll stay close.”

You nod, holding his eyes for a minute and when he goes, you use the pads of your fingers to wipe clean a clear circle on the window.

A creek lines the edge of the property, one that you didn’t even hear from the path with how thick the vegetation is and you watch him walk down along the edge of it for a moment, his head bowed. His hair is lighter in the sun, ruffling slightly in the wind and you keep watching until his form disappears behind the trees.

–

Searching the cabinets methodically for anything of use while he’s gone, you find them buried deep in a junk drawer, sealed inside a faded, dirty ziplock.

Seed packets. A lot of them.

“Holy shit,” you whisper to yourself, opening the plastic pouch. You handle each pack delicately, spreading them neatly and carefully out on the counter and marvel silently at the whole vegetable garden you’ve found in this tiny bag. The haul would be worth more than you can imagine back at the QZ, but the potential for it is even higher here, in this dim kitchen, with that patch of moist, fertile soil outside.

You pick them up one at a time, sorting them by recommended growth timelines and a thought takes root in your mind; the paper packets eventually gathered and put neatly back into the bag.

You let it stew the rest of the afternoon, into the evening. As the sky dims, then darkens, as he comes back with a skinned rabbit and cooks it, as you both sit in the living room after dinner, your dirty plates resting on the coffee table between you.

He’s sprawled on the couch, his arm behind his head with his thighs spread wide and the denim around his thighs is molded tight; his other hand resting limply against the inside of his thigh. When his eyes close, your eyes drop from his face to his hand, and then back up again.

“So I found something today,” you begin, and he answers with a slow drawl, content and full.

“Oh yea? Anything good?”

“Really good. Like, something really, really good.”

He opens his eyes then, looking over at you with a tilt of his head.

“Well? You gonna tell me what it is?”

You draw one of the packets from your pocket, holding it in your hand and he sits up immediately, leaning forward on his elbows to reach for it.

“Careful,” you warn, scared some will leak out of the thin, dried out paper.

“You found these here?”

“Yea, in a drawer. In the kitchen.”

You can tell by the way he is looking at them that he knows their value. His hands hold them more tenderly than you thought his hands capable of, and he flips the packet over, reading the front.

“I would kill for a fresh squash right now,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything, as he studies the front.

“Well…” you start, suddenly unsure of your idea when he brings his eyes back up to your face. It’s intimidating when he looks directly at you normally, but you feel it tenfold now. He’s always been the one to call the shots, his experience in this world outweighing yours and while you’re nervous to throw yours out there, thinking of the alternatives nudges you forward.

“I was sort of thinking this afternoon. About this place, and about these seeds.” You pause, looking away for a moment and then back at him. “About us, maybe staying here.”

He immediately frowns, scoffing to discourage the idea. “You can’t be serious. Stay here?”

Though you expected it, his immediate dismissive tone flares annoyance in you.

“Where else is there to go, Joel?” you ask, your voice gaining confidence. “Be serious. Every settlement has been a nightmare, every place we’ve tried —“

He shakes his head, cutting your argument off. “I said we could stay for a night, not stay forever goddamnit. We’re like sitting ducks out here, just waitin’ to get killed. In the middle of fuckin’ no where —“

“Exactly!” you say louder, before bringing your voice down. “Exactly. We didn’t even see this place from the road. Not even from the path off the road. Who is going to find us here? No one knows about this place, or else it would have been looted ages ago. The tarps hid it, the trees block it, the –”

“And then what, huh? The second we light that wood stove, it’s gonna give us away. Even so, what then when someone wandering down that path sees the same thing we saw, and they decide to come take a look for themselves? They are gonna see everything we have – everything you’re suggesting we start – and they are gonna kill us for it.”

He pauses, the next statement forcing you to look at the ground. “Just like we would have done if we found someone else here. Just like we do.”

You say nothing, letting the words hang in the air.

“Just —“ you pause, looking down at your hands. Flashes of the last few months play back in your mind: the hangings, the strict enforcement of rules for all made to benefit the few, the bleak apartment you live in. This mission, all the things you’ve seen along the way, all the fear and terror you’ve felt and how the only person who has ever made you feel safe since the Outbreak began is sitting right here in this room.

If ever this could work, it would only work with him.

You bring your eyes back to him, pleading. “Aren’t you tired of it? So restless, always fighting against everything. For everything you have. Aren’t you sick of it, Joel?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m just fine.” His tone is clipped, but you can tell he’s thinking. He glances at his watch, the broken face staring back at him. It’s been broken for as long as you’ve known him, but he’s always treated it as carefully as his weapons, his supplies. You can see him illuminated by the moon profile in your mind, his fingers skating around the face as he kept watch, or brushing it with his thumb to delicately keep the dirt off. Seeing your opening, you take it.

“I’m not saying forever,” you press. “Hell, I’m not even saying a month. But let’s just stop for a second. Let’s… just stop. Nothing says we have to go back there. We could be dead, for all they know.”

He brings his attention back to you and placing his hands in his pockets, he straightens his spine. “Probably will be, sooner or later, if we stay here.” He looks you directly in the eye, holding your gaze. “It’s not just the supplies they’ll take. They’ll want way more than that.”

You raise your chin, ignoring the tightening of fear in your chest. He hasn’t let that happen yet, and even if it's foolish to believe, you know he won’t let it happen. When he sees you’re not going to answer, he sighs.

The lantern is bright between you, illuminating the room in a soft glow and his deep brown eyes study you. His expression is stern, like he wants to say no…but he doesn’t.

“It’s a dumb idea.” His statement is said with resignation, but with the authority of the last word and deciding not to push it any further tonight, you stand.

“Well, good thing it was just an idea.” Glancing over at the seed packet, you chew your bottom lip while he watches your face with a frown and your voice gets softer, quieter.

“I’m gonna get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

—

He isn’t there when you wake up, and finding his bow gone, you know he’s out hunting again.

You wander over to the coffee table to pick up the packet of seeds you left there last night when you see a book facedown next to it. Like he was reading something he found on the shelves after you went to bed, and left it there.

Picking it up and turning it over in your hands, a smile unfurls at the edge of your mouth and you sit down on the couch, opening it to the first page:

The Basics of Gardening

#joel miller #joel miller/you #joel miller/reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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corroded-hellfire · 10 months

Note

Hi hi I hope you are doing amazing 💕💕

All I have been thinking about is Eddie doing his "nightly routine" with reader

I hope you enjoy this little fluffy blurb 🩷

Words: 1k

Eddie tries not to show exactly how excited he is that you’re spending the night for the first time. You’re excited as well, but Eddie is doing his best to keep it cool. The thought of falling asleep and waking up next to you has kept a permanent smile on his face the whole day. But when the two of you start to get ready for bed, Eddie finds something else he enjoys about having you in his home.

Blue toothbrush in hand, Eddie squeezes out the white minty paste from the tube. As you slip into the bathroom behind him, his eyes dart up to the mirror to watch you make your way to the other side of his body. One of your hands holds the bristles of your purple toothbrush under the water as the other waits palm up, patiently waiting for your boyfriend to hand over the Crest.

The two of you brush your teeth side by side and it has Eddie grinning around his brush. There’s nothing romantic or particularly special about the moment, but it’s so domestic. Just the two of you, silent except for the scrubbing of your teeth. Eddie’s suddenly sure this is how he wants to brush for the rest of his life.

He leans in towards the sink to spit out the mouthful of suds, and with your free hand you hold some of his curls back, so they don’t get caught in the way. After Eddie’s rinsed and spit, it’s your turn. The cheeky man takes advantage of you slightly bending at the waist to playfully slap your ass. A shriek squeaks out of you and the purple toothbrush falls from your hand and lands in the sink with a clatter. A low rumble of laughter reverberates behind you while you rinse your mouth out. Standing up, you spin to face him with a playful glare.

“That’s not fair,” you say.

“And why’s that?” Eddie asks.

“Because,” you answer, yanking the hand towel from the rack behind him, “I didn’t get to touch your ass.”

Eddie holds his hands up and turns so his back is towards you. “Touch away, gorgeous.”

“I need both hands to wash my face; gimme a second.”

“Mmm,” Eddie hums and leans against the doorframe. He crosses his arms over his chest as he watches you pop the cap of your face wash. The way your facial expressions change as you rub the foamy cleanser into your skin has him grinning. Every time he thinks you can’t get any cuter, you prove him wrong. His adoring gaze never leaves you as you rinse your face and pat it dry with the towel. You hang the towel back up and turn to face him.

“Okay,” you say with a deep breath. “I’m ready for your ass.”

Eddie laughs and flicks the bathroom light off before slowly walking backwards into the hallway.

“Come and get me then,” he goads. There’s no hesitation as you lunge at him and chase him down the hall, into his bedroom. Both of you laugh as he stops short and you collide with his back, but steady yourself by wrapping your arms around his middle and letting him anchor you.

“Baaabe,” Eddie mock whines, “I gotta get dressed for bed.”

“Oh please,” you scoff. “We both know all you wear to bed is your boxers. So, strip for me, handsome.”

“Can’t. Breathe,” Eddie gasps as you slightly tighten your arms around him.

“So dramatic.” You press a kiss to the back of his shoulder before letting go.

Eddie whips his t-shirt off and tosses it in the general direction of his hamper. The black jeans are the next to go and you manage to give his ass a good squeeze before he plops himself down on his bed.

“First one’s free. Second one will cost you.” Eddie lounges back on the bed and laces his fingers behind his head.

“What’s the price to grab my boyfriend’s ass again?”

“Now I want a strip show,” he says, smirk settled on his lips.

Rolling your eyes at the fact that he hardly gave you a show at all, you acquiesce and rock your hips back and forth as you slip off your shirt. Eddie’s eyebrows raise as the smile grows on his face. Next, come your jeans and when you slip your bra off, he’s practically drooling.

“Does that earn me the right to touch that sexy butt of yours now?” you ask.

“Baby, you know you can touch me anywhere at any time.” Eddie throws you a wink and you blow him a kiss before walking over and pulling one of his t-shirts out of a drawer. You shrug on the Megadeth tee on your way to the bed. Large, calloused hands grip your hips once you’re close enough, and he pulls your body down on top of his.

“Hi,” you murmur as you look up at him.

“Hi.” He leans down and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. The mango scent of your face wash and the mint of the toothpaste flood his senses as he holds you even closer. “I like having you here with me.”

“Me too.”

Scooting off of Eddie’s body, you lay down next to him and cuddle up to his side. With an over-dramatic groan, he reaches over and clicks off the lamp. Relaxing back against you, Eddie tugs the blankets over you both. Your eyes drift closed, and he places a soft kiss on your forehead.

“Tired?” he whispers.

“A little. Mostly just comfortable. Love when you hold me.”

Eddie’s thumb and forefinger tilt your chin up so he can press his lips against yours.

“Me too, sweetheart.”

“You tired?”

“Kinda,” he says.

“Too tired to have a little fun?” Even in the dim lighting Eddie can see the suggestive smirk on your lips.

He chuckles and slips his hands up beneath the sides of your shirt.

“Never too tired for that, baby.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfic #request

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gothicminxx · 4 months

Text

Satosugu x afab! Reader

Word count: 5.2K

CW: Angst with comfort, mentions of blood, major character death, polyamory, mentions of established relationship with Gojo, pet names (angel, pretty girl, my girl, sweet girl, etc.), instead of Y/N Name will be used instead, all around sad af

Part 2 here

Summary: Has a connection to the movie JJK 0, similar but not quite.

I think of Satosugu and I sob.

Hope you enjoy!

Twilight arrived over the horizon, painting the sky of soft purples mixed with pink and blue. Mountain tops capped off with sheets of white that sparkled underneath the setting sun. Silence loomed overhead with the subtle sounds of a breeze, the air crisp with a harsh bite. The grass is glacial from the previous snowfall a few hours ago.

But the world was covered in darkness as the giant hand that pertained to Satoru lay flatly over your eyes, sitting in between his legs on a rock. A habit that he had formed in recent years to mollify the bitter head of anxiety that crippled your body. When the thoughts began to race and the hammering of your heart refused to disperse from your side, Satoru placed his hand over your eyes. The rasp of his voice tickled your ear as he requested you focus, following his deep breaths, and hushed praises for succeeding. When the dark silence consumed the crevices of your brain it pacified the cavernous void that Suguru left behind. The reason for every apprehensive thought that consumed the confinements of your brain. A gaping hole resided in the depths of your pumping heart, one he had overfilled before-- a spilling pool of red wine: warm, gentle, and welcoming, the essence of pertaining to two lovers.

Satoru shared the absence of light with you simply by covering your eyes. He wore blindfolds to protect his six eyes, to keep the core of his energy balanced so as to not fatigue himself, he experienced the bliss of darkness daily listening to the calmness of his breath, the steadiness of his heart, and the sounds of his surroundings. It was peaceful when things seemed to spiral out of control, tensions at an all time high giving Satoru that moment to ease his mind. It was the only thing he could think to do to alleviate the strain of life that gnawed at you constantly like a tender cut of meat.

The coolness of this year's harsh winter stung your cheeks, penetrating at the surface to numb your whole face. You placed your hands on top of Satoru’s, holding it in place to increase the darkness, focusing on the environment you found yourself in. Snow that the wind carried tickled your skin, dampening it slightly as the flakes melted. The comfort of your puffy jacket and beanie kept you toasty to endure the frozen conditions, but in this very moment the cold brought you solace as you embraced the blackness. You could feel the warmth of Satoru’s chest radiate into your back like a warm blanket, the breeze that blew on the side of your face howled softly, swooshing of powdered snowflakes followed. The plateau you and Satoru sat in was desolate of noise, it calmed the erratic beat of your heart and soothed the harrowing thoughts in your mind.

Since Suguru’s impetuous departure from the both of you things had been difficult, words left unsaid with various questions that had gone unanswered. An empty spot on the bed that used to belong to him had now turned cold and desperately clung onto his scent, you and Satoru had found yourselves leaving that space open, as if he’d ever walk through the front door again and reclaim the life he once had. His hoodies still hung up in the closet, his toothbrush still had a spot in the holder, boxes of his favorite tea littered the cabinet-- you preferred coffee, and Satoru liked soda. Suguru’s things were left untouched in your home, things he left behind, and things you and Satoru held onto tightly; protecting the last bit of residue on those items.

Satoru snaked his free arm around, pressing his palm flatly against your abdomen, fingertips caressing the polyester fabric of the puffer jacket that adorned your frame. He gently removed his hand from your eyes as he felt you relax in his hold, leaning forward to rest his chin against your shoulder. The world had come back into your view, the sky had become a darker shade of blue accompanied by a few stars that twinkled. The sun had fully hid behind the snowy mountain range taking away the last bit of warmth it had offered in the winter months. Satoru had insisted on taking you far from the city today despite the ice on the roads, the sunken bags underneath your eyes had prompted worry that he could not ignore. You were the only thing keeping him sane since Suguru had left, Satoru had grown petrified of losing you too. He could sense the ugly cloud of melancholy looming over your head, the way you slouched at the kitchen table-- barely touching the food on your plate, a frown etched on your lips, and tears left to dry on your cheeks. The way you stared at Suguru’s spot in bed wearing one of his hoodies, the yearning and agony you felt all too evident to him that he had to get you away from home for a few hours.

He had always been better at tucking away his emotions so as to not worry you. But Satoru felt the same agony, the cavernous hole in his heart that felt as though a knife had stabbed through and ripped a chunk out. The bile that burned the back of his throat and left a bitter taste that it didn’t matter how many times he brushed his teeth; it remained. That each time he smelled Jasmine or cedar wood he immediately burst into tears, teeth piercing his bottom lip as he tried to mollify the dreary emotions that raked his body. Oftentimes he found himself wearing Suguru’s clothes, wrapping his arms around his own body and pretending as though it was Suguru comforting him. Satoru grieved the relationship that once was, in silence, wanting to be strong for you, the most precious thing in his life. You needed Satoru more than anything in moments where you barely found the strength to get out of bed. When anxiety consumed you like the last meal on earth, he had to be strong for you.

Placing a kiss to your cold cheek Satoru hummed, “You calm now, angel?” He held you tighter in his embrace, shutting his eyes to engrave every curve of your body, the warmth you provided as you sat in between his legs, and your scent. The trepidation he felt of losing you too was one that made him lose his appetite.

Leaning your head back on his shoulder, your eyes followed the depth of the night sky, each star glimmering like a diamond. With the darkness the cold in the plateau stung your face, your nose runny and icy to the touch, but you could only focus on Satoru’s arms, “Yes, shutting out the world always seems to help,” A small smile reached your lips, “Thank you.”

Intertwining your gloved hands together he brought the back to his lips placing a kiss there making your heart flutter. Since Suguru deserted his lovers, through the agony and stabbing wound in one's heart, you still had Satoru. The six eyes refused to leave your side even for a moment, clinging onto you as a sort of life support.

The anguish was evident in his cerulean eyes, deep purple bags had found their home under his eyes, hidden under a blindfold so as to not worry his students— to worry you. Even if a part of his heart clung onto the memory of Suguru, the rest was yours. Glowing sun of warmth that caressed his cheek, holding him tightly to always feel the ardor of your heart. Lulling the anxiety he felt with lingering kisses, fingers tangled in snowy white tuffs, and the sound of your sweet voice covered in honey— speaking saccharine words.

Even if he tried to hide from you, keeping his emotions tucked away in a metal safe— you knew, of course you saw right through him. Having the privilege of meeting Satoru Gojo years ago meant understanding every single emotion he felt. A strong intuition to sense when something was off, he never truly spoke about it, only on the rare occasion of dawn drawing near, his eyes half lidded, and voice coaxed of sleep that he spoke— tired of the torment of a racing mind. You would hold him tightly in your arms, resting your chin on his hair as he sobbed into your chest, allowing his emotions to ripple like a waterfall. He was yours, you wanted to be there as much as he was there for you.

His giant hand cupped your cheek, leading your lips to his. The kiss was gentle, slow, and filled with love, Satoru’s tongue was warm as it found yours, eager to taste more of you to have more of you— he couldn’t get enough. He held you tight, pressing against your abdomen as it bunched up the polyester fabric in between his fingers. His thumb caressing your cheekbone, kissing you was a piece of heaven; Satoru’s sanctuary. The way his lips connected to yours reminded him that you were perfect for him in every sense of the way. That you were still here with him.

Satoru pulled away, resting his forehead against yours to catch his breath. His eyes remained closed but a goofy smile was ever present, his heart thudding loudly he truly believed you could hear it, light pink dusted his pale skin, “My girl. Mine.” He murmured, attaching his lips to yours once more.

It was moments like these that you truly cherished, engraving his every word into your brain like a chanted prayer. Satoru was here to stay, he could not imagine parting from you; it wasn’t possible.

Together you grieved Suguru, the fallen angel that had big aspirations of changing the world for the better. Ideals that you could not see eye to eye on, the raven haired man swore up and down it was a world for his lovers. Even if it seemed selfish at the time he would burn down the entire world for you and Satoru. If it had meant taking the life of the innocent— the weak, for those he loved, he’d do it over and over again. But the question had always remained: Would either of you do the same?

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The sun blazed down on the asphalt in a persistent manner, the heat waves radiated off of the dark pavement that burned the soles of shoes. Summer was unforgiving this year, humid and sickly that shade did little to provide an escape. The metal bleachers burned to the touch from constant heat smacking against them, the grass seemed as the only comforting place to sit underneath a Japanese cedar tree. Strands of green sticking to your thighs that you regretted wearing a skirt, almost.

First grade Jujutsu students practiced their combat skill in the enormous field, sweat dripping down their faces after an hour of intense training. The new student Yuta Okkotsu showed promise— improving his cursed energy little by little. Satoru had taken a liking to him, a powerful curse that followed him around— killing those that harmed him without a second glance. Your husband had a soft spot for teenagers that had a tough life, a man that could come off as arrogant had a huge heart. A few weeks ago Satoru had come to you, announcing he would be pleading Yuta’s case to avoid an execution even if it meant losing his job. You could never argue with him, standing next to him as you petitioned for the young boy as well.

Training had gone as any other day, students complaining about the heat but refusing to go inside— each competitive. Satoru stood with Yaga on the far end of the field coaching Maki and Yuta, while you and Shoko sat under a tree watching over Toge and Panda. The smell of tobacco wafted into your nostrils as Shoko lit up another cigarette, stating it would help with her irritation as she wiped sweat from her brow. Your fingers found the roots of grass to slowly pick at it, a distraction from the unbearable heat that made your body feel as if it would combust into flames.

Leaning back on your elbows you sighed loudly, throwing your head back further into the shade to look at the intricate leaves— hiding from the wretched sun. “How much longer are we going to torture the students in this goddamn heat?” Shoko groaned beside you.

“‘Dunno, until one of us drives Yaga up the wall with our complaining.” You chuckled, “Knowing Satoru I’d say soon.”

Due to Satoru being born in the winter season the six eyes preferred the cold and icy snow over the blistering heat. He thrived at the first snowfall, dragging you out of the warmth of your cozy bed to admire the sheet of white. His long legs would race to the backyard without the proper clothing to handle the freezing temperatures, slender fingers grabbing a handful of snow to feel the cool softness on his flesh. He’d spend a few hours outside admiring it with childlike wonder, you would oftentimes fight him to come inside as if he were a husky— stubborn and flourishing in the snow. It wouldn’t surprise you if your husband was currently throwing a fit about the sweltering heat to Yaga.

Booming voices ricocheted from the trees in the field, snapping you out of your thoughts. Shoko’s ears perched giving you a confused glance as she licked her finger to put out her cigarette, “What could that be?” She wondered.

Together you stood, requesting Toge and Panda to follow along in case it happened to be something serious. Sweat decorated your brow as the impending heat found you, raising the temperature within the confinements of your body. In the distance a large bird bigger than a human flapped its wings, the radiant golden color catching in the sun, throwing its head back to emit a loud squawk from its enormous beak. Bodies of students surrounded the creature, tuffs of milky white hair came into view as his tall lanky figure pushed past bodies. From where you walked you could see the tension in his shoulders, jaw clenched, and fists white-- something was wrong.

The length of your legs began to take lager hurried strides, loud pounding rang in your ears from the erratic beating of your heart. Heads turned as you drew closer, wandering eyes with a look of confusion stared back at you, “Satoru, long time no see!” A silky voice called, sweet like honey, a soft melody to listen to. A voice that closed up your throat, heart dropping to the depths of your stomach, eyes stinging with ocean water because it had been so long since you had heard it. The voice that comforted you when a tough day crossed your path, made you laugh until you cried, talked you through it in moments of ecstasy, and spoke sweet nothings to you.

As you pushed your way into the circle Satoru stood taut, a white blindfold covered his cerulean eyes, expression hard to read but his tight jaw spoke for him. You followed his gaze, time had frozen still as long raven hair met your eyes, glistening in the light of the sun. A smile adorned his features as he greeted Satoru with an arm around Yuta’s shoulder, he had yet to notice you. It had been nearly a decade since you had seen the familiar face, had him in close radius. “Suguru?” Your voice barely above a whisper, cracking pathetically towards the end.

His attention drifted towards you, “Name, it’s been a while.” The smile he wore faded the moment brown eyes truly caught a glimpse of you, the sight nearly broke his heart. You looked on the verge of tears, the yearning to run into his arms was evident as your hand blindly reached out-- but you held back, taking a hold of Satoru’s sleeve too paralyzed to move. The white haired man placed a protective arm on your waist as if to challenge Suguru to take a step further to either of you. But in truth Satoru would break down if given the opportunity, trying his best to remain strong, to come off as intimidating to the man that ripped his heart open; you both knew this.

“Step away from those kids right now, Suguru.” Satoru’s voice held a stern edge, the man in front of him was the only one that could affect the usual confident demeanor he had.

Suguru held back a smirk as he slowly removed his arm from Yuta, “ I heard the first years were quite special, it seems you still have an eye for talent, Satoru.”

Your gaze was fixed on the raven haired man, it felt like a sick joke, one that your mind deemed fit as a punishment for past mistakes you had once made. He looked different than before, his hair was much longer, reaching his waist. The purple eye bags and look of misery that had become a part of him almost a decade ago had disappeared, his skin practically glowing, he looked happier-- cockier than the man you once knew. You wanted to be as calm as Satoru, to appear stoic and un-bothered but the air felt heavy, the lump in your throat had formed so thick that it was nearly impossible to swallow back. For a decade you still found yourself grieving his sudden departure, the closure he had refused to give you and Satoru, leaving nothing behind but memories and a freezing empty spot in bed. “What are you doing here?” You asked, voice hostile yet the sense of longing was still there.

He tore his gaze from Satoru avoiding your watery eyes over to his entourage, “I came to declare war,” Suguru put it simply, “Five days from now I’ll be in Kyoto, I hope to see you all there.”

“A war?” Shoko scoffed, “Your ideals truly have gone to your head.”

“I’m simply creating a better world.” Suguru’s words left a bitter taste in your mouth, like rusty metal that had sat out in the sun long forgotten for an extended period of time. He no longer sounded like himself, his voice remained velvety and yet, the disconnect of the man he used to be was immense. It had brought you back to the time you were once a student, noticing his distant demeanor with hazy eyes that he looked unrecognizable. He closed in on himself, shutting you and Satoru out. Most nights had been spent sleeping on the couch or too wired as he stayed up an entire night frantically scribbling gibberish in his journal-- ideas to cleanse the world of the weak. He refused the assistance of the comforting arms of his lovers, rejecting their words of reassurance. Suguru had lost a drastic amount of weight, the churning of his stomach accompanied by a burning in his throat that kept him away from consuming food. He had become a shell of himself until one day his radio silence became permanent; leaving his lovers to fend for themselves without another word.

Only for him to return months later in the crowded square of downtown Tokyo claiming that it was all for his lovers. The world he was creating was the perfect one for those he cared about, asking to accompany him in the journey of discovering it together, only to be met by your tears and Satoru’s anger. It was the irreparable end of a relationship.

Biting your bottom lip harshly, you could taste the tang of metallic blood on your tongue, holding Satoru’s sleeve tighter, only for the milky haired man to search for your hand to intertwine your fingers-- squeezing it tightly, he could feel your agony, resentment, and pining. Focusing on his features, you wanted to burn them into your memory, hold them close to your heart because you would be damned if you forgot his face, “I think it’s time for you to go, Suguru.” You muttered, digging your nails into the palm of your hand imprinting crescent moons in the flesh; fighting back the tears that threatened to spill as you urged the man that still owned half of your heart to go.

Silence loomed overhead as Suguru processed the words that escaped your lips; soft that he almost missed them, how desperately he wanted to ignore them to take you and Satoru in his arms and make things better. The version of him you had known before was gone, that man was no longer a part of who he truly was, the weak and strong simply could not co-exist. Why couldn’t either of you understand that for his own selfish reasons, this was all for you? He turned on his heel, sauntering over to the enormous bird, only turning his head enough to catch a glimpse of the two people he adored the most, “I’ll see you in Kyoto. Until next time.” With that the creature expanded its wings, descending in the air with the man that still held onto your hearts.

Satoru watched as the massive bird disappeared into nothingness, the stitches in his heart that had once existed ripped open-- crimson blood gushing out, the ache unbearable. Holding your smaller hand tightly he began to walk toward the direction of his classroom, a small sob escaped your lips before you tried your best to hide it but he had heard it. The tall man stopped, only to see your pretty face covered in fat tears with quivering lips as you tried to fight off dramatic sobs. “Oh, my sweet girl.” Satoru cooed, bending down to envelope you in his arms. His large hand cupped the back of your head, stroking your hair as he held you tightly. He buried his nose in your hair, a small tear falling from his own eye but he was quick to wipe it.

“I- I miss him,‘Toru,” You choked out,“So much.”

“Me too, angel, me too.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩

Dark gray clouds covered the sky, leaving Kyoto in complete darkness. The sounds of war engulfed the city with crumbling buildings, destroyed vehicles, and thick clouds of smoke from small fires that had started. The perfect distraction Suguru had created to get to Yuta, it hadn’t registered in your minds that it had been his plan to get everyone away from the vicinity of Jujutsu High School.

You stood in a medical building to assist in healing those injured alongside Shoko, gifted the same ability of reversed curse technique with the upper hand of bringing those back from the dead on rare occasions. A skill you had spent most of your life trying to achieve, it had only been possible with the help of Tengen and Satoru. The consequences of cheating death had yet to show themselves to you, bringing back countless from watery graves— a draining task that consumed most of your cursed energy for a few days, it wasn’t used often.

Crouching over a severely injured fourth grade student the grand glass door of the building opened, as footsteps scrambled to deliver another injured student you felt the familiar cursed energy of your husband. “I have to go back to Jujutsu High, he set this whole thing up. Suguru is after Yuta.” He stated, gritting his teeth.

“I’m coming with you.” The urgency in your voice was hard to miss.

Satoru could only shake his head, holding his hand up to stop you from coming any closer to him, “No, it’s too dangerous, Name. Stay here and treat the wounded.”

He was always overprotective of you, your safety had always been the six eyes priority only growing ten fold the moment Suguru abandoned the both of you. You understood, but at the same time you weren’t weak, classified as a special grade two weeks after attending school. Training day in and day out when it came to combat, craving to be as perfect as Satoru and Suguru— the two strongest sorcerers. “I don’t care! I’m going with you and that’s final.” You had always been stubborn, constantly standing your ground and refusing any form of rejection when it came to proving yourself. It was a trait Satoru adored about you, but oftentimes it drove him crazy with worry, he knew you were strong but you were the last person he had besides Megumi.

Determination painted your features, clenching your fists at your side to show Satoru you weren’t going to give up. He couldn’t argue with his beautiful wife, especially with the way you looked at him as if you would follow him to the ends of the Earth. “So stubborn.” He huffed, taking your hand before teleporting the both of you to Jujutsu High.

It was silent the moment you arrived on campus grounds the smell of burnt wood wafted in the air as you walked hand in hand. A knot formed in your gut as if it were signaling you that something had gone terribly wrong, it made you tighten your hold on Satoru’s hand. The silence was deafening as the residue of a previous battle remained in the air and grubble of buildings.

Turning the corner of vacant buildings, you could see a figure in the distance covered in crimson liquid, missing a limb, long raven hair a disheveled mess as his signature bun had come undone, “You guys are late as usual.” Suguru weakly chuckled, clutching his side.

“The students in Kyoto were under your control?” Satoru asked, though he held no confusion, you both knew the answer.

Suguru leaned back on a cement wall letting out a ragged breath, “Yes, they all were.”

Letting go of Satoru’s hand you couldn’t care less about the things Suguru had done, the misery he caused when he disappeared, or even those he hurt. Your vision became blurry with tears as you took in his condition, bloodied and bruised as he struggled to maintain a steady breath. You could not bear to listen to much more, this time you had allowed yourself to run to Suguru as you had longed since seeing him on school grounds five days ago. Not giving Satoru a moment to think as he watches your figure bolt for the raven haired man.

Kneeling in front of him your arms wrapped around his neck bringing his body close to yours, without hesitation he wrapped his arm around your waist burying his bloodied face in your neck. The smell of jasmine and cedarwood welcomed you, the scent that had always belonged to him, the one that caused a sob to escape your lips. “You idiot.” You cried into his hair, clutching him tightly, afraid to let go and discover that he was a figment of your imagination.

You were warm, skin silky soft— he had forgotten how good it felt to have you in his arms, if he was being honest with himself he had forgotten your scent, how sweet and delicate it was. “There’s my sweet girl.” Suguru croaked, after a decade of pushing away the hurt he caused himself for leaving, was finally flooding out. Trembling as he hugged you tightly, burning your scent, curves, and hair into his memory. A treasure he’d lock up and guard with his entire being.

“I can fix it, let me fix it… let me heal you.” You begged, cupping his cheeks, blood staining your hands.

“Name, you can’t.” Satoru whispered, tilting his head down.

“What?! No, I'm going to fix h-“

Before you could finish your sentence Suguru took your hand, placing a kiss to the back of it, “It’s for the best, angel.”

You shook your head frantically, sobbing loudly as you looked between Satoru and Suguru, begging to not allow it to end this way. Burying your face in Suguru’s neck, closing your eyes as if to wish to wake up from this nightmare. To wake in your huge bed with them on either side of you, each wrapped around you as they slept soundly. The harsh cold breeze flowing in through your window as it snowed outside, dreading the moment Satoru woke up because he’d drag the two of you outside. Wanting a life back that once was, when Suguru was content with the things he had, when the two of you were enough for him, just one more time.

Suguru grabbed your hand, swaying your two bodies together. Noticing the rays of sunshine bouncing off of a rather large diamond on your finger nearly blinding him, he took a moment to admire it, chuckling bitterly as a wave of jealousy flooded over him. “My love’s got married.” Suguru could only blame himself for abandoning you both, envious he wouldn’t be able to share the Gojo last name with the both of you. A part of him was truly happy for you two, moving on after his selfish act. It wouldn’t have been fair to request either of you to remain stagnant.

“In October two years ago.” Satoru smiled sadly, twiddling with the diamond band on his ring finger. Proud to call you his wife, to be the one to take care of you and cherish moments spent together. It hurt that Suguru couldn’t be a part of it.

“I can fix you… then… then we can try to mend everything. Sugu please.” You choked.

But the decision had been made for you, the conclusion that Suguru was on death’s doorstep had become destiny in the moment. Your pleas and cries went unanswered even if it pained both of the men to cause such agony for you. In the end Suguru no longer had the ability to change, too stuck in his ideals to let them go. “I still love you.” You weeped.

Suguru’s heart sank at your words, even after the crimes he had commited and the torture he had put you through your emotions remained in tact, “I love you too.” The raven haired man kisses your temple, “and I love you, ‘Toru.”

A few tears had finally escaped his cerulean eyes, “I love you too… I’m sorry.”

A flash of purple came into your peripheral vision, the ringing in your ears was painful. Time had slowed as Suguru’s muscular body fell limp in your arms, the look of horror on your face was one that Satoru would remember forever. A loud scream erupted from your lungs that it felt as though they’d rip open at the seams, oxygen became impossible to inhale as you wailed out to the sky clutching his lifeless body in your arms. “No! No, ‘Toru… no. Suguru please,” The only thing you could muster was to beg and wail, preparing to use the entirety of your cursed energy to bring back your dead lover.

But Satoru pulled you away before you could do anything, holding your flailing body in his arms as he howled alongside you. He would hold onto this guilt for the rest of his life, ripping Suguru away from your lives as he meant nothing when he was everything would tear him to shreds. Suguru had perished by his own hands, he felt like a monster. All he could do was throw you over his shoulder and listen to the heart wrenching wails that left you as he dragged you away from Suguru.

He’d never forgive himself.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

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moonisthedoor · 6 months

Text

This is a webweave for a Gerry Keay/Michael Shelley fanfic based on The Magnus Archives

I want to be home to you: The Whispering and the Reckoning web weave

for @blasphemous-lies-and-deceit <3

Elden Ring // Elden Ring // tumblr user @/s0larize (x) // In Bed, The Kiss by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec // tumblr user @/perfectlyripeclementine // Savior by Lee Hi (music video) // Savior by Lee Hi // tumblr user @/b0nkcreat // Trista Mateer // Savior by Lee Hi (music video) // The Internet Speaks Back to the Author by Phil Kaye // The Kiss by Edvard Munch // Zhenya Katava & Neus Bermejo for V Magazine, photography by Gus & Lo // Aristotle and Dante Dive into the Waters of the World by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

Image description in ALT text and under the cut.

Image ID 1: Screenshot of a notification from Elden Ring on dark grey background. White text: You have not sinned. Text in response button: OK. The button is highlighted.

Image ID 2: Screenshot of a notification from Elden Ring on dark grey background. White text: You don't need absolution. Text in response button: OK. The button is highlighted.

Image ID 3: A photo of a person holding a bottle of purple nail polish in their hands, painting someone's nails. Their shirt is black with a red graphic print on it that includes a word "love". Their own nails are the same shade of metallic purple as the polish they're holding. You can't see their face as it's cut off.

Image ID 4: A painting of two people laying in bed. They're embracing each other and kissing. The person on the left has red hair slightly past their shoulders. The person on the right has short red hair. They're covered up to their chest by the blanket. The sheets and the blanket are white.

Image ID 5: Sccreenshot of a tumblr post from a user @perfectlyripeclementine. Black text on white background: calling my lover "mine" but not in the way that my toothbrush or notebook are mine, mine in the way my neighborhood is mine, and also everybody else's, "mine" like mine to tend to, mine to care for, mine to love. "mine" not like possession but devotion. End of text.

Image ID 6: A screenshot from a music video. A Korean man with black hair and black eyes is sitting on a low couch. He's wearing a white shirt with a red outline on the collar and black pants. His legs are slightly spread. A Korean woman with black hair and black eyes is laying on her side with her head in his lap. She's on the right side of the man. She's wearing a long white dress and her hands are clasped in her own lap. In the background you can see a church altar.

Image ID 7: Screenshot of lyrics. Black text on white background: Is there such a thing as love without despair? // Where will you be taking me? Yeah, yeah // Will you be able to stay by my side // As long as I wish you to? Hm. End of text.

Image ID 8: A screenshot of a Tumblr ask. Anonymous said: "do you think it'll all be okay?" User b0nkcreat, who has a blue and a green checkmark near their username, responds: "yeah. even if it won't i've got people to love in the meantime".

Image ID 9: Screenshot of black text on white background: In this space right here that we have made for each other, [text highlighted in light blue] you can say anything and I will not abandon you [highlighting ends]. Unwrap the worst things you have done. Watch me hold them up to the light and not even flinch.

Image ID 10: Screenshot from a music video. A Korean woman with dark hair and dark eyes is in the center of the shot, facing the camera. She's hugging a dark-haired man with her right hand, looking to her right side. The man is wearing a dark shirt with white vertical stripes in the center of the back. He's hiding his face in the woman's shoulder. In the background you can see the inside of a church, an altar and reliefs of saints on the walls.

Image ID 11: Screenshot of black text on white background: tell me what you want // [text italicized] every door you enter // I will let you in [italicized text ends]

Image ID 12: A painting of two people kissing. The person on the left is wearing a dark red suit, they have black hair. They're leaning against a green nightstand. A person on the right is wearing long black dress with red outlining the sleeves and the collar. They're hugging the other person by their neck. As the two are kissing, their faces are featurless, melting into each other.

Image ID 13: A photo of two people's hands. They're holding each other by the pinkies. The person on the left has light skin and is wearing a dark blue sleeveless dress. The person on the right is wearing a dark blue dress with buttoned cuffs on the sleeves. Nothing beyond the arms and a piece of their skirts can be seen. The arms are entangled with a red string from the middle of the forearm to the tips of the fingers of both hands. The photo is framed with a digital black frame.

Image ID 14: Screenshot of black text on white background: "We have to go home." // "I'm already home. I'm with you."

#gerrymichael #web weave #webweaving #the whispering and the reckoning #sorry not sorry for so much from savior it's a song i associate with this fic a lot #anyways happy last tw&r friday!#i've had this in my drafts since October 27th :D

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yougavemeyourheartyouknow · 6 months

Text

Hellfire (Priest! Miguel O’Hara x Demon! Fem! Reader) one shot

Oooooo Im very happy about this one. Based of the song from the hunchback of Norte dame. No idea how this got to the word count it did lol. Not proofread.

Religious imagery(Catholicism specifically), questioning of faith, the lyrics of the song does contain a certain that can be seen as distasteful/offensive, reader is a demonic entity (almost like a succubus), nsfw content but no smut (mdni), semi-dub con(???) (reader trying to convince Miguel to give into her, but it’s mostly teasing touches and stuff.), cursing, mentions of hell.

(Y/N)- Your name.

Word count: 2.6K

Masterlist

—

Confiteor deo

Omnipotenti

Beatae Mariae

Semper virgini

Beato Michaeli archangelo

Sanctis apostolis

Omnibus sanctis

—

With a heavy sigh, Miguel placed his rosary and his bible on his office’s desk. Another Sunday completed, all the services for the day were finished, along with clean up and the classes for the kiddos. It was now getting dark, the sun setting, leaving a beautiful painting of pink and orange hues in the sky. The church bells struck once, twice, three times, then one last time, signifying another hour having passed as Miguel put on his winter coat and gloves, because surely,it was still snowing outside , his heavy footsteps echoing throughout the empty ancient church. He stops at the start of the wooden pews, turning towards the front and placing his right hand to the top of his forehead.

“En el nombre del Padre.” (In the name of the father.)

His hand travels to the middle of his chest.

“Y del Hijo.” (The son)

To his left shoulder.

“Y del Espíritu…” (And the holy…)

To his right shoulder.

“Santo, Amén.” (spirit, Amen.)

Lastly, he brings his hand up and places a gentle kiss on the side of it, his eyes never leaving the stain glass portrait of the Virgin Mary that hung in the middle of the top of the stage as he said the prayer, before turning back around and exiting the church, a familiar sense of dread filling his chest as he closes the door behind him.

—

Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous man

Of my virtue I am justly proud (et tibit pater)

—

Miguel couldn’t sleep, he wouldn’t sleep.

He rubs his large hands over his face, his eye bags have been getting darker lately, he’s been lacking energy, and thanks to the little sleep he’s been receiving, it was only making it harder for him to fight off the temptation of sin. But it’s not like he could have a full night's rest, not when… Miguel shook his head in an attempt to rid the vile and unholy thoughts. Maybe tonight will be different, that was the lie he told himself every night.

Miguel placed his toothbrush back into the little blue cup onto his bathroom sink, bringing up a small, white hand towel to clean off the excess water that was spread on his lips, and began to run down his chin and onto his neck.

what a delicious sight.

Once he finally finished cleaning up the water on his chin, he dragged the towel over his sink counter to clean the water he had spilled while brushing, before placing it back on its little hook and exited the bathroom, turning off the lights and closing the door.

Maybe he wouldn’t have the same problem every night if he didn’t look so tempting, only sleeping in gray sweatpants.

He does a once-over of his house, making sure all the doors and windows are locked. Before finishing stopping in front of his bedroom, freezing right before the threshold of the door. His hands go up and join together in a praying signal, whispering for protection under his breath.

Like that’s ever helped him.

—

Beata Maria, you know I'm so much purer than

The common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd (quia peccavi nimis)

—

The second he took the step into his bedroom, he felt a shiver run down his back. It felt like the temperature dropped once he walked in, he swore if he focused hard enough, he’d be able to see his own breath.

Despite his fight or flight senses screaming at him to run, he continued to venture further into his master bedroom. A simple wooden cross with golden accents hung over his bed, his eyes fixated on it. Miguel O’Hara, was a man of faith, he had to be in order to be the priest of his community’s church. He’s poured his whole life, soul and being into his religion, having been raised catholic since he was a mere infant. So why was it that every night, when he’d stared at the cross over his bed, the one that was supposed to protect him, did he start to doubt?

—

Then tell me, Maria, why I see her dancing there?

Why her smoldering eyes still scorch my soul? (cogitatione)

—

It always started the same.

He’d sleep somewhat soundly for a good amount of the night, once he was able to get his mind to stop racing.

He looked so adorable asleep, despite his colossal size.

He moves a lot, so his bed always becomes a bit disheveled, a pillow on the floor or a blanket halfway off the bed. Some light snores and some drool dripping out the corner of his mouth.

How could such a holy man be so delicious looking?

It was 3 am. Witching hour.

“Wake…”

“… up~”

“Wake up.”

—

I feel her, I see her

The sun caught in her raven hair

Is blazing in me out of all control (verb o et opere)

—

Miguel’s eyes shot open. Chest heaving as he takes rapid short breaths, his body covered in a thin layer of sweat. His eyes darting around his dark room in an attempt to find the source of the voice, only lifting his head as he did so.

He knew you were here.

Finally he finds a pair of dark glowing eyes at the foot of his bed, how did he miss it in the first place? He chalks it up to panic. A silence fell over the two of you for what felt like hours, an all too familiar sense of panic (and to Miguel’s horror, slight arousal) filled his senses. Finally, you break the silence.

“My my my… if it isn’t my favorite priest…” You said in a sing-songy tone, as you slowly climbed onto the bed, making Miguel’s stomach twist. He should push you off of him, he should banish you to the depths of hell, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it for some reason. He was paralyzed. You stopped crawling once you were fully over him. “Oh father… help me for I have sinned.” You said in a mocking tone, a shiver ran down his back once again as he let out a shaky breath, feeling your sharp fingernails trail down his chest, and stopping at the waistband of his sweats tugging at the band slightly.

—

Like fire

Hellfire

—

Finally coming to his senses, (much to your dismay) he finally pushes off you. Landing on the floor to the left side of the bed, with a small “oof” as he quickly scrambled to the over side of the bed in or to create distant between the two of you.

“Get out.” Miguel growled as he readjusted his sweats. You didn’t respond, rather, you brought your hand up to move some hair that had gotten into your face as you slowly walked around the bed and towards him. You looked how you always did when you would visit him. You could even be mistaken for a human if it weren’t for the horns, the wings and the long nails.

“Don’t act like that now, father. Aren’t you tired of this little game we play every night?” You asked with a head tilt, continuing to walk towards him as you spoke, your sentence coming out slow and drawn out, your tone nothing but pure seduction. Miguel closes his eyes as if they would deafen your words. Every step you take forward, he takes one back, before the back of his knees eventually hits the back of his bedside table, his hands going behind him to help stabilize himself to keep from falling back on top of it. “You pretend you don’t enjoy this-“

“I don’t.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Then why, pray tell, are you hard, father?” You smirked as you spoke., eyes drifting down to a very visible bulge in his sweats. “Have I finally done my job? Will this be the night you fall victim to temptation?” You said in a surprised, yet smug tone. Miguel felt his face burn up, a hand going behind him in search of something. “I will say, you do look quite handsome on your knees. I can give you something so much better to worship than God. You just have to give in to me, give in, father. Give in. Give in. Give in. Give. In.” You chant those two words like a mantra, your eyes begin to glow as you got closer, you were at arms length now. Your steps and words came to a sudden halt.

—

This fire in my skin

This burning desire

Is turning me to sin

—

Your eyes narrowed at the rosary Miguel was holding up in front of you in an attempt to protect himself from you.

“That’s not a very nice way to treat your guest.”

“You’re lucky I don’t banish you back to hell where you belong.” His words make you scoff and roll your eyes.

“Oh please, you would never. You and I both know that. Now put that thing down so I can corrupt my favorite human.” You attempted to move closer, only for him to double down. “Tell me Miguel, if you were really gonna ‘banish’ me or whatever. Why haven’t you done so already? I’ve been coming to you for a few weeks now? If you really wanted to get rid of me for good, you would have done so already. You’re a priest for god’s sake-“

“Don’t you dare use the Lord’s name in vain.”

“I’m a demon.” You deadpanned.

He hated to admit that you were right, he hated that he knew that you were. He’s surprised that you haven’t gotten bored in this game of cat and mouse yet. Every night you would appear in his room at the sametime, attempting to seduce him while he spat empty threats at you. Why hasn't he just gotten rid of you yet? It’s not like he doesn’t have the power to do so or the equipment. Maybe he was going insane, maybe he was losing it, or maybe…

No. He couldn’t.

He can’t just throw away his whole life’s work just because a demon who happened to be conventional pretty keeps pestering every night. He couldn’t allow himself to give in to temptation. He wouldn’t allow himself to be corrupted by your glowing eyes that seem like they could stare into his soul forever, or your sultry voice that made his heart skip a beat, your plump lips that would pull up into a smirk whenever you’d question him, how the say you would tilt your head made him weak in the knees- oh how he wish he could worship your body on his knees like you were a goddess- no, fuck.

“Get out.” Miguel repeated, his voice becoming tighter, his knuckles turning white. He takes a step forward, you take one back and frown. “Get. Out!”

He blinks, you're gone.

—

It's not my fault (mea culpa)

I'm not to blame (mea culpa)

It is the gypsy girl the witch who sent this flame (mea maxima culpa)

—

It’s been a few weeks since your last visit, much to Miguel’s surprise. He should be relieved, he should be thanking the heavens up above that he was finally able to extract such a vile presence from his life, he doesn’t feel a pit in his stomach when he enters his own home anymore, it doesn’t feel like the temperature in his room is 20 degrees colder than it is in the hallway leading into it anymore, he doesn’t feel like like there’s this constant ghost lingering over his shoulder anymore. So why wasn't he at peace?

Your lack of presence was almost just as unbearable. In a twisted way, he became accustomed to it. Maybe this was another of your tricks, attempting to perform classic conditioning on him. Get him used to you by the constant attention from your nightly visits, butter him up despite his protest, making his body burn up with the way your touch lingers on his body too long, the way his eyes always drop to your mouth when you lick your lips, the way the word father would leave your lips in a way that made it sound like you’ve just sinned and he was the only one who could help you reach eternal salvation again, just to pull it all away from him within a snap of a finger to see how long it would take for him to crumble. You were Pavlov, and Miguel was just the dog whose mouth started to water at the sound of a bell.

The church was empty besides himself, he was kneeling before the crucifix that was placed next to the portrait of the Virgin Mary, eyes closed, his hands folded together in a fist as he he dips his head down, nose touching his hands as he silently prayed for forgiveness for allowing you to slowly chip away at his self-restraint. He heard the large front door open, he didn’t open his eyes but his head came up as he spoke.

“I’m sorry my child, the church is closed.”

“I needed to see you though, father.”

Miguel’s eyes snapped open. He knew that voice all too well.

—

It's not my fault (mea culpa)

If in God's plan (mea culpa)

He made the Devil so much stronger than a man (mea maxima culpa)

—

“How-“ Miguel was stunned, not only have you reappeared after weeks, you were also standing inside of a church, his church. You looked so beautiful, you looked like an actual human, your nails, although still sharp and point looked more like acrylics rather then claws, you weren’t dawning your bat-like wings and your horns weren’t poking out of your hair, if Miguel had passed by you on the street, he’d be none the wiser. It only made him crack more, imagining what it would be like in a different world where there wasn’t shame and taboo keeping him away from you. Where you aren’t a soulless, heartless creature. “How’s you get in here?” He finally got the question out, his eyes narrowed into slits as he took a step back, almost fumbling his footing and tripping.

“We can enter churches if we find a weak point.” You stated as you made your way towards him, Miguel’s eyes dropped instantly to your hips, how they swayed with each step you take, his mouth went dry and he instinctively licked his lips. “I wonder what that weak point is?” You teased as you stopped in front of him, your lips pulling up into a smirk.

—

Protect me, Maria

Don't let this siren cast her spell

Don't let her fire sear my flesh and bone

Destroy Esmeralda

And let her taste the fires of hell

Or else let her be mine and mine alone

—

He don’t know how it happened, one minute he was standing face to face in front of you, then the next, you both were in his office in the back of the church, you were sitting on top of his desk as he kneeled in front of you, his rough hands wondering and running around your legs, and he planted soft light kisses all over them. In between each one, he’d whispered a small pile of forgiveness from God, but he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

—

Hellfire

Darkfire

Now gypsy, it's your turn

Choose me or your pyre

Be mine or you will burn

—

“You never told me your name…” Miguel mumbled into your skin, his face buried against your inner thigh as he looked up at you.

“You wouldn’t be able to pronounce my actual name. Just… call me (Y/N).” You cooed as you ran a hand through his hair, before bringing it down to his cheek. Miguel leaned into your touch, closing his eyes. He was completely and utterly yours now.

“(Y/N)…” He whispered the name like a prayer.

—

Kyrie eleison

God have mercy on her

Kyrie eleison

God have mercy on me

Kyrie eleison

But she will be mine

Or she will burn

#Spotify #miguel o hara fanfic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 x reader #astv miguel #astv spiderman 2099 #miguel o’hara au #miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 fanfic #spiderman 2099

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five-rivers · 24 days

Text

Cracked Clay Cup Chapter 13

@greatbigolhampuckjustforme

“Okay,” said Danny rubbing his hands together. “I’m going to do the big group next.”

“Group number four?”

“Yeah, them. Why’re there three of them, anyway?”

“You’ll have to ask them that,” said Clockwork. “Au jus?”

“Yes, please,” said Danny, reaching for the small bowl of sauce. “Your sandwiches are always really good.”

“Thank you,” said Clockwork. “Will you be leaving after lunch, then?”

“Yeah, I think that’ll be best.” Danny sighed. “No offense, but I’m kind of going a little bit stir-crazy, being inside all the time. I didn’t really realize until Pandora said something, but she was right.”

“That’s quite reasonable,” said Clockwork. “The trial has lasted for nearly a month and a half.”

“Really? I think I’ve only been with each person for about a week, and there’ve only been four people. Five, if you count the Observants.”

“Yes, but you’ve spent a good amount of time here as well. Those in-between days add up.”

“Huh. I guess so.” Danny took a bite of his sandwich. “I guess it sort of snuck up on me. A month and a half… So two weeks here.”

“Yes, but please chew with your mouth closed.”

“Oops,” said Danny, covering his mouth. “Sorry.”

Clockwork nodded and patted Danny absently on the head before making a small sandwich for himself. They ate together quietly.

“Three of them, though,” said Danny. “Are they all together, or something?”

“You will–”

“Have to meet them and find out. I know, I know. Should I brush my teeth first?”

Clockwork raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Danny. “That’s probably too much effort. But I should put in some effort, shouldn’t I?” He nodded. “Yeah. Toothbrushing. Toothbrush. One minute.”

Danny had been in a lot of places over the last month and a half. A cute little house, two mansions possessed by people with questionable understandings of humanity, a warren of ice caves, an ancient Greek palace, and, of course, Clockwork’s purple place. He’d imagined a lot of others. Like open skies, broad fields, mountains, islands… horrible mad science labs…

However, he hadn’t imagined a place like this.

“Um,” he said, looking around the… stage? Rats' nests of cables were strewn about in every direction, and next to the curtains hunting trophies were hung. Heads, horns, antlers… hair? A tail? Whatever, this was weird, and there didn’t seem to be anyone around. “Hi?” He stepped forward over a tangle of cables. “Hello? Anyone–”

“BEHOLD! I, TECHNUS, MASTER OF ALL TECHNOLOGY–”

Danny leaped backwards, to hover over the seating area, startled by the ghost rising out of the cables. The stage lights came on, spotlights centering on the ghost. He had long white hair, green skin, sunglasses built into his face, and a tattered lab coat.

Music blasted out of speakers, rock and roll, screaming guitars, thundering drums and cymbals. A young, gray-skinned woman with fiery blue hair rose up from under the stage. She held a guitar painted with blue and pink flames.

“HEYA, BABYPOP!” she shouted into a microphone that appeared in a burst of fire. “WELCOME HOME TO MAMA EMBER, YEAH!”

“Hey!” whined the first ghost. “You said I could do the introductions!”

“I never said that. You said that. I was always going to do the intros. You think I’m going to leave it to you, when you just drone on and on and on and on and–”

“As if you’re any better!”

“I come with a sound track, audio jack,” said Ember.

“My god, you two are so loud, and you didn’t even bother to introduce me,” said a deep, slightly hollow voice. Danny startled again, twisting to see a ghost completely covered with silvery armor.

“I thought you didn’t care about introductions,” said Ember. She played a quick few chords on her guitars, then continued to use her music to punctuate her words. “Because big, bad, baddie, bad, hunky, hottie, hunter Skulker doesn’t need an introduction.” She leaned forward over the guitar. “His name speaks for him!” She started laughing so hard she floated up off the stage. Music continued to blare from the speakers.

“I, TECHNUS, MASTER OF ALL TECHNOLOGY, CAN TAKE YOUR SO-CALLED MUSIC OFF THE AIR!”

“We’re not even on the air!”

“I can’t believe I’m associated with these two idiots,” said Skulker.

“I’d like to know how you’re associated with me,” said Danny, trying to smooth down his fur.

“Isn’t it obvious, babypop?” asked Ember. “We’re you’re parents! Yeah!”

“Uh,” said Danny, looking at the very strange trio. “I don’t know about the other two, but aren’t you a little… young for that?” She couldn’t be all that much older than Jazz.

“I’m dead, kiddo. Son. Boy. Little man. I was a teen mom and all that. Totally radical rockstar living.”

“With, um,” said Danny. His eyes slid back and forth between Ember and Skulker.

“Skulker, duh,” said Ember. “Techy here is Skulker’s boyfriend or whatever.”

“It’s not whatever. I am his trusted–”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“We’re all dating, except when we’re broken up,” said Skulker, bored.

“Okay,” said Danny. “So… you’re both…” He shrugged at them.

“What does this–” Technus also shrugged, “--mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Danny. “You tell me.”

“Hm, the amnesia did not do favors for his intelligence! I liked him much better before! Do you want to see the lab?”

“The lab?” repeated Danny, backing away from Technus a little more.

“It really didn’t help your intelligence. Sad! Perhaps some electroshock therapy might help?”

“Hey!” said Ember, kicking Technus’s tail. “What did we say about electrocuting the flesh baby? What did that narc say? The tall purple one?”

“I know you know that Clockwork isn’t a narc,” said Skulker.

The three of them started to bicker. Danny watched in mixed fascination and horror.

White hair on Technus. Green eyes on Skulker and Ember. Human-like appearances. A mad science lab. Jazz’s belief that Danny would buy the absurdly youthful mother story. Frostbite’s conviction that his parents were abusive. Heck, Danny could even see them meeting Vlad in college, if he fudged the ages a little. He didn’t have any idea how old Vlad was, after all.

Were these his actual parents? Like, his actual, biological parents?

“Anyway, babypop,” said Ember, throwing a hand around Danny’s shoulder, “we heard about your predicament through the grapevine–”

“Through the grapevine? Weren’t you just saying you were my mother?”

“Yeah, but I was on tour, Skulker was hunting, and Technus was… Being Technus. We were, like, estranged. Separated. Because of the whole alive thing. Fell out of touch.” She waved a lazy hand. “Anyway, we heard about the Observants putting you through hell, and we were like, that’s not cool. So, we put our names in the hat, all that stuff, babypop, ‘cause we love you, y’know? And we’re going to have so much fun. I’ll turn you into a proper rocker yet. You’ve got a great set of pipes, kid, and you’ve got to use that.”

“But first!” shouted Technus, at only a slightly lower volume than before. “The GRAND TOUR!”

Danny took back that thought about the volume being lower.

“TO THE LAB!”

Danny cringed away from Technus. This was going to be a pain.

“Okay,” said Danny, floating a few feet over the floor to avoid the wires. “We’ve seen the stage, the sound room, the… conservatory?”

“Never say that I don’t have taste, babypop. You’ve got to have a good piano in a house.”

“Yeah, then workshop, and the server room, and the lab.” Which had, frankly, been horrifying. Just a massive mess of electronics. The sense of electricity in the room made his hair all stand on end. “And the weapon room. Then the… hunting. Place. And. Um. Zoo.” Which was also horrifying, but for different reasons.

“Yes,” said Skulker, “our space may be limited, but you will soon know the joy of the hunt.”

“... right,” said Danny. “But, like, is there a… kitchen?”

“Kitchen?” asked Ember, blankly.

“We don’t,” said Skulker.

“We mostly order out, when the great hunter here can’t catch anything!”

“Can anyone… get in to order out?”

Ember, Skulker, and Technus stared at each other.

“Crap,” said Ember, finally. “Crap.”

“What?” said Technus. “It’s not like we have to eat.”

“I kind of do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. Everyone else has been feeding me.”

“Yeah, no, we’re ghosts, even you,” said Technus. “We don’t need to eat.”

“I can kill off some of the game I’ve already caught,” said Skulker, “if we really need to. I’d like you to hunt for them, though. A little extra incentive!”

“Right. Sure. Whatever. Bedroom?” asked Danny.

“We don’t need to sleep, either,” said Technus.

Fine. Danny wasn’t touching that. “Bathroom?” he tried.

“Gross,” said Ember. “Who’s spending their afterlife peeing?”

“Uh. Me?”

“Ew. You’ve got to quit that.”

Danny didn’t think that was a thing he could actually quit. He made a face. “You’re not actually my parents, are you?”

“Of course we are,” said Skulker, mechanically.

“Okay, well, that right there, that’s a lie,” said Danny. “That’s definitely a lie.”

“It’s not,” said Technus, stridently.

“Look, maybe some fighting would knock him out of his funk,” said Skulker. “Knock him right out.”

“Yeah, some of that misplaced aggression kind of thing he’s always on about,” said Ember.

Danny had no idea what he was talking about. “You guys do know that if I can’t have a place to go to the bathroom, I’m going to leave, right?”

“Maybe even a good hunt,” said Skulker. “For old times’ sake. Give him a good chase, get rid of some of that anxiety.”

Danny really hoped he wasn’t related to these three. He grabbed the pocketwatch.

“Wait, ghost child!”

“Okay, yeah, that’s not something you call your kids,” said Danny, pointing at Technus.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, you caught us,” said Technus. “Real sharp of you, ghost child! Real sharp and groovy.”

“Oh my god, you don’t know what any of those words mean,” said Ember. “Stop using them.”

“BUT!” shrieked Technus. “What you don’t know is that we’re your RIVALS!”

Danny grimaced. “What?”

“We fought you, like, a bunch of times,” said Ember.

“And… now you want to adopt me?”

“Better us than some of the nutjobs that want you. We’d just let you do your own thing, hang out, fight a bit when you get touchy about your stupid city, or too wound up about school, all that stuff.”

“But we’d NEVER make you go to SCHOOL!” said Technus. “I could teach you in the lab!”

“Wow, that’s, uh. Touching,” said Danny. “But the bathroom thing is, in this case, a dealbreaker.”

“Aw, come on,” said Ember. “At least have a good fight with us, first. Skulker’s been practically moping since you’ve been out of commission.”

“My latest hunts have been… flavorless,” said Skulker. Danny sighed. “Fine. But I’m going right after.”

#danny phantom #phic phight #phic

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