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suguann · 2 months

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FUCK IT, I WANT YOU—JJK MEN. * ˚ ✦

✎. jjk men who are infatuated with you. | wc. 2.4k+

tags. fem!reader, bsf sister, cockwarming, slightly rough sex, best friends to lovers, exhibitionism, breast f*cking, domestic nanami, pet names, praise, mild dark content, dubcon, stepcest, stuckage

featuring. gojo, higuruma, nanami, geto, sukuna

an. banner is from hare kon okawari | masterlist

↬ GOJO

He shouldn’t even entertain the thought of wanting you—somewhere in the world, there’s a book of rules that says you shouldn’t develop a crush on your best friend’s little sister.

It doesn’t stop him from letting you talk him into shopping (as if he’d ever tell you no) and watching you try on tiny, flowy sundresses that make his jaw ache, how he’s just on the side of too-weak for those low-scooped tops you’re always wearing whenever he’s at your house.

At first, Gojo wonders if you do it on purpose—the bashful smiles and bumping shoulders if he’s close by—but you’re painfully shy for that to be the case. It’s why a smirk tugs at his mouth after leaving love bites across your chest when he finally gets you alone in his room so that he might see the adorable little face you make as you try to cover them up afterward.

He has you perched in his lap on the bed with an arm wrapped around your waist to keep you rooted on his cock buried deep inside the hot-wet heat between your legs. His mouth sucks marks into your skin wherever he can reach, deep groans rumbling in his chest every time your pussy clenches down on him—a sweet reminder that he hasn’t let you move for a while.

“Toru, not there,” you squeak, fingers knotting in the hair at his nape to gently pull him away. “People will see.”

But he doesn’t listen as he rolls a nipple between his fingers, mesmerized by the sight of it pebbling into a tight peak—your thighs shaking around him when he pinches too hard.

“So fucking pretty,” he growls, biting his lip as he finally looks up at you. “Just let me play with them a bit more, and then I’ll fuck you. I promise.”

A white lie, but he’s done and said worse, and this isn’t that. This is him savoring a victory he never knew he had until you fluttered those long lashes and asked for a kiss.

You’re gasping and writhing, unable to do anything except sit there while he overstimulates you with his mouth and fingers. When he finally rolls you over onto your back, you’ve already cum twice, but that doesn’t stop him, greedy hips churning against yours and stealing another.

He sucks a nipple into his mouth, loving how you quiver underneath him, your soft socks slipping where they try to rest around his waist. “You’re so sensitive, huh, baby?” he rasps, nosing the soft swell of your breast as he crowds you underneath him.

You mewl out a broken version of his name, hot pants against his neck that make you sound so desperate—not really answering him as your nails bite into his shoulders—and he can’t get over the way you look right now, how you sound. He’ll never be able to go back to pretending that you’re Geto’s annoying little sister (as if he ever thought you were) as Gojo watches drool trail from the side of your mouth from how good he’s fucking you.

“Do you know how filthy you look right now?” he grits between his teeth. “Been thinking about this for so long—fuck—can’t believe I finally get to have you.”

↬ HIGURUMA

It’s an accident the first time it happens.

You’re at the beach, playing with him in the water, when a wave hits you and washes your bikini top away. You squeal, and because he’s your best friend and has always looked out for you, he doesn’t realize right away he used his hands to shield your bare breasts from everyone else on the beach—eyes round when Higuruma does.

It’s innocent—his intent—yet alarm bells are ringing in his ears.

He expects you to shove him away—you don’t. Instead, you give him a sweet smile with a soft, muttered thank you and let him carry you back to the towels.

He’s still reeling at how you fit perfectly in his palms, skin against skin in a way he’s only ever shamefully imagined alone with his fist around his dick. It has him shifting his trunks uncomfortably, and he wants—no, needs (a definite need) more.

Higuruma spreads you out on your towel under the canopy of the large beach umbrella, the shirt he gave you pushed up and held out of the way under your chin as you watch him. His shoulders block out anybody from really seeing how he’s teasing your nipples into his mouth—your fingers digging into the hair at his nape to keep him there.

He never thought he’d get this far after years of watching you dance around the periphery of his life without ever really being his. How seeing you like this—whimpering his name under your breath, eyelashes fluttering against the tops of your cheeks, and grinding onto his thigh pressed up between yours—only ever existed in a fantasy or two.

There’s nothing to do but watch as the lines of an eight-year friendship crumble into the sand with your soft squeaks of more, and his low groans fuck, and he can’t bring himself to feel anything other than a small flame doused in kerosene.

If this is the sacrifice for holding you and whispering sweet nothings into your sweat-slick skin, he’ll gladly burn.

He’d keep you like this forever if he could, and the way you look at him, pleading with your eyes, makes him think you’d let him if he asked (or maybe he wouldn’t have to).

He releases your nipple and smiles when your shirt falls from your teeth with a whine, your foot stomping against the towel in a way that’s too fucking cute.

“Why’d you stop?”

All the blood and heat in his body rush to his dick at how needy you sound—for him, all for him—and his breath fans across your spit-slick skin shakily, pent up and overflowing with nerves he’s held onto for as long as he can remember. “Sweetheart, you have to be quiet.”

You nod eagerly, your grip tightening in his hair to bring him back towards you. “Okay. Okay. I’ll be quiet. Just please don’t stop.”

Never.

When your leg brushes the tent in his trunks, it feels like his eyes roll into the back of his head from the contact. He greedily takes your tight, sensitive peak back into his mouth again—hardly paying attention to the wanton moans you fail to suppress as you continue grinding onto his thigh.

↬ NANAMI

Nanami stares at you more often than usual after you have his son—at how your chest fills out every top you wear, and your hips become the perfect place for his hands—a strange new obsession that develops overnight without a manual or an off switch.

One day, you’re his beautiful wife. The next, you’re his beautiful wife holding his baby, and suddenly, he’s seeing the world through a clear lens, and he can’t stop looking.

His hands are always on you just to curb the constant ache that never really fades, brushing hair out of your face, massaging your lower back, shamelessly letting them wander too close to the underside of your breasts whenever he can. Sometimes, he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and sometimes it’s all he can think to do.

Some days, after a stressful work day, he’ll lay atop your chest and pepper kisses against whatever skin he can reach, wandering, eager hands getting their fill until he falls asleep. On other days, he stays up long enough—baby tucked away in his crib and the monitor softly humming on the coffee table—to peel your clothes out of the way to get the full picture.

“Just like that, darling,” he groans, watching where you’re kneeled between his legs, unable to take his eyes off the way his leaky tip peeks out from between your soft, bare breasts.

You stick out your tongue to lick away the pearl of white drooling out of his slit, only to spit it back onto his cock to help aid your up and down movements. It has him throbbing at how messy it is, liquid-hot heat pooling in his stomach at how good it feels. He knows he’s not going to last much longer, and he’s torn on whether or not to stop you or let you keep going.

“How does it feel?” you peer up at him through long lashes like you don’t already know what you’re doing to him.

“‘Good, darling. So fucking good—fuck, keep going—pretty little wife on her knees for me,” he curses, hips shuddering when he thrusts up, watching his length disappear and reappear again and again.

The delicate smile that adorns your lips makes his heart flutter, and balls draw up to his body. “Yeah? You gonna cum, Kento?”

“I don’t—I, fuck, yes.” He’d much rather finish with his face buried in your tits, but he’s already too far gone to pull away, to shove you down onto the couch.

You hum softly. “I want you to cum on me. Please.”

That’s his final undoing, groaning at the thought of him marking those cute tits that take up his every spare thought, cumming unexpectedly in a rush of white-hot pleasure before he can stop it. His cock jerks until viscous streaks of white paint your chest, and it makes everything sticky and sloppy, sending a weak burst of liquid pleasure rushing up his spine before he slumps against the couch with a satisfied sigh.

↬ GETO

He loves it when you’re like this. Soft and pliant beneath him, eyelashes spiked with tears.

He doesn’t know where to look—can’t decide between the smattering of possessive marks littering the inside of your thighs or the ones that travel across your chest.

A decision easily made for him when he presses the tip of his sensitive cock back into your fluttering cunt, unable to tear his eyes away from how your breasts bounce with every one of his harsh, desperate thrusts. His thumb smooths over a peaked nipple—bitten raw and pinched tight—and he curses under his breath at the feel of you clenching on him like a vice.

You tell him how good he feels under a hitched breath, and his chest tightens because he can’t remember the last time someone used an adjective like that to describe him. Good. It’s weird how such a simple word can make Geto’s head spin and make him feel like anything other than the man he is outside your bed.

He ducks his head down to suck another little bruise right above your nipple, the corners of his mouth curling slightly, knowing that he’ll be the only one that’ll know it exists.

“Prettiest fucking girl I know,” he breathes harshly, already close. “I wish you could see how perfect you look.”

Geto slips his fingers between you, playing over the tiny, sensitive bud at the peak of your thighs.

“Oh.” A soft sigh.

“Maybe I should take a picture, huh? Would you let me? So I can look at you like this,” —he thrusts deep, making sure you’ll be able to feel him afterward— “all damn day, every fucking day.”

And like a tightrope snapping loose, you fall apart around him, practically choking his cock, and he fills up your cunt for the second time that night.

↬ SUKUNA

You're cleaning the apartment you share with your step-brother until it's spotless because the guy you’ve kind of had a crush on since the start of the semester is coming over today to study, and the butterflies in your belly tell you today is the day he’s finally going to ask you out.

What you don’t anticipate—between throwing away Sukuna’s collection of energy drinks on the coffee table and doing a load of laundry—is the possibility of getting stuck in the too-small dryer while reaching for a sock or that your brother would be the one to find you bent over with your shorts riding up your legs.

You suppress a groan at the sound of Sukuna's patronizing voice behind you. "What do we have here?"

"Don't just stand there, idiot," you hiss. "Help me."

He chuckles in that mean, condescending way that always sets your teeth on edge. "You're really bossy for someone with their ass hanging out of a dryer. Maybe I should leave you here and wait for Mick—”

“His name’s Mitch—”

“—to find you."

"No!" you say almost too loudly, wincing as your voice echoes around the dryer. With a small sigh, your head hanging, you add, "Please help me."

"That's better."

It's quiet for a moment, and you start fidgeting again to free yourself until you feel a pair of large hands palming your hips, and you can't stop the squeak that escapes the back of your throat—not expecting the terrible-hot-wrongness of it to feel so good.

A feeling stirs in your belly that you’d tucked away long ago, and only returning to under the safety of the baby blue twinkle string lights in your room—hand in your sleep shorts and teeth digging an imprint into the palm of your hand to hold back the name you only chant in your head.

“You’re s-supposed to be helping,” your voice wavers, dizzy with what’s transpiring in that cramped laundry room.

He huffs a soft laugh behind you, pressing a kiss to the base of your spine where your shirt rode up. “Give me a minute.”

It's embarrassing when you feel wetness pooling in the seat of your underwear, heat rushing from the roots of your hair and down to your toes when his hands travel over the swell of your ass in your tiny shorts.

You're almost compelled to tell him you’ll get out on your own because it’s the right thing to do—to put a stop to something that shouldn’t happen except in cheap porn. Then his hand comes down against your backside, hard, and every single thought in your head scrambles like an egg on hot pavement.

You whimper, the force of his slap jolting you further into the dryer, sweaty hands scrambling against the metal walls to keep your face from crashing into it.

"Fuck, I've always wanted to do that,” he breathes before tugging the crotch of your shorts and panties out of the way, and you feel something wet and slick drip against your cunt. "Maybe I'll just keep you here for a bit. What do you say, sis?"

His thumb runs along your slit and presses inside you.

“Ah. W-wai—”

“Shh. Just—fuck, so fucking tight—just let me enjoy this pussy, huh?” And quieter, “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

You shiver and swallow around the words threatening to escape: me, too.

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griffonsgrove · 4 months

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omg hello!! I saw you post those vox headcanons and wow I was literally kicking my feet and giggling LOL. I also saw you take requests right now! (at least that’s what it said in your rules) and I wanted to request something : D

could I request general alastor headcanons with a GN! Reader please ? :D

Thank you!

General Dating Headcanons | Alastor

a/n: Of course my dear!! I love how Alastor is portrayed in the series, he’s easily one of my favorite characters! I’ve been wanting to do these for quite a bit, so thank you for the request!

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Wordcount: 1991

Cw: Hazbin Spoilers, minor violence, mentions of death, murder

(PLATONIC):

Ah so you managed to capture the attention of the infamous Radio Demon? You should be honored he even considers you worth his time! Not most demons have that luxury, they never live long enough to see.

Al strikes me as the kind of guy who knows everyone, he’s very observant and has eyes everywhere (his shadow friends extend throughout the entirety of the pride ring). He’s got connections in just about anything. He’s bound to have at least seen you once.

That being said, he views other sinners as inferior to him, if you don't have any power, he doesn't really see you as much of a threat (let’s be honest even if you did, he still wouldn't feel threatened)

He’s quite intrigued when he sees a frail little thing like you walk through the hotel doors. You're here on your own free will, seeking redemption? Oh, this will be quite entertaining.

You’re well aware of who he is, having been in hell for quite some time, even before his 7 yearlong disappearance, you knew to be wary in his presence.

It often left you being timid or skittish around him at first.

The deer demon had a knack for popping up at the most inconvenient of times, out of nowhere it seems (perks of being able to shadow travel). He would scare the daylights out of you nearly every time. Whether it was intentional or not, it always got a good laugh out of him.

And that smile…He was always smiling, you can't ever recall a moment where he wasn't, not even a falter. It's definitely an intimidation tactic you think. After all, you're never fully dressed without one!~

Despite this, he’s a charmer. He has this flare about him that oozes confidence whenever he speaks with you, to anyone really. He’s able to talk his way into and out of anything. One of the many perks of being a showman. Alastor is witty, charming and entertaining to say the least. Life is never dull with him around.

And if you happen to be from the same time period?? It’ll only want him to be around you even more! Finally, someone he can relate to in this cesspool.

This man is quite the chatterbox. He looooves to reminisce about the good ol’ days, always talking about how things were in his radio days. He could talk for literal hours and not break a sweat. You’ll often have to politely interject when he rambles on for too long, not that he minds.

Did I mention he can cook too?? Really well, surprisingly. He claims he learned from his dearest mother. He had to put a name to her famous Jambalaya recipe! When you tried it for the first time your socks were nearly blown right off from how much cayenne pepper he put into it. He likes a little spice.

He's!! Always!! Humming!! The man loves to sing, he often finds himself absentmindedly humming old tunes from the 20’s as he goes about his day. Whether he’s out for a stroll, enjoying a nice cup of tea, or running around the hotel, he’s humming.

This has been stated before, but Alastor is not big on physical touch from others unless he's the one initiating it. There have been many times where he’s pulled you into a little dance or twirl while he explains something. It never fails to surprise you each time.

He’ll often use his microphone staff to push or touch something, more specifically someone. He doesn't like to touch sinners that often, God knows where they’ve been. You’ve seen him whack Angel upside the head with it before, the spider tried getting a little too close for comfort. But for you he’ll make an exception.

Very well groomed!! He puts a lot of effort into his appearance, and cares about how he projects himself to the public eye. His hair is always neatly styled to perfection, shoes shined, and is always dressed to the nines. I mean did you see how mad he got when Pentious ripped a part of his coat off?

As the two of you begin to spend some more time together, you find yourself often having little meetups, the both of you would chat, share a cup of tea and just enjoy each other’s company. He liked to sit on the patio, he had a little table, and everything set up for you two.

Alastor makes sure to keep an eye on you regularly. He may have his shadow sneak around and stalk you while you're out. He’ll use the excuse that ‘Hell is a dangerous place!’, He can't have some low-life sinner trying to harm you, that would make him a terrible friend!

Undeniably has a soft spot for you that he’ll never admit aloud, he genuinely enjoys your company and likes having someone around that will humor him and listen to his stories. Grandpa.

Overall, Al is quite a good friend to have, you feel like you can confide in him at any point, he’s surprisingly a wonderful listener. The more time you spend together only strengthens your little friendship. Even to the point where you both will grow to have a mutual respect for each other. He initially scared you at first, given his reputation, but underneath all the ruthless chaos is a true gentleman.

(ROMANTIC):

My man is sooo conflicted at first, He’ll spend hours in his den thinking about his feelings. (We’ve all seen the inside of his room, literally half of it is a swamp). The scenery can only soothe him so much as he contemplates on what to do.

This is probably where you will begin to less and less of him for a time being as he works out his inner turmoil.

But, once he finally comes to terms with these undeniable feelings, he decides to confront you privately, away from any prying eyes. Ahem Angel…

Very old-fashioned, this is where he will properly ask to court you.

You’ll never know this but he was actually kind of nervous, he was worried you’d reject his offer, but imagine to his surprise when you said yes!! He kind of felt giddy.

Congratulations! You now have a cannibalistic deer overlord as your boyfriend

He’s such a gentleman, I literally cannot say it enough, the man was raised right and he respects you!

You literally never have to open a door with him around. He holds your chair out for you, always walks on the outer side of the sidewalk, pays for every meal and is constantly giving you compliments left and right. And they say chivalry is dead.

Alastor loves to gift flowers to you. Every few weeks or so he’ll give you a new bouquet. They're different each time, some have a meaning while others he simply thought you’d enjoy. You have a special place in your room where you keep them.

Now that you’re in a relationship, the two of you are basically joined at the hip. Wherever you are, Alastor is not far behind. He doesn't want to admit it but the overlord is kind of clingy. He doesn't like being too far from you.

If there’s ever a reason he has to be away from you, he’ll often have a few of his little imp dolls watch after you. You always thought they were cute little fellas anyways.

The both of you aren't exactly private about your relationship, but at the same time you’re not screaming it out from the rooftops either. Alastor is well aware of the dangers you could possibly face due to his status. He’s made a lot of enemies in his time, and doesn't want to see you get hurt on his behalf.

That being said though, no demon in their right mind would try to threaten you.

God forbid they touch you either. They’d be ripped in half before they could even get another word out.

He's fiercely protective over you. He tries to play it off as nonchalantly as possible, but you know he cares about you immensely, it’s rather sweet really.

Now about physical affection. Things will go very slowly in the beginning, as said before he's fine with things as long as he's the one initiating it. If you two are out for a stroll you’ll have your arm gently looped with his as you walk down the chipped sidewalks. You’ll have to be extremely patient with him, he’s not used to this “love” and “affection”

If you’re ever having a bad day however, he’ll slip out of his comfort zone for you, and allow you to hold onto him for as long as you please, in the privacy of your own room of course.

One of his favorite things to do with you, is to slow dance. There's something so intimate and special about it. It could be late into the evening, when everyone else had gone to their respective rooms for the night, If you listen closely though, you’ll hear the soft hum of music coming from Alastor’s den, he has you in his arms, the both of you gently sway in a slow waltz across the room to the quiet love songs emitting from his radio. It’s here that you truly savor these private moments with him.

Speaking of music, Al loves to sing to you. Oftentimes it may be a ballad or love song, and if you join in with him? He’ll fall for you even more.

Cooking! He loves to whip up all his favorite dishes just for you, oftentimes you’ll help him in the kitchen, even if it’s the smallest thing. It's become an annual thing you two like to do together. He makes sure that you get only the best meat that this side of hell can provide.

He’ll often call you a mix of different pet names, here's a few of his favorites: Cher, Darling, Beloved, Dearest, Love, Mon Amour, Doll

Which btw on the topic of meat, Al is canonically a cannibal, he’ll often eat demon meat in his meals, and will have you try it at least once.

Admittedly has gotten slightly jealous of his own shadow. The mischievous thing was always trying to steal your attention away from him, oftentimes it would work, you would always give in and humor him, saying that ‘Even his shadow needed some loving too!’. With a strained smile, Alastor shoots a glare at the inky mass of himself, who just looks at him with a smug grin.

Will have you meet Rosie at least once. She’s one of his other closest friends, and a real sweetheart. At first she comes off as really scary and intimidating. but the more you get to know her, and she's for certain that you wont hurt her friend, she’s much more friendlier.

You two actually bond together somewhat, having little chats about Alastor occasionally, or about her business.

It’s safe to say that this man would kill hundreds if not thousands for you. You have him wrapped around your little finger. If you ever have someone bothering you, they might as well already be dead, because this man will hunt them down like prey. And eat them too.

Honestly, Alastor as a lover is nothing short of wholesome. He’s so attentive and caring when it comes to you. Which is so refreshing to see, especially coming from one of hell’s most feared overlords. Things will most likely start of slow, but if you’re patient with him, all the hard work will be rewarded tenfold. He had initially thought the Princess of Hell’s Hotel was one of the biggest jokes of the century, but what he wasn't expecting was you to be one of the best things to come out of it. You both were cast down to suffer an eternal damnation in hell, but at least now you can endure it together <3.

#x reader #headcanons #dating headcanons #hazbin #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbinhotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor the radio demon #the radio demon #alastor #alastor x reader #gender neutral reader

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flamingbluepanda · 1 year

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How to Camp for Beginners

Hello! Tis I, your local boy scout/girl scout/avid gay camper, here to give some top notch Advice™️ about camping! The season is nearly upon us and the woods are a callin' so let's get out there and be safe kiddos!

Before you Go!

Make sure you find a campsite you like and that fits your comfort level! There's ZERO shame in picking a place with cabins, public restrooms, showers, heated pools, hot tubs- whatever your looking for!

Once you pick your campsite, make sure you know the area around it- especially if camping somewhere your unfamiliar with! Example questions to make sure you know: Where's the local hospital? Where's the closest grocery store? Gas station? Are there rangers at your campsite and how do you get in contact with them? Does your campsite provide anything at all as a courtesy?

Also make sure you know the wilderness around you and prep accordingly -- if your camping in a site with bears during their non hibernating months, make sure you bring bear safe trash recepitecals if your campsite doesny provide them

Bring people with you. People you know and trust. Seriously, the buddy system saves lives. Do NOT camp alone unless you are an EXPERT and know the area EXCRUCIATINGLY well. This is also not the place to go with your new romantic partner/friend/friend or partners family -- some people are very good at pretending to be safe and getting you alone in the woods is when they stop pretending.

Pack layers. Make sure you bring at least one set of sweatpants and hoodie, bonus points if their insulated. It gets very cold at night in most wilderness locations, even in the summer.!

Bring at least one set of waterproof clothes, including rain boots and a waterproof coat.

Pack however many sets of underwear and socks you think you need to bring, then pack more. Bring an overwhelming number of socks

Bring good sneakers that are broken in but not worn out

Flashlight with extra batteries and a portable battery cube, fully charged

Make sure you have sunscreen and bugspray, your skin will thank yoi

While packing food, make sure you bring things that will last the trip in an insulated bag or cooler. Don't buy your ice until your close to your camp. Some campsites will even offer bags of ice at the ranger station!

Bring PLENTY of water. My brother always packs ten nalgenes full of water, others bring a big pack of water bottles. Stay hydrated!

If you're bringing a furry friend, make sure they are fully up to date on their rabies and Lyme shots

Pack In!

Make sure you have a full tank of gas when you arrive at your campsite

I personally like to leave my phone in my car while I camp. Bring books/art supplies/journals or whatever you do for fun -- if that's your phone and you have service, great!

Having said that, if you ARE having a technology free camping trip, pick one person in your group with the best phone and declare them the emergency phone person

Best doesn't mean newest -- your friend who hates capitalism and has a Nokia that can survive nuclear fallout should be picked over your friend with the brand new super fragile iphone

Make sure the emergency phone remains fully charged and comes with you when you leave the campsite. Most emergency calls will work without cell service, but a dead phone can't make calls

Make sure you get the rangers number! Rangers are your friends, they want you to have a safe trip and are there for all your questions!

Also make sure to respect the rules of whatever campsite you're at -- if you're on boy scout property for example, you absolutely CANNOT bring alcohol. If you're having a fun adult camping trip, make sure you know the weed laws in that state before your puff and pass.

While setting up your campsite, try to find somewhere dry, that's not located near the bottom of a hill or next to a river.

Try to find places that don't have a ton of loose rocks or dirt, but where the ground is soft enough to nail in stakes for tents/canopies

Most campsites will have an assigned area with a fire pit, but if yours doesn't, make sure you collect enough rocks to build a fire circle before roasting any s'mores!

If your campsite doesn't let you bring cars past a certain point, make sure you know the fastest and safest route to the parking lot

I cannot stress how important it is to make sure you know the emergency numbers -- if theres a medical emergency, you may not be able to get someone to the car. Rangers will have ATVs and paramedics will have the skills to get people out of situations

Make sure your first aid kit is well packed with plenty of bandaids antiseptic and gauze- triangle bandages are also a versitle tool that can help with sprains splints and holding bandages in place. Preferably bring someone who knows at least basic first aid or CPR -- if you can't find a friend with that knowledge, make sure to be extra nice to the rangers

Bring an extra large bottle of your preferred over the counter painkillers -- dehydration and too much time in the sun can cause headaches! Also nifty for twisted ankles or sore backs from sleeping on the ground.

If you forgot your tent stakes, that's okay, put a spare cooler/bag/something heavy in the center of your tent to weigh it down in case of high winds.

If you forgot your rain canopy, a ripped trashbag will work in a pinch, but be warned: it's gonna get hot as HELL in that tent

During your Trip

Sunscreen and bugspray every day- even cloudy days have high UV rays, melanoma kills

Whether cooking on portable grill or campfire make sure your meat is fully cooked.

Chopping your produce and meat and cooking them in two separate packets of tin foil makes delicious meals, plus it's easy to check how done it is

Speaking of fires, make sure you have fireproof gloves and tongs if cooking over a campfire

Zip tents if rain is predicted but believe me, tents are like fucking hot boxes, so try to get as much air movement as you can.

If your campsite doesn't have latrines/portapotties/bathrooms (and you didn't bring one) be a good friend and make sure your camp's designated potty site is down wind of your camp. Also, human droppings can attract animals, so make sure it's a good distance away

(seriously though consider bringing a porta potty they make ones for campers)

CHECK FOR TICKS!!!! CHECK FOR TICKS EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU CAN!!!

Ticks like warm, dark places, so make sure you check behind your knees, under your arms, the back of your neck, in your socks and your privates! Ladies- that includes under the boobies. Wearing long pants, high socks, or long sleeves can be a simple and efficient tick deterrent, especially in marshy areas or tall grass. Don't forget to check your pets if they came with you!

If you find a tick, get some tweezers, grasp as close to the skin as you can, and slowly but firmly pull down on the tick- remember, you want the head out. You can also use a credit card or any other dull edge to help push downward.

Wet feet cause blisters, so always wear socks and change them often. If you get a blister, DONT POP IT, cover it with a bandaid or surround it with moleskin

Hydrate hydrate hydrate hydrate, drunk water every fifteen minutes even if your not thirsty

Remember to respect the nature around you- don't go pulling leaves off trees or disturbing animal dens, stay away from pretty much any animal- yes, even deer, bucks can and will gore you If frightened enough, deer can tramble you and even the cutest little Birdy can carry rabies and other diseases.

Poison Ivy has three leaves, poison oak looks like a strangling vine, and poison sumac has berries. Make sure you know what grows in your camping area.

If you brought a pet, don't let them eat any plants!

Make sure to use the buddy system especially if someone starts feeling ill- a lot of really dangerous illnesses start out looking a lot like colds and flu

Make sure to have a bucket of water next to your campfire, and every night make sure to completely douse your fire before turning it. Splash water on instead of dumping and make sure every ember is out- remember, only you can prevent wildfires

If you brought a gas powered generator for your campsite, make sure it's as far away as possible from the fire pit. Also, they're quite loud, so maybe don't put it near your tent. Put it on the outskirts of the campsite and don't leave it running when you're not there

Pack out!

LEAVE NO TRACE!!! make sure you clean up ALL your litter, all of it, every single one. Check and triple check your entire camp site.

Make sure everyones tent poles and stakes end up with the correct tent- you'd be surprised how brand specific stuff like that is.

Especially don't leave any food items -- there's likely going to be another person filling that campsite soon, they don't need moldy food attracting critters!

If there's a sign out sheet, don't forget to sign out at the ranger station! If they had to evacuate the campsite for whatever reason, they'll need to know you're gone!

Do a final tick/other bug check- you don't need to be bringing bugs home with you! Also check that there are no critters are in your supplies -- this sounds obvious, but you'd be surprised where snakes and mice can end up.

Give your pets an extra good bath when you get home. You don't know what could've gotten stuck in their fur!

Tick/spider bites tend to look like bullseyes. If you develop bullseye shaped rashes after you get home, seek medical attention.

Most of all, have fun and be safe!!!

#camping #advice #adulting

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elaci · 3 days

Text

You need a subject for a photography submission, 'the face of sport'. Art offers one up- him. He doesn't know, however, the long-lasting effects one photo can have.

cw; consensual voyeurism, piv sex, f-receiving oral, masturbation, tennis...

Art Donaldson x fem!reader | The Rule of Thirds masterlist | talk to me!

An old tennis racket, two trophies, a signed ball, three pairs of worn shoes he couldn't bear to part with. Art Donaldson sifts through piles of memories with a smile on his face. Tashi would call it junk and insist Art gave up on what he does not use anymore if she knew it was here, hidden in boxes labelled ‘LINEN’ in the basement where the dust collects dust.

His old pair of lucky socks, an empty bottle of sunscreen, a drive-in ticket to Fast and The Furious, another old tennis racket, his last ever report card from school. Art has to take a moment to stretch his back out, being hunched over a box of old things doesn't work for long periods of time when your posture is everything. He isn't so sure what he's looking for under the dim light of a bulb that needs to be changed: a piece of himself, if he were ever that pensive.

A box of condoms with only one left inside, a toy race car he found on the side of the road after losing a match, three different lighters. The blond has a match the next day and a sore shoulder to boot- with a grimace, he pushes his hair out of his eyes. The basement feels cold and stale and Art doesn't quite know why he prefers being down here than lounging in the wide expanse of his multi-million dollar home. Tashi will be back soon and aching to go and train— maybe it's just a moment alone that Art is after.

Art throws an old neck pillow on the ground beside him and coughs at the dust it kicks up. He knows he should go back upstairs and forget about a life gone by, but when Art peers into what he thinks is a now-empty box, his eyes widen. A camera bag sits abandoned at the bottom of the box, a ribbon that was once tied around the handle lays discarded next to the bag, frayed at the edges.

Art Donaldson feels like an infidel, an apostate, as he reaches in and picks up the bag. It's smooth against his fingertips, the zip cold from its neglect, though the bag is in good condition in spite of a half decade's worth of dust and the constant use of it beforehand. It smells like something old and sweet, and Art feels perverted for even remembering a time of such struggle when his life now is so easy. The feeling makes his breath catch, and he holds the bag to his chest like it'll give him strength- the idolater that he is.

He's seen many cameras in his life, but the one inside is what he remembers most fondly, it's an old Canon with a scratched lens. Though Art is no religious man, this is an occasion that warrants a little extra faith and he thanks whoever listened for blessing his hands with the volition to dig into his past. Also in the bag is a set of printed polaroids held together with a worn elastic hair tie, though Art discards them for the moment in fear of recalling too much.

He takes the camera in both hands and turns it on, half expecting a dead battery symbol to greet his piqued attention, but instead, the screen lights up and he's looking at his spacious basement through a camera that's seen more than it should. He aims the camera into the box mislabelled 'LINEN' and snaps a photo of the white ribbon lying at the bottom. He smiles, presses a button on the camera, and waits as it loads the picture onto the display.

"Not too shabby," he hums to himself, though falls silent again when his finger hovers over the PREVIOUS button, and Art Donaldson falls victim to the sin of nostalgia.

He presses the button and is immediately assaulted with a flash into the past that burns a hole right through his stomach. There he stands, spry and grinning like an idiot with a lollipop stick between his teeth, his arms draped around Patrick Zweig, who is sticking up bunny ears on top of his head. They look happier than ever, bound by a friendship they had thought to be unbreakable. Art can't bear the sight, he presses the button again and feels nauseous.

It's the same scene, the same lollipop stick between his teeth, the same eye-slanting grin across his face. But rather than Patrick Zweig by his side, someone else hangs off his arm...

The door upstairs slams- Tashi's home. The basement ceiling shakes with the rattle of the door, and Art jumps when his wife, his wife, calls into the house for him.

"Art?"

He drops the camera, and the damned thing breaks as it hits the concrete flooring. His heart pounds in his chest as he scrambles for the shattered pieces, eyes glued on the now-dull display screen.

"Art, come on." Tashi's voice is loud enough for Art to catch as she walks through their first floor. "I want to get an hour in before we leave."

Art looks from the camera to the stairs, and then to the set of polaroids he had left unlooked at. And like a dog biting his own tail despite the pain of his own teeth, Art shoves the polaroids into his back pocket and straightens up.

“Coming, babe!”

SIX YEARS EARLIER

“If you hit my camera with that ball, I’ll never forgive you.”

Art grins, “What, you don’t trust my aim?”

You stand to the side of the court, eyes squinted in opposition to the sun as you watch Art Donaldson take a tennis racket from his bag and stretch out his shoulders. You don’t know him, not really, but you’ll vouch on any given day that the man has nice hands.

You manage yourself as he pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and hits it against the floor a few times before catching it and looking up at you, hands on hips.

“So, I just hit the ball a few times?”

You nod, “and look good doing it.”

Art snorts out a peal of sweet laughter that has you grinning in response, though when you take your camera from its bag, you’re struck with an issue.

“Hey, can I put my camera bag with your things? I really don’t want to lose it.”

Art looks from you to the bag you hold, a black camera bag with a white ribbon tied dutifully around the handle, he nods and gestures over to his belongings that sit to the side of the court, but can't help his curiosity. "What's the ribbon for?"

"So I know it's mine, everyone in my photography class opted for the same bag," you shrug. "Plus, it's pretty."

Art lets out a hearty laugh and readies himself with a few more stretches as you situation yourself, checking settings and exposure and the such. He doesn't want to distract you, but the silence between you is heavy and awkward. He wishes desperately to fill it, but words of much grandiosity fail to find their way out of his mouth.

"So, you like photography?"

You giggle at his attempt and squint up at him. "You could say that. It's a bit of an entry-level requirement for being a photographer, you know... liking it."

He laughs again, leaning back on his heels to admire the care you take with the camera, fiddling with the settings. He doesn't know you, not really, but he'll vouch on any given day that you have nice hands.

Art's tennis coach is in the midst of a hot work-fling with a professor who happens to head the photography club. She had a student lost on a subject for the 'faces of sport' submission, and Art's coach put his name forward. And here you are, now one of many who have watched him through a camera lens. He had seen you around campus on occasion, taken note of you talking to a friend of a friend- he'd have introduced himself if Patrick wasn't always dragging him away for a drink or four.

Now though, sober and grounded in his element: the court, Art can't help but let his eyes train on you a moment too long. He wonders what you see through the camera lens- a tennis player or a peer?

"Ready?" You're looking up at him with an encouraging smile and he feels his cheeks burn under your gaze as you snap a picture of him as he stands unassumingly.

"I did not say I was ready," Art points an accusing finger at you, but replaces his butthurt tone with a smile and readies himself to hit a few balls. "But I am. Now, at least."

You laugh, and Art finds himself wanting to hear it every day for the rest of his natural life. He smiles at the sound, a toothy grin he'd usually only flash when drunk or ecstatic.

You take another picture, and one more when he frowns at your antics. "You said you were ready," you shrug.

Art serves a few times, getting into his element as you photograph him. The click of your camera becomes background noise as Art works with his mind's eye and body's memory, making precise adjustments and hitting perfectly every single time. He gets into a sweet rhythm, serve after serve as he hits the balls to an empty other half of the court. You watch his form through the camera, taking each shot as they present themselves to you. All he does is play tennis, yet you find yourself eyeing something breathtaking. He's beautiful, like a piece of art with skill unmatched, but it's not his form that piques your interest: it's the look in his eyes. Focused, intent— in love. He adores what he does, the narcotic feeling it gives him, and you find you adore watching it flood his system.

Though your perfect shot, your submission picture, comes as an idea.

"Okay," your voice breaks Art's reverie, and he stops mid-serve to look at you. "I have what I need."

Art's brows furrow, "that's all?"

His arms fall to his sides, tennis ball dropping by his feet as his racket hangs loosely from his grip. He's sweaty, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. Though he hasn't done much, you blame the sun and thank it in the same regard: he looks good.

"Just one more thing," you hum, raising your camera one last time. "Smile like you did before."

"What?"

"Just do it, Art."

He likes the sound of his name on your lips and obliges without further question. There he stands like a boy on his first day of school, arms by his side, racket hanging from his grip, sweaty and squinting under the bleating sun with a wide grin plastered on his face.

And you take the photo, him to the left of the shot as an empty court fills the rest of the frame. Remnants of that elated look still shine in his eyes, you've caught the afterglow.

"That's the one," you practically jump up and down at the picture staring back at you on the display.

Art makes a face. "What? I wasn't even playing."

You have to look from camera-Art to real-life-Art to catch his frown. You smile in response and walk pointedly over to the blond so you can practically shove your camera in his face.

"Look," you offer, feeling the extra heat of his body against you when he looks over your shoulder to gaze at the camera screen. You click through photos of him playing, all basic pictures he's seen a hundred times with a hundred different players. "That's the game, hitting a ball with a racket. You look good, you're focused, in touch with yourself, that's great. But this..." you click forward until you find your latest image, the one of him smiling, "...this is the afterglow, the dopamine rush, the actual game, the face of sport."

Art is quiet. He stares at himself, his own smile. A moment passes, and then another, and you're beginning to think he doesn't see the vision when he finally breaks the silence.

"Have you ever played tennis?" His voice is barely there, loud enough for you to hear as he leans down a little, right next to your ear.

You shake your head, you know he can see it, his breath is hot on your neck.

Art stands upright. "You should let me teach you. It's a good skill to have."

You turn and look up at him, "anyone can hit a ball with a racket."

He's quick to frown, a dramatic faux hurt etched across his face, "anyone can press a button on a camera."

You're about to defend your sport, ramble about the editing process and exposure settings and moving subjects and the rule of thirds when Art's sour expression loses to his breaking grin, and you catch the hypocrisy as it's about to drip from your tongue.

Before you can reply, however, he cuts you off. "I'll let you use that photo of me... if you let me teach you the basics."

The basics aren’t so basic when you spend most of your time photographing the ball, not trying to hit it. Art is patient, laughing ceremoniously whenever you flinch at the ball as it comes towards you, clapping when you do hit, and offering you pointers when you don’t. Half of the guys at Stanford for sports would have left fifteen minutes ago when you called tennis ‘a game straight from Satan's hole’. Art just laughed.

You wonder if you weren’t in need of a subject for your submission, whether you and Art would have ever crossed paths naturally. You wonder who his friends are, what he does when he’s not playing tennis, if he has other hopes and dreams.

“Your grip is wrong,” Art calls from the other side of the net. “You can hurt your wrist like that.”

You look down at your grip on Art’s racket and sigh—there’s a proper way of doing everything in tennis, you presume. You’re about to try and correct it yourself when Art quite literally jumps over the net to your side, he’s right in front of you in only a second.

“Hi,” he huffs.

“Hi.”

Art gestures something with his hands that you don’t quite get, then takes another step closer to you before freezing. “Oh, can I touch you? To fix your stance, I mean.”

“I thought it was my grip that was wrong.”

“That too.”

You have to laugh at your fuck-ups if you want to avoid looking like an egg. You nod to Art, who moves behind you and gently places his hands on your hips. He guides your body, slender fingers splayed over your waist, into a position that feels unnatural yet somewhat powerful. With a gentle nudge of his foot between your legs, he parts them and pushes one slightly forward.

“That’s good,” his voice hits your ears in waves, and you feel the tingle of goosebumps creep up along your arm. “Now your grip."

Art Donaldson slides his hands down your arms, taking each of your wrists in each of his hands and readjusts your grip on the handle of the racket, one hand above the other.

You stare at the ground, and he clears his throat quietly. “Like this.”

He brings both of his hands down to cup around yours and pulls your arms up as he swings your arms back and forth, the movement fluid. in demonstration of the godforsaken 'proper technique'. Your back is pressed right against his front, his chest flush against your back and the ridges of his stomach brushing against the line of your spine. Your heart races, and though you're sure he hears it, it's drowned out by the pounding of blood throughout your head as you focus on each movement of his hands, on his words, and on his voice.

"There we go," he nods, his mess of blond hair brushing against your neck as he dips his head down, presumably to check your footing. Your body shudders as he whispers, "Good job," and his mouth tickles the shell of your ear before he releases you. The world seems to tilt, no longer relying on Art for balance. You're surprised the racket doesn't fall from your grasp when he steps back, though with the loss of contact, your knees feel weak enough to collapse. As it stands, though, you're still standing, and Art is beaming down at you like he's just taught a puppy a new trick.

"So, what'd you think?" he asks.

You tilt your head in question.

Art smiles wider, "is it easier than pressing a button on a camera?"

"Oh, so you're an asshole," a bemused smile crawls across your lips.

He snorts, "Maybe."

Your laughter dies away as a strange sort of melancholy seeps in. You're suddenly aware of how far apart you two are, the space between your bodies, the lack of physical contact. Art notices, and gives a soft laugh of his own, a lighthearted chuckle that breaks the eerie need to replace the warmth of the sun with the warmth of each other.

"So," Art crosses his arms. "Now you just have to learn how to hit the ball."

"Ha ha ha," you verbalise, straight-lipped and eyebrows furrowed. "Maybe next time, hot shot."

"Next time?" Art's reply is quick. "So you'll let me keep teaching you?"

You smile at him, "No, I was lying to be polite."

It's Art's turn to act unimpressed, but you see him bite back a grin. He lets out a stressed-short laugh that turns into a huff at the end. "You're so funny."

"I know."

"Will you show me the photo once it's printed?"

It takes you a moment to realise he's being serious.

"Huh?" you ask, looking up.

Art's eyes are wide, and he raises an eyebrow. "Can I have your phone number?" he clarifies.

You open your mouth to object, to tell him no- you don't give your number to random boys you've just met, but instead, the corners of your mouth twitch upward and you're suddenly typing your number into Art's phone and saving your name with a smiley face next to it. Art smiles at the gesture and pockets his phone. There's a moment of silence shared between you, an unassuming silence that's more comfortable than it is awkward, but a silence nonetheless.

A silence broken by the loud echoing voice of another boy calling out from the far side of the courts- a brunette with curls that are more defined than Arts, that's the most you can make of him as he calls to the blond by your side, waving his arms above his head and then gesturing to his wrist like he's tapping a watch.

"Oh, shit," Art pulls his phone back out to check the time. "Fuck, sorry, I have to go."

You shrug, smiling. "It's fine, thanks for giving up some of your time."

Art smiles back, thanking you in turn for putting up with his tennis brain, then hurries to grab his things and race away in the direction of his friend. For a few seconds, all you can do is stand there dumbly watching his retreating form until he reaches his friend, who nudges Art and looks over his shoulder at you before the pair of them disappear around the corner leading back towards campus.

It's not until they're out of eyeshot that you turn to grab your camera bag, just to be greeted by an empty space where you had left it. Your heart drops for a moment, the thought of losing your camera a soul-crushing one. You remember, though, tucking it away with Art's stuff for safekeeping. He must have grabbed it in his rush to leave.

You exhale, running a hand over your forehead. Well fuck.

Art Donaldsons dorm room number plays on a loop in your head that night. He had texted you as promised, with a simple ‘I HAVE YOUR CAMERA!’ along with an easy ‘COME TO MY DORM I HAVE BEER’

It had taken him another ten minutes to realise you’d have no clue where his dorm was, and send through his dorm number. You had debated sending him a text back, telling him to meet you tomorrow on campus to hand over the camera, but your submission deadline is the next night and you need time to edit, decide you hate your prospective career as a photographer, and then fall in love with the process all over again.

You roam the halls of the boys' dorms for a few minutes, eyeing door numbers until you find his. Some doors are left ajar, some wide open and sporting odours so bad you curse God for giving you a sense of smell. You finally find Art’s door, and double check the number twice before knocking, despite a tennis ball sticker just above the door handle.

There's a little rustling inside when you knock, but his voice calls out clearly. "Come in!"

When you open the door, you're greeted not by Art Donaldson, but by the blinding flash of your own camera. You blink away the stun to find Art grinning at the display, admiring his handiwork as an amateur photographer. He turns your camera in his hands to show you to yourself, startled and wide-eyed in a half-blurred photo: Art's finger covers a corner of the frame too, it must have been over the lens.

"I think I'm a natural," he bites his tongue cheekily as he hands you your camera back. You check it over, out of habit more than mistrust of Art, and he pushes his door wide open to reveal the dorm room in all its college-student glory. It's not large by any means, but it has everything you could ever possibly want and then some, plus an impressive collection of sports memorabilia from past years and awards displayed in frames on the walls. Your camera bag is sitting on his bed, and Art gestures you towards it with a smile.

"Sorry," he spins around and opens a little cooler sitting on his floor, pulling out two beer cans from inside and offering you one. "I didn't realise I had picked it up. Were you okay without it?"

You take the beer with a 'thanks' and pat the small shoulder bag you wear. You lift the flap open to reveal a little Polaroid camera, an old one you barely use anymore. "Had to pull this off the shelf," you say. "But yeah, it should be good now."

"That's good," Art nods as you pop the top of your beer.

You sit on the edge of his bed while he takes a sip of his beer, staring at you. You notice a slight flush to his cheeks and wonder if he's a few drinks ahead of you. You can't help but laugh, leaning forward as you rest your elbows on your thighs. "Why am I here, Art?"

He frowns, looking down at you from where he stands, leaning against his countertop. "To pick up your camera?"

"You could have met me with it tomorrow. It's..." you glance at the alarm clock beside his bed, "nearly midnight."

He blinks and laughs sheepishly at you, scratching behind his neck. "Yeah, about that... I guess I just wanted to see you again?"

"Oh," you lean back and purse your lips in surprise, glancing from Art and the beautiful nervous look on his face to the beer he holds in a tight grip.

Art laughs softly, "Are you freaked out?"

"No," you shake your head quickly, "I'm not freaked out, Art."

Art chuckles lightly at that, his smile widening as his blush deepens. "Okay," he breathes out before he takes another sip of his beer and moves to sit beside you on the bed. It dips under his weight, almost pulling you closer into him, though he leaves enough space to remain respectable. His eyes seem darker now, more focused, even though his expression remains soft and pleasant. His gaze lingers on your face for a while before he opens his mouth to speak. "You said earlier, on the court, that the photo you took was the real face of sport. You're good, huh?"

"I'd like to think so," you smile fondly, gaze flitting from his lips to his eyes.

"Are you in love with it?"

You hum, "with photography?"

Art's eyes flick up to your eyes. His gaze is intense, not in a scary way, but something more playful and inviting. He nods.

"I love it, sure," you nod, situating yourself to sit more comfortably on Art’s bed. "Are you in love with tennis?"

Art nods, taking a longer drink from his beer. "Yes."

Your brow furrows and you raise an eyebrow. "I didn't know. You seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole 'look at me, I'm a tennis player' thing, actually."

His face splits in a toothy grin. "I'm humble."

You giggle quietly at that, and stare at him for a couple of seconds, studying his face, taking in every little detail. His hair, his eyes, the faintest hint of stubble on his jawline and chin, his smile, and the dimples on each cheek that said smile brings out. There are traces of dark circles underneath his eyes, you realise, and they're highlighted when his pupils expand slightly at your laughter.

You feel warm, and not from the alcohol that sits inside your stomach. The both of you place down your beers, and Art Donaldson, who may well have a girlfriend and dirtied intentions, takes in a deep breath before asking you lowly, "Can I kiss you?"

The word 'please' escapes your lips before you can stop it and the red tint in Art's ears deepens. You bite the insides of your cheeks nervously, waiting for Art to speak again, but he doesn't, and suddenly his hand is at the nape of your neck, tugging you forwards and pressing his lips to yours in a hungry, desperate manner.

As he starts moving slowly, his tongue darts out and traces the curve of your bottom lip as he pulls you further into him, the taste of his beer lingering on his lips making the gesture feel all the more enticing. A hand cups your jaw, slender fingers trailing down your neck in sensual exploration of your exposed body before his other hand rests on the small of your back and he draws you even closer until the heat radiating off himself feels almost unbearable on your skin.

There's no hesitation, no awkward pauses, or second-guessing, you find yourself melting against his body instinctively. A narcotic, he is, the way he smells and tastes and sounds and touches, and there's only so much you can handle before it overwhelms your senses completely. The kiss itself isn't that hot, it's chaste and messy and your teeth click against his in the desperation of it all, but it fills you with something unfamiliar, makes you feel lightheaded and dizzy and yearning wholeheartedly for more. You don't care how little you know him, you don't mind the lack of foreplay; you just feel overwhelmed and need more, you need more than just his lips on yours.

He practically whimpers when you pull back, his hands sliding down to hold onto your hips possessively. Sad eyes meet yours at the loss of your taste, but you brush off his worry easily, running your thumb across his cheekbone as he leans into your touch, breathing in and out heavily through his nose as if you are his only source of breath, and the sight causes a knot to form in your stomach.

"You are single, right?" your kiss-swollen lips whisper against his and you feel him exhale.

"Yes," he speaks against your mouth, a husky sound that makes your heart ache.

"Good."

You kiss him again, more fervently, letting your tongue tangle with his as his arm wraps around you tightly. Before you know it, Art has your back against his mattress and is hovering over you, hands gliding swiftly under your shirt. You aid him in getting it over your head and watch as he follows suit, pulling off his own shirt and tossing it to the floor in dismissal. He slides down his shorts and leaves himself in a pair of blue boxers that you already notice are tenting.

You take a moment, you have to, to appreciate the sculpt of Art’s body—the muscled planes of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders. His face is flushed, hair mussed and unkempt, lips swollen and kissed pink. You want to commit every last inch of this man to memory, keep him locked in the back of your mind in fear of never experiencing this again.

Is this a one-time thing? You lift your hips as Art pulls down your shorts and panties in one go, and you can't help but wonder if this is the first and only time you'll feel his fingertips against the skin of your thighs. When morning comes, and your lust is expelled and tired, will Art turn his shoulder from you? Is this something? Hell, you don't know the guy, not really.

But he presses a gentle kiss to your lower abdomen and you feel safe and comfortable; your heart rate slows as the tension eases and your body sinks further into the mattress, letting Art's hand slip between your legs to part them. "Art…"

A low moan passes your lips as he brushes his fingertips over your clit, they're still cold from holding his beer, and the stark contrast in temperature is enough to make you gasp. Art slides his thumb over the sensitive nub and you arch your back in response. Your hands come to grasp at the sheet beneath you, knuckles whitening from the amount of pressure you're exerting on them. You want more, but you realise quickly that Art is a man for taking his time. Slow, languid circles over your clit, not daring to even push a finger inside of you just yet. You whine and buck your hips against his hand, needing his touch to be deeper.

He presses a kiss to your chest, and then trails his mouth down your stomach, pausing briefly to look up at you before he dips to place a kiss directly to your pulsing clit.

You freeze, and a wave of insecurity washes over you. "You don't have to..."

"I'm dying here," Art's eyes meet yours: he looks starved. "Please let me."

All you can do is nod your head and close your eyes as he delves between your thighs for a taste of your lust. His free hand digs into the flesh of your thigh, grip tight as if he’s dead set on leaving his mark, staking his claim. He’s showering in the way you writhe, his tongue rolling over your clit as he slips two fingers inside of you. He’s high off your taste alone, latching his lips around your clit in an assault fueled by insatiable need.

You can feel him shuffle a little, moving his free hand from your thigh to reach under his own waistband and stroke himself in tandem with the thrust of his fingers inside of you. His pace quickens, though he still manages to savour your pleasure. Your hand snakes down to thread your fingers through his mess of blond hair, pushing your hips up in an attempt for more.

As Art pumps his cock with his hand, he groans against your heated flesh, sending vibrations from your sex to your spine: you arch your back in pleasure, the tightness of an impending orgasm beginning to roll over you. You try to vocalise it, tell Art you’re close, but you’re already a mess of incoherent moans and pleads for more— but he doesn’t need words to know, not when he can feel you clenching around his fingers, your every muscle tensing. His scalp must burn from the stress of your pulling, but he doesn’t seem to mind so much, smiling against your pussy as he finger-fucks you to climax.

With a sharp inhale and a choked sob of a moan from your throat, you come undone under Art’s ministrations, your vision blurred and stomach in knots of ecstasy. It's only once your breath finds you again that Art pulls his fingers out of you and climbs over you once more to press a messy kiss to your lips, he shares with you a taste of yourself, lips glistening with your release. He grins into the kiss, as pussydrunk as can be, and moves to press a sloppy mixture of kisses and bites to your exposed neck.

"You taste so good," he speaks against your skin, nipping at your pulse.

"I want more of you," you exhale, dizzy with lust.

Your legs tighten around his back as he meets your eyes once again, a sultry smile creeping across his face. You snake a hand down to the waistband of his boxers, noting the thin layer of sweat that already glosses Art's torso, and dip a finger under the elastic. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah, please," he murmurs, ducking down to press another kiss to your shoulder. You tuck your hand into his boxers, feeling past his trimmed-short hair and wrapping your fingers around his cock, rock hard and pulsing in your hand. He groans and presses himself further into your hand, his teeth dragging along the expanse of your shoulder as you pump his shaft. His hips rise of their own accord as you bring your hand higher, rubbing along his length until you have him completely desperate for the now-familiar warmth of your pussy.

"I need to be inside of you," he lays his intentions out, head tilting up to watch you for a sign of protest.

You nod, eager and willing to accommodate him, and release his cock, raising yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at the beautiful mess of a man moving to stand. He (ungracefully) reaches over to grab a condom from his bedside drawer and sheds his boxers. Inhaling slowly through his nose, he takes his time as he slides the condom onto his dick, stroking his cock gently once it's on. He watches you closely, a fond look on his face as he rubs the head of his cock up and down your pussy a few times, collecting the remnants of your lust and his spit before he enters you. It's slow, and careful, and deliberate, and your body trembles in anticipation, eyes flickering closed when he finally gives into your silent plea. The shared gasp between you is uniform, a symphony of pleasure and endurance. Him, overwhelmed by just how tight you are. You, overwhelmed by the stretch of just how big he is.

Art bottoms out in one movement, to get the harshest part out of the way for you; you hiss at the searing heat of the stretch, but calm as Art stills inside of you. You both take a moment, a shared breath, to appreciate being one, and the pleasure that comes with such entwining.

Once you’re ready, you squeeze his bicep, giving him the green-light to move. And he does, painstakingly slow, he pulls out of you, just to snap his hips forward to plunge himself back inside. The hand that isn't holding him up is pressed down on your stomach, feeling himself through you as he pushes in deep, then withdraws. Each thrust of his cock brings forth a loud gasp from your lips, which only serves to guide him further into a state of mindless bliss. He keeps himself in check as best he can, though his breathing has quickened considerably as he continues to fuck you. You feel like you're going to lose your mind, unable to breathe or speak or think straight as you're pulled closer and closer to your end. Though as you've learnt, Art Donaldson is a man to take his time, and he switches from the fast snapping thrusts to a slow roll of his hips once he feels he's a little too close to the edge.

You notice, too: you see the tension building in his muscles, how he pants and groans with each movement he makes. He stares at you adoringly, heavy lids weighing his sights down to your chest, your arched torso, your sweet design. He leans down to press another kiss to you, lips parting so he can slide his tongue into your mouth as his rhythm quickens even more. The kiss feels more intimate than even the act of his cock splitting you open, it's a sweet one, a honeymoon-style kiss where after his forehead meets yours and his eyes bore into your eyes in a mixture of something hazy.

You notice the glossy look in his eyes immediately, it's the same one you had seen on the tennis court earlier. The awestruck, total blissful look in his eyes that had spurred your inspiration. The face of sport. Even through your fucked-dumb haze of lust and a hedonistic desire to finish like this, with Art on top of you, the opportunist in yourself can't help but move. You place a firm hand on Art's shoulder, and his thrusts roll to a stop.

"You okay?" he pants, a sudden worry in his eyes, he looks you over for any signs of discomfort.

"Fine," you shake your head, trying to clear it, blinking away the foggy sensation clouding your mind. "Just, uh... do you trust me?"

Art's eyebrows shoot up, taken aback by the question: "Why?"

Your voice is barely there, a heat spreading across your face as you ask; "will you let me on top?"

Art chuckles low and deep, eyes never breaking contact with yours. A gentle touch to the curve of your ass cheek tells you that he'll miss the view, but he nods nonetheless, and you smile in turn. You expect Art to pull out and lay back on the bed, but instead, he wraps one arm under your back and pushes up with his other, flipping the both of you in one fluid motion. As soon as he's flipped over you straddle his waist, resting your hands on his chest for support, and laugh at the sheer adrenaline rush of it all.

This new position, with you sitting on Art's cock, makes you feel twice as full. You can tell that neither of your orgasms are far off, and you take the opportunity to test the waters. You roll your hips, grinding down on Art's cock, enjoying the way his eyes flutter shut. When he lets out a low noise of approval that sends shivers down your spine, you lower your body closer, pressing a wet kiss to Art's jaw as he grips your waist with a strength you don't doubt will bruise come morning.

His hips raise underneath you, fucking up into you as you continue your ministrations. The sound of skin hitting skin fills the air, and you'd close your eyes in ecstasy if you weren't so hypnotised by the sheen in Art's eyes. With each thrust Art manages to drive into you, you find your nails biting into the skin of his chest. He gets louder, groans and whines that you'd play on repeat if you could,, he's close, and he says as such.

"Let me take a picture," you say before you can stop yourself; his jaw slacks open at your words, staring up at you with incredulity written across his face. You defend your proposal- "With the Polaroid. I'll let you keep it, no copies."

A bad idea, probably, what with his face being one he hopes to see plastered across buildings one day. He doesn't know why he nods, why he smiles when you reach across the bed for your Polaroid. Maybe it's the mindless state of lust he's in, maybe it's the danger, or maybe he'll find the photo in ten years' time and remember this night with a smile or a frown depending on the grand outcome.

You ready the camera, roll your hips against his a few more times, and look down at pretty Art Donaldson.

"You're fucking gorgeous," you let slip, praise falling from your lips straight to his reddened ears. You feel him twitch inside of you, you squeeze around him in coaxing. "Look at you."

He fucks up into you with a pace unrelenting. Your second orgasm of the night is only seconds away, and you cope through the haze of pleasure and lust to focus on Art's face, memorising every detail of that look in his eyes as he starts to falter.

"Fuck," you groan, pressing down onto him to a new depth. He's tense for a moment, a sweet moment of shared rapture as you both fall over the edge of your climaxes.

"Shit, shit," his sounds mirror yours, veins pulsing in his neck as he cums. One hand digs into your hips, the other grips the sheets.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it. The look, the face of pleasure, of need, of sin.

You take the shot.

SIX YEARS LATER

The night is quiet, save for the sound of rustling trees outside and the occasional passing car. Art Donaldson has to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a noise.

He stands in the shower, water falling over his back, though cleanliness is an afterthought despite being sweat-ridden after hours of training with Tashi.

With one hand, Art pumps his cock in vigorous strokes, leaning against the cold tile wall as he jerks himself off. His eyes are locked onto what he holds in his other hand- the photo you took all those years ago. He's careful not to get it wet, but it's hard to focus on the state of it when his pooling orgasm nearly blinds him.

His eyes burn into the image, a display of himself at his most vulnerable. You had taken it looking down at him as your orgasms synced, and now he looks down at the same sight you had seen at your peak. He cums ropes onto the shower floor, biting so hard on his tongue to stifle his moans that he's surprised he can't taste blood in his mouth.

He’s left breathless, eyes still locked on the polaroid he had found in the basement earlier in the day. There's a handful more of them, but Art had no time to go through them, not after pulling this one out first and being hit with a wave of memories he’s not sure he should have.

He has to satiate his guilt by telling himself it’s not wrong to jerk off, especially not when it’s only a photo of himself… or, that could make it worse. Art exhales deeply, emptying his lungs so he can take a breath of new air.

Art steps backward into the fall of water, letting it run down his face in a rejuvenating cleanse of his sins and unholy ways of thinking. He sighs, wonders what level of hell he’s going to, and then flips the polaroid around.

Written in your handwriting on the strip of white down the bottom in permanent marker,

THE ART OF MAKING LOVE.

series taglist: @lotties-ashwagandha @daughterhouse @kiiwizz @doll-0f-flesh @jackierose902109 @lonnie2390147 @hedonisticwomen @ysuftmikey @viena-vie @whitewashedghanianlol @kolsmikaelson @nikirikii @dumbass-sappho-stan @seriousaliysa @majathepapaya @lovezclub @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #challengers smut #challengers 2024 #art donaldson #art x reader #art smut #art donaldson x you #art donaldson imagine

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upsidedownwithsteve · 3 months

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Eddie Munson x fem!reader [1.2K]

Written for @carolmunson’s writing challenge. Feel free to join in, you can find the rules here 🧡 everyone say thank you to Carol for taking the time to create something so cute.

“If you don’t stop, we’re gonna have a problem, sweetheart.”

Eddie was grumbling, but it was all affection and barely any real scolding in his voice. It’s why you laughed, a dirty cackle that only came out when you were properly tipsy and you continued your harassment as the boy juggled the his keys and your wobbling frame.

You were still snickering, nuzzling at the boy’s neck, your hands slipping up the inside of his leather jacket and t-shirt. You were bolder after a few drinks, tongue tasting like cranberry and something stronger, tequila shots that Robin brought to the table going down like water and Eddie had declared it was home time when you draped yourself in his lap, glassy eyes on his lips as he tried to talk to Steve.

“You normally - oops - like it, oh fuck, when I touch you,” you bashed your shoulder on the doorframe when Eddie finally managed to coax you inside, your hands still vying for his attention.

Eddie was pink in the cheeks, unused to seeing you like this, the relationship still new, your affection still overwhelming at times. You were a cute drunk, tipsy and hiccuping as you let yourself flop onto his sofa, mumbling something into the cushions. He followed, leather jacket throw on the armchair and he bent, untying your shoes and smiling when you hummed, your toes wiggling in your socks and he pretended to bite at them, snickering when you squeaked.

The trailer was lit by just the streetlights, the rest of the park and the town asleep, quiet in the darkness. Eddie seemed to make the navy shadows a little brighter through, everything about his brash and intimidating exterior melting away to a soft gentleness, just for you.

“C’mon, sit up for me, babe,” Eddie coaxed, pulling at your wrists until he was able to manhandled you into the sofa corner. “M’gonna get you some water and then we’re going to bed, alright?”

“Yessir,” you slurred but the salacious intent was there, all flirt as you tried to wink but one eye simply wouldn’t cooperate.

“You’re jokes, tonight, kid,” Eddie snorted and busied himself in the kitchen, heart overflowing with affection for you, a kind of fondness that clung to the spaces between his ribs and it was times like these he wondered how on earth the town pariah managed to bag a girl like you.

“Here,” he murmured as he walked back over. “We ran out of like, nice cups, is this okay?” Eddie handed you a mug in the shape of some sort of creature.

If you’d been more sober, you would’ve thought it was some sort of demonic Bigfoot, but you were too busy eying at spikes that protruded from the rim of the mug. You glanced back at Eddie warily, accepting his offer with a grimace.

“Watch for the horns,” he whispered when your tooth clinked against one. You groaned, flipping him off as you chugged most of the water, eyes slipping shut and Eddie’s hand found the back of your head before you tipped yourself backwards too much. “Jesus, sweetheart, don’t drown yourself.”

“Sounds like an easier way to go than how m’gonna feel in the morning,” you groaned, already feeling sorry for yourself. The third shot of tequila was a horrible, terrible idea. You vaguely remembered Eddie wincing at you from across the table as you knocked it back. You held the evil Bigfoot mug to your chest and waved him away, almost as dramatic as Eddie himself. “Jus’ leave me here to rot.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” the boy pouted, hiding his grin behind pursed lips. He was kneeling in front of you again, warm wide hands running the lengths of your thighs and the guitar string callouses on his fingers scratched against your skin just right. “Don’t rot here. S’an awful place to deteriorate. You can rot in bed w’me.”

“Can’t,” you told him mournfully, your empty mug slipping onto the cushions as you let yourself lean forward, face finding Eddie’s neck. He smelled like smoke and spice and the cologne you’d got him for Valentine’s Day. “I’ll be a pile of sludge. Sludge and tequila. So disgusting.”

Eddie snorted, throughly entertained at someone else being dramatic for once. His hands made their way from your legs to your back, slipping nimble fingers inside your T-shirt so he could skate them along your spine. If he hadn’t know any better, he would’ve sworn you purred.

“Hey now, that’s not even close to being true,” he tsked, nudging your head with his until you whined and pulled back, facing him with a pout. He pushed his nose against your own. “My girlfriend is the prettiest pile of sludge.”

It was still new enough that you both got a kick out of him calling you his girlfriend, your body buzzing with a giddy kind of excitement that made your nose crinkle when you beamed at him.

Your forehead touched his, Eddie’s unruly curls brushing your cheeks and his fingers dipped lower, pressing into the dimples on your back and he held you there, fully encouraging whatever it was you were about to do.

Your lips brushed his, a barely there kiss that probably tasted like tequila and cherry liqueur but you were too drunk to care and Eddie really didn’t mind at all.

“You think I’m the prettiest?” You whispered.

“Damn right,” Eddie nodded, his voice laced with stern fondness and he grinned when you smiled even wider. “All the other piles of sludge don’t know what to do with themselves when you’re around.”

It made you laugh, a hiccuping thing that had Eddie kissing at your cheek, the corner of your mouth and the tip of your nose. It was overwhelming, to be doted on like this - your cheeks warm and the alcohol making you softer and sleepier, Eddie’s big hands the only thing keeping you upright.

“You’re so funny,” you mumbled through a yawn, falling forward again to bury yourself into him.

“The funniest,” Eddie agreed mildly, because he was already coaxing you into standing up with him, your socked feet standing on his boots as you swayed. “C’mon, bedtime.”

“You forgot bad day Bigfoot,” you mumbled, pointing back at your empty mug. “He needs to come too.” You lifted the throw pillow that Wayne had once tried to cross-stitch a dirty joke onto, holding it close to your side like some kind of teddy.

One look at your frown told Eddie you weren’t joking, so with raised brows, he grabbed the offending cup and held him in front of you. “He needs to come to bed with us? And the dick pillow?”

An array of different sizes and colours of badly stitched penises glared back at him from under your arm and Eddie raised his brows at you, unsure.

You nodded, already shuffling off into the direction of his bedroom where he knew you’d ransack his drawers for just the right shirt to sleep in. “S’only polite,” you told him.

You couldn’t see Eddie’s responding grin but he filled the mug back up with water before trailing after you. “Alright, but if he starts gettin’ handsy, he’s out.” He caught up with you just as you flopped into his unmade bed, burying your face into the sheets with a hum. “You’re my pile of sludge, remember?”

From beneath Wayne’s pillow, your hand shot out, a thumbs up offered as a sign of agreement and Eddie scoffed as he bit at the digit playfully.

“Fuck yeah, m’your pile of sludge,” was his answer.

#Eddie Munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x female reader #Eddie Munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #Eddie Munson fanfiction #Eddie Munson fluff #eddie munson one shot #Eddie Munson Drabble #Eddie Munson blurb

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cheriladycl01 · 3 months

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Could you fic for Fernando Alonso with wife reader? They're on vacation during the winter and she's cold, so she take a water bottle and cradle it. Nando saw it and felt jelly and left out🤭 I don't know if it make sense. Add something else to it if it's not right. Thanks!! :))

Finland Freeze - Fernando Alonso x WifeReader

Plot: Fernando decided to take you on a ski trip, however after testing out the bunny slopes and multiple falls you need to go back to the log cabin for some warmth, however Fernando feels as though he should be that warmth instead!

Credit to the-offside-rule for the GIF

"Come on. It's not that hard!" your husband Fernando laughed from the bottom of the small hill. You look down at him, from up here the slope looked huge.

There was multiple kids going past you, throwing themselves into the activity while you stayed there apprehensively.

"Come on mi amor!" he shouts up to you. You take a few more seconds before starting pushing yourself down the slope on the ski's. You start to speed up and you try leaning into the turn but end up just plopping down into the icy slope. You look up, pulling your goggles up seeing your husband laughing at you with his hands on his knees.

A dad laugh.

You got up quickly rubbing the snow away from your now probably bruised bum. You start up again, taking the turns a little slower and manage to get down to your husband with only 2 more slip ups.

As you neared him, he opened his arms wide as if you were a toddler coming towards him. You however didn't fully slow to a stop, and end up falling in between his legs taking him down with you.

"Offph, I know when i married you I said till death do us part... but your taking that very seriously!" he jokes looking over you before helping you up from the snowy floor.

"Your the one who got me to come to Finland with you! I would have happily spent my winter in Dubai, or Australia!" you comment, pulling him into a hug.

The next few times and he comes down the hill with you, holding your hand and making sure to balance you back out when you start to skid.

After a few more hours, your getting too cold, your cheeks fully red and not enjoying the dropping temperatures. You say that you'll go back to the cabin on the ski resort to warm up while Fernando goes on the big slopes with his personal trainer.

You get in, changing from the damp skiing gear you were sporting and wrapping a dressing gown around you while you shove it all in the washing machine.

You quickly make your way over to the bathroom getting in the warm shower and rinsing of your body, keeping it on a warm temperature to try and warm up the furthest bits of your body.

You stayed there for at least 45 minutes, where you fingers slowly started to resemble prunes. You put on joggers and a hoodie of your husbands and some big fluffy socks. You make you way down to the living area turning the kettle on immediately. You grab the matches and light the wood inside the fireplace that Fernando had put there the previous night when you both realized you'd used most of it up.

Once the kettle has boiled you split the water, most of it going into the pink fluffy hot water bottle you'd conveniently taken with you, even though you'd been told you wouldn't need it. The other goes into making yourself a tea, using the last of the milk you guys had brought for the cup, noting you'd have to go to the little shop on the lodge sight later tonight.

You grab multiple unhealthy snacks that Fernando always held a grudge when he saw you lazing around on the sofa and his cheat day foods in hand on a random Wednesday.

You set yourself up on the sofa under a white fluffy blanket, nesting yourself down in between the large pillows. You hug the hot water bottle and turn on a new crappy rom-com in the Netflix recommended.

Fernando walks in the door, snow in his hair from the growing snow storm outside making you chuckle at his gruff entrance despite his small stature.

He walk over to you and leans down kissing your lips making you recoil away and bury down into your blankets more due to the coldness he brought.

"No kisses?" he asks looking at you with a tilted head and puppy dog eyes.

"You're cold hermoso" you smile shyly, not wanting to be rude but also wanting to keep warm.

"Hmmmm, i'll get changed and then you've got to let me in that bundle of warmth!" he exclaims before crossing over to the bedroom.

He comes back in a pair of shorts and t-shirt the outfit making your eyes widen shocked that he could even possibly be warm in that outfit. He starts to climb into your nest you've created pulling a random wrapper off you and into the little bin behind you both before he starts to undo all your hard work of keeping the warmth in.

"Mmmmm no please!" you complain hugging the water bottle closer trying to keep the warmth.

"I'm hurt mi amor! This bottle is a better source of heat than me? Your husband?" he asks looking over you and you want to nod you really do but his expression makes you just stay still as he starts to pull the blanket away from you. He lays down, re-wrapping the blanket around himself when he pulls your hot water bottle away.

You groan out a complain.

"Mmmm I'm better than this stupid bottle!" he says before snaking his hands up under your hoodie making you shiver and whine from how cold his hands are.

"Fernando!" you gasp when he fully flattens his hands on your back.

"We'll warm up soon" he smiles fully laying on your and hugging your body into his.

"I was warm until you showed up" you sigh starting to play with his hair that was under the blanket so your finger tips didnt get too cold.

Eventually the fire really kicked in and your body heats started to regulate meaning you were both warming each other up nicely now, to the point where you both fell asleep in your little nest of the sofa hugging each other with the soft voices from the next movie that had automatically played on in the back ground.

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @stupidandunnecessary @clayra-g @daemyratwst @honey-belden @moonypixel @lauralarsen @vader-is-hot @ironcowboycopnickel @itsjustkhaos @the-untamed-soul @beebo86 @happylittlereader @ziejustme @lou-larcher5 @thewulf @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @chillyleclerc @chanthereader @annoyingmoonballoon @summissss @evieepepi08 @havaneseoger08 @celesteblack08 @gulphulp @fandom1ruined2me @celebstories @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhh @georgeparisole @dakotatankbig @youcannotcancelquidditch @zzonsbeek @tallbrownhairsarcastic @mellowarcadefun @ourteenagetragedy @otako5811 @countingstacksandpanicattacks @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @hopexcroc @mirrorball-6 @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @lilypadlover @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @the-fem1n1ne-urge @21stcenturytaegi @dark-night-sky-99 @spideybv28 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @kapsylia @laneyspaulding19 @lazybot @malynn @cassielikereading @viennakarma @teamnovalak @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @jlb20416 @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @seomako @urdad-hot @formula1mount @tinydeskwriter @butterfly-lover @ironmaiden1313

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 #formula one #formula one fanfiction #fernando alonso x you #fernando alonso #fernando alonso x reader #fernando alonso imagine #fernando alonso fanfic #fa14 #fa14 x reader #fa14 imagine

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wholoveseggs · 24 days

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Hey lovely, your latest story gave me an idea. How about Reader and Elijah have been together for a while, but he is the one to avoid sex. Every time he has been with a human, it overpowered them or hurt them. He can't keep Red Door Elijah in check, which is fine when he's with a supernatural being, but not when he's with a human. Reader knows his backstory but is determined to show him that their love is different.

Control

{I've officially run out of gifs I want to use, so I'm in my moodboard era now}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Plagued by nightmares of hurting you, Elijah avoids any form of intimacy, but you have had enough. You confront him about his rejection and Elijah finally learns how to let go and lose control.

♡♡ Thanks for the request @originals23, love love love red door elijah and his dark side ♡♡

6k words - Warnings: smut, fluff, lots of angst, red door Elijah, trauma, nightmares, visions of death, blood, blood drinking, rough sex, aggressive flirting, dom!elijah, jealously, masquerade ball, elevator vandalism...

Elijah needed control the way a drowning man needed air. It was as if it was a basic function, like oxygen, like blood. He had always been that way, even before he was turned, but it got worse when he was forced to take lives for food and to stay alive. His nature demanded he take what he wanted, when he wanted, but he was afraid of that, so he clung to rules, to discipline.

But no matter what he did, he was still plagued with the same nightmare. You, his perfect love, dead in his arms. Your body limp and lifeless, your eyes open but vacant. And all because he couldn't control himself. Your blood stained his skin, his clothes, his heart.

You knew better than to sneak up on a sleeping vampire, but it wasn't just any vampire. It was your Elijah, your sweet, loving, gentle Elijah.

All you wanted to do was surprise him with some coffee. It was going to be a long day, there was a huge party being hosted by Marcel. All of the factions were gathering for a masquerade ball, the first of its kind in centuries. There were rumors of a peace treaty in the works, and the festivities were the opening salvo.

You were beyond excited, you never experienced this sort of thing, and you were so happy that Elijah would be by your side. You picked out a matching set of masks for the two of you. For him, a sleek, black one with dark feathers at the tips. For yourself, a delicate, lace one in a deep crimson.

When you were younger, you had dreams of wearing beautiful, elaborate gowns, and dancing the night away with a handsome man. You couldn't help but feel giddy thinking about tonight.

You set the coffees down on a nearby table. Elijah's room was dim, only a small shaft of light peeking out from behind the curtains. He was curled up in the center of his large bed, his hair was disheveled and his lips were parted. The sheet was pooled around his hips, revealing his chiseled chest and toned arms.

He was beautiful, and you very much wanted to explore every bit of him. But he wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't allow himself to lose control. He had told you about his darkness, the red door, the place where he put all of the sins he couldn't live with.

When his control was frayed and his mind was weak, it would whisper to him, tempt him. Because there, in that space, he didn't have to feel guilt or pain. He was free. Free to do as he wished. He would be able to take you, claim you, love you the way his darker instincts screamed at him to.

You pulled off your sweater and boots, leaving you in just a mini dress and socks. You padded over to the bed and carefully slid under the covers, trying not to disturb him. You cuddled up next to him, your hand resting on his chest. You wished he would let you in, let you experience all of him, the good, the bad, the ugly. You loved him, and that meant loving everything about him.

Elijah had sensed your presence from the moment you entered his room, but he remained still, feigning sleep. His sweet little love, so utterly defenseless and vulnerable, alone in a vampire's bed. His fingers itched to touch you, to pull you into his embrace and never let you go. He could hear your heartbeat, steady and strong, could smell the sweet perfume you had dabbed behind your ears, and could feel the heat radiating off of your body. He was acutely aware of every aspect of you. It was hard not to give in to temptation, to pull you into his arms and kiss you until your lips were swollen and pink.

"Elijah," you said softly, in a sing-song voice. You brushed your fingers along his jaw, the stubble rough against your soft skin. He stirred slightly, pretending to wake.

"Hmm, good morning, love." He rasped, his voice heavy with sleep.

You kissed him softly, smiling into it. "Good morning. I brought us coffee."

He hummed, "That's perfect. Thank you, sweetheart."

"I can't wait for tonight." You sighed, tracing your fingers down his throat and along his collar bones.

Elijah was torn between letting his eyes flutter shut at the contact or watching your movements. You had him entranced.

"I can't either," he agreed. "You'll be the most beautiful woman there, I have no doubt."

You blushed at his compliment and kissed him again, your lips lingering against his. He groaned and rolled onto his side, bringing his hands up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking along your cheekbones. He let himself give in just a little, let the control slip a fraction. You gasped into the kiss as his tongue swept along the seam of your lips. Your lips parted, allowing him entry. You melted against him, your hand coming up to rest on his bicep.

His hands slid down your body, mapping every dip and curve, memorizing the feel of you. Your skin was like silk, your body supple and soft. You had a slight tremor, nervous, or maybe excited. He wasn't sure, but he loved how your breath hitched as he moved his hands lower and lower, until his palms were flat on your backside, his fingers flexing as he pulled you flush against him.

You hummed, a noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan. He drank it in, taking all of your little sounds and storing them in his memory. He rolled, pulling you with him so that you were under him. You moaned as he settled between your thighs, his weight a welcome comfort. He moved his mouth down, nipping at the skin of your throat and collarbone, careful not to let his fangs break the surface.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling gently. You had fantasized about being with him in this way for so long, dreamed about how his body would feel pressed against yours, how his hands would feel on your bare skin. You didn't know what caused this shift in him, this sudden willingness to be intimate, but you were glad for it.

You tugged at the waistband of his boxers, trying to tell him what you wanted. You were not a shy person, you wanted to experience what it was like to be with such a powerful creature, to feel his strength and passion.

Elijah groaned and rocked his hips against yours, letting you feel how much he desired you. His control was slipping, and he didn't care. You wanted him, and he would have you. He leaned back to look at your beautiful face, wanting to etch this moment in his memory for all eternity. You were a vision, cheeks flushed and eyes dark with want.

Suddenly everything started to warp, your flushed skin turned cold, your warm eyes grew distant, and your heart slowed to a stop. His breath caught as a trickle of blood leaked from the corner of your mouth. He looked down at his hands and they were covered in your blood, the dark, rich liquid soaking the sheets and staining his skin.

"No, no, no, no, no." He chanted, trying to bring you back, willing the darkness to recede.

Your eyes were glassy, lifeless, bite marks all over your neck, your chest, your legs. You were covered in them, the evidence of his weakness, his inability to keep his desires in check.

Elijah threw himself from the bed, stumbling backwards. He clutched his head in his hands, a scream ripping from his throat. You were gone, dead, and it was his fault. He would never be able to look at your smiling face, never hear your soft laugh, or feel your lips on his again.

"Eli?" you said, stunned by his sudden departure. He was now across the room looking like a caged animal, his eyes wild and his hair a mess. You climbed out of the bed and slowly approached him. He looked like he was going to bolt, his muscles tense and his breath ragged.

"Are you alright?" you asked, reaching out to touch his arm.

"Don't!" he shouted, flinching away from your touch. "Don't touch me."

"Okay," you said, holding up your hands. "I won't."

He felt like he was losing his grip, the world was shifting around him, the ground threatening to give out beneath his feet. He felt like he was back there, back in that slaughterhouse that haunted him, the place that whispered his darkest desires, the place that taunted him with visions of what he truly was, no matter how much control he thought he had over it.

You reached out to him again, and he snapped. He grabbed your arm and pushed you against the wall, his eyes black and his fangs sharp. You gasped, but didn't struggle, trusting that he would never hurt you.

He released you at once, horrified by what he had done. He backed away, shaking his head. "No, no, no. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He sank to his knees, his eyes wild and frantic.

"It's okay, Eli." You said, kneeling in front of him.

"You need to leave, please." He begged, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm not going anywhere." You said firmly, reaching out to touch him again. He tensed, his breath hitching as you made contact.

"LEAVE," he roared, his eyes flashing. You jerked your hand back, surprised by his outburst.

Elijah regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, he watched you run out of the room and all he wanted was to chase after you, but his pride and fear kept him rooted in place. He couldn't let you be around him, look at what he did? If he couldn't control himself in a moment of passion, what would happen if he really let go?

Elijah stood in front of his mirror, adjusting and readjusting his tie. His hair was combed and his suit was tailored perfectly. But none of it felt right, the buttons on his shirt were too tight, the cufflinks too heavy, the material of his suit too coarse. He needed it all to go away.

He felt like a monster. A monster wearing a man's skin.

Elijah closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could do this. He could get through this night. He didn't know if you were coming to the party, and he couldn't decide if he wanted you there or not. He hated the idea of you being away from him, but he also couldn't bear the thought of you seeing him like this, a man unraveling, barely keeping himself together.

He opened his eyes and forced himself to smile, but the sight was a mockery. His lips were pulled taut, and his teeth looked like daggers. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to tear down the entire city and start anew.

"Elijah! we are going to be late!" He heard Rebekah yell from the courtyard below.

"Be right there," he called, his voice hoarse. He gave himself one last look in the mirror before he walked out of the room and descended the stairs. He could see his siblings all gathered, dressed impeccably with their dates on their arms.

Klaus was talking with Camille, they were dressed in matching shades of blue. Freya and Keelin were standing close together, their hands entwined. Kol was whispering something in Davina's ear, making her laugh. Rebekah was on the phone with Marcel, telling him she was on her way. And Hayley was chatting with Jackson, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

"There you are." Freya said, noticing his presence. "Where is y/n? She was so excited about tonight."

The sound of your name made his chest ache, he was about to explain, or rather, come up with a plausible excuse when he heard a voice from behind him.

"I'm right here."

He turned around to see you walking down the stairs, dressed in an ornate black gown, matching his suit, your mask hanging in your hand.

"Y/n," he said, stunned by how beautiful you were.

You smiled slightly and approached him, your heels clicking on the stones. He took your hand, inspecting your arm. It was bruised and there were small scratches from where he had dug his nails into your skin. He brushed his fingers over the marks, regret and guilt filling him.

"It's fine," you said, squeezing his hand.

"No, it's not."

You leaned in and kissed him softly, the feeling of your lips on his caused him to relax a little. He kissed you back, the contact grounding him, reminding him why he needed to stay in control, for you.

"Let's go," Klaus said, gesturing for everyone to follow him out the door.

You took your mask and placed it on, the crimson filigree complimenting the dark silk of your gown. Elijah put on his mask, the bold design making his dark eyes stand out.

The group arrived at Marcel's penthouse, finding the place already crowded. People were drinking, dancing, and mingling. It was a lively atmosphere, filled with music and laughter.

"It's nice," you commented, holding Elijah's hand.

"It is," he agreed, looking around the room. "Shall we?"

He gestured to the dance floor and you nodded, taking his offered arm. He led you to the center of the room, where couples were already twirling and spinning.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice low and seductive.

"You may," you answered, giving him a shy smile.

He took your hand and placed his other on your hip, guiding you through the steps. The two of you swayed to the music, moving gracefully.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his lips brushing your ear.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," you reassured him.

He wanted to argue, but you didn't give him a chance. You captured his lips in a kiss, the world around you melting away. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. The two of you stayed locked in the embrace, the music and the crowd fading into the background.

The two of you danced for a while, enjoying the feeling of being close to one another. The environment letting him relax a little. But when the music changed, becoming slow and sultry, his mind started to drift.

Elijah imagined pushing you against a wall, kissing your neck and leaving marks. He wanted to rip your dress off, and explore every inch of you. He wanted to bite you, to taste your blood. He wanted to claim you, to make you his.

He wanted to let go, to allow himself to give in. To experience the kind of pleasure and power that only came with a lack of control. But then he saw the blood again, the crimson of your mask, the ruby red of your lipstick, turned to the viscous liquid that both haunted and nourished him.

"What is it?" you asked, noticing the way his body tensed.

"Nothing," he said, his voice strained. "I just need a drink,"

He let go of you and headed to the bar, needing some strong alcohol to help calm his nerves. He ordered a scotch and downed it in one go, the liquid burning his throat. He ordered another, and another, until the world was pleasantly fuzzy and his thoughts were quiet.

"Mr. Mikaelson, so good to see you," a woman said, coming up to him.

"Madam," he replied, not looking up from his drink.

"How is business?" she asked, clearly wanting to engage in a conversation.

"Fine." He said shortly, hoping she would get the hint.

"The party is wonderful," she commented, sipping from a champagne flute, her mask was turquoise and silver, a few strands of her dark hair escaping her updo.

"Thank you, the decorations were my sister's doing," he replied, trying to be polite.

"Ah yes, your sister," the woman said, her eyes drifting over the crowd, landing on the blonde vampire. "She's almost as pretty as you," the woman added, a seductive smile on her lips.

"You're quite flattering, but I'm spoken for," Elijah told her, not unkindly.

The woman pouted. "So I heard, a human though? That must be...difficult," she said.

"How so?" He asked, not liking the direction the conversation was going.

"Humans are frail, their lives are fleeting," the woman replied, her hand coming to rest on his chest. He looked down at her hand touching him, her daylight ring a large sapphire. "And they are so easily broken," she added.

He clenched his jaw, trying not to let her words get to him. "That is why they are treasured," he replied, scanning the crowd in search for you.

"They are food. I thought an original vampire would know the difference," the woman grinned, enjoying getting a reaction out of him.

"Watch your tongue, Madam, or you might find it missing," he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

"Oh, feisty," the woman purred, her free hand went up and she ran her finger over the edge of his mask. "You could have any creature here, take them however you want. Break them in the best possible way," she purred, her pupils dilated.

"That's not how I operate, now if you will excuse me," he said, his anger starting to bubble.

"That's how you used to operate," the woman taunted, her fingers trailing over the buttons of his jacket. "I'm a little hurt that you don't recognize me," the woman pouted, batting her eyelashes at him.

"Should I?" He asked, trying to place her face.

"Paris, summer of 1783, you had me by the hair, bent over the side of a balcony, fucking me so hard that the cement cracked," she told him, licking her lips. "You were wild, rough, animalistic. And it was amazing," she breathed, her gaze unfocused as she remembered the night.

Elijah couldn't remember her, nor did he remember the event. It was amusing to him that this vampire thought she was special. She wasn't. He had bedded hundreds, maybe even thousands, of women. He only ever remembered the ones he loved.

"A shame you can't recall, I've thought about it many times over the years," she said.

He raised his eyebrows. "That's a bit pathetic," he said bluntly.

She laughed, not taking offense. "Perhaps, but the sex was fantastic, I can still feel your bite," she smiled, her eyes falling to his mouth.

Elijah shook his head. "My dear, I'm sure there are plenty of willing participants here, if you truly wish to relive the past, you'll have no trouble finding someone to assist," he said dismissively.

"I would prefer you," the woman said, her tone changing. "No one here matches your power, no one can fuck me like you did."

"Maybe try Niklaus, ask him to bite you," he smirked, watching as his brother and Camille were laughing together.

"Both of you dating humans, what a complete and utter waste," she said, her eyes flicking to you. "I bet I could make you forget all about her," she cooed, pressing herself closer to him.

You could see this vampire all over Elijah, touching him and speaking in his ear. You weaved through the crowd, wanting to put an end to it.

Elijah's attention turned from the woman, a smile spreading across his face as he saw you walking towards him.

"I'm going to have to politely decline, thank you." he said, reaching his hand out for yours.

"Come now, surely you could use some relief," the woman cooed, her hands trailing over his body, ignoring your presence completely.

You didn't quite know what came over you, but you reached up and gently slapped her hand away from him.

The vampire turned her attention to you, her eyes going to the bruising on your arm. She let out a laugh. "Oh my, perhaps I was wrong, looks like your little plaything can handle you," the woman mocked, a smirk on her lips.

"Don't," Elijah growled, not appreciating her words.

She just laughed and shrugged, turning her attention back to him. "If you change your mind, I'll be here all night." the vampire winked at him and walked away, joining another group.

Elijah let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You gave Elijah a half-smile, hoping he wouldn't think you were stupid for hitting the vampire. She could have so easily crushed you, but you weren't afraid of her.

"Who was that?" you asked, annoyed by the exchange.

He shook his head. "An old lover, it seems," he told you, his lips pressed in a thin line.

"Oh," was all you said, sadness filling you. You weren't the overly jealous type, but knowing that vampire had Elijah in a way you hadn't made you envious and sad.

Elijah saw the change in your demeanor and realized he had not answered the question right. You misunderstood him.

"Not a recent lover," he explained. "It was a very long time ago, and I do not remember the night," he assured you, his hand cupping your cheek.

You sighed, his touch instantly easing the tension in your body.

He pulled you close, his arm wrapping around your waist. "That was very brave of you, that could have ended very badly" he said softly in your ear.

Your hands went to his shoulders, clinging to his jacket, the material warm from his body. "You make me feel brave, you make me feel safe," you murmured.

His heart constricted. He didn't deserve your faith or your trust. The bruise on your arm was proof enough of that. He should let you go, make you hate him and walk away from you before you get hurt anymore, but he couldn't. Not while you were looking up at him with all that trust and affection in your eyes. He loved you far too much to give up.

He leaned in and kissed you, the familiar spark of electricity passing between you. He deepened the kiss, his hand cupping the back of your neck. He was pouring everything he felt for you into it, hoping you could feel the depths of his love and devotion.

You returned the kiss, trying to convey all the things you couldn't say. You broke apart, panting slightly. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

"Eli, I was hoping that we could...," you trailed off, biting your lip.

"What?" he asked, his eyes fluttering open.

"I want us to...you know," you whispered.

His eyes darkened, hunger and need filled him. All of the work he had done to push away his urges, to protect you, had unraveled in an instant. Now all he could focus on was the vision of your body beneath his, the feeling of skin against skin. The blood flowing through your veins singing a song to him that he could not deny, at least, not completely.

He pulled you a little closer, swaying you to the music playing, his other hand gripping your hip possessively. You watched his pupils dilate, saw the tension in his jaw and the bob of his Adam's apple.

"Not tonight," he murmured, trying his hardest to hide how much he wanted you, how much it would hurt to reject you again.

Your fingers curled around the lapels of his suit jacket, tugging on it a little harder than you meant to. He never wanted to give in, to allow himself a taste of pleasure. Even with his walls down, Elijah could never truly give himself to you completely.

His hands went to yours, prying your fingers from his jacket, his eyes dark and dangerous. "You do not understand how difficult it is," he hissed.

You pulled against his grip, anger bubbling up. "So, help me understand," you said in a soft tone, ignoring the fact that you were arguing in a room full of people and that you were both gripping each other hard enough to bruise.

"It feels like..." you started, shaking your head a little, "like, I am not enough. Do you not want me? Or have you realized that you need more and I cannot provide that to you?" You finished in a small voice.

His grip on your hands tightened, a warning look flashing in his eyes. "You are more than enough," he whispered, his eyes softening.

You took a steadying breath. "Then. Please. Fuck. Me," you said bluntly.

Elijah let go of you as if you had burned him. Your words cut him deeply.

You let out a frustrated sigh, his rejection stinging. "I... I'm going to go home," you said, blinking back tears.

He went to grab you but you moved out of his reach, his fingers barely grazing your arm. He watched you leave, his eyes following your figure until it disappeared into the crowd.

It was in that moment that he knew he had to make a decision, either he could keep trying to be gentle with you and risk losing you or he could give in and have you completely, but at the cost of hurting you.

Elijah drained his drink and placed the empty glass on the bar, his mind made up. He followed you, moving so fast that no one saw him leave.

You were upset, your feelings a tangled mess, waiting in a quiet hallway for the elevator to arrive. Your eyes were glazed with tears, your breathing shaky. You didn't know what to do, and you didn't know what you wanted from him.

You were lost in thought when the elevator dinged, announcing its arrival, but before the doors opened, hands were on your waist and you were pressed against the wall. His lips were on yours, hungry and demanding. You gasped and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth.

You melted into his touch, your fingers tangling in his hair. His hands were on your thighs, lifting you up and pushing your dress higher.

You wrapped your legs around him, pressing your body against his. The heat between you erupting, causing a soft moan to escape your lips.

He broke the kiss, his mouth going to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and bites. His hands were on your hips, pulling your body closer. He was rough and urgent, his nails digging into your skin. You gasped, arching into him, needing to feel more.

"You want me to fuck you?" he whispered in your ear, his voice low and husky. "I will," he promised, his lips ghosting over yours.

You clung to him, giving yourself over to the moment. He lifted you off the ground and carried you to the elevator. The doors slid open and he stepped inside, pressing you against the wall. His hands were all over your body, touching and teasing.

You were so caught up in his touch that you didn't notice the doors closing, trapping the two of you alone. He punched the panel, making the elevator come to a jerking stop. He kissed you, his hands finding their way under your dress, pushing the fabric out of the way.

He gripped your hips, grinding against you. The intensity and desperation in his touch was new, making your head spin. You wanted more, needed more. You moaned, the sound echoing off the walls. He groaned, his fingers digging into your skin.

He pushed your panties aside, sliding a finger into your wet heat. You gasped, arching into him. He pumped his finger in and out of you, curling it inside of you. He added a second finger, his thumb rubbing circles around your clit.

He groaned, the feeling of you tightening around him almost too much, his lips brushing your ear. "I want to hear you say my name when I make you come," he whispered, his hot breath tickling your skin.

All you could do was nod, your cheeks flushed and your eyes closed, it was all happening so fast and you couldn't get enough of it. He pressed his lips to your neck, nipping at your skin. He added a third finger, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit.

Your eyebrows arched, locking eyes with him, your mouth open and your hands clutching his jacket. The pressure was building and you felt like you were going to explode. You gasped, his fingers pumping in and out of you.

"Elijah," you said his name breathlessly.

"That's it," he encouraged, pulling on your earlobe with his teeth. "Say my name," he ordered.

"Elijah," you moaned, the pressure coiling tighter.

"Again," he demanded, his hand speeding up.

"Elijah," his name fell from your lips, your release crashing through you.

Your eyes slammed shut, your head thrown back, the muscles in your neck straining. You were trembling, a sheen of sweat coating your skin. He slowly withdrew his fingers, placing gentle kisses along your neck and jaw. You could feel his fangs graze your skin.

He was so hard, you could feel his erection pressing against you. You shifted your weight, trying to gain some friction, but he pulled away, his hands on your hips, pinning you in place.

You opened your eyes, looking at his face, his eyes completely black, the veins under them moving, his mouth open slightly, showing his fangs. You felt fear, but not the type of fear that made you want to run, but the kind of fear that sent a thrill through your body, the kind that made you crave danger.

You lightly traced your fingers over the veins, a smile on your lips. His chest rising and falling rapidly. You ran your finger over his lower lip, and he leaned in, his fangs scraping the pad of your finger. You could feel the sharp tips. He was so dangerous, so lethal, a perfect predator, yet here you were, trapped and wanting nothing more than to have him consume you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He pressed his body against yours, his erection grinding against you. You moaned, reaching between you, your fingers deftly working the button and zipper of his trousers. You tugged his boxers down, his hard cock springing free. You wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him.

"Fuck," he growled, his hips bucking, seeking more of your touch.

You tightened your grip, stroking him faster, twisting your wrist a little. He groaned, his hands on your thighs, his eyes hooded and his mouth parted slightly.

You released him and wrapped your arms back around his neck, grinding yourself against him. He growled, his hands cupping your ass, lifting you. You used the wall for support and wrapped your legs around him, angling yourself just right. You cried out as he pressed inside, stretching and filling you.

His breath was hot against your neck. "That's my girl," he said softly.

He paused a moment, giving you time to adjust. Then he started to thrust, his rhythm slow and measured, watching the way your expression changed as he fucked you. You moaned, your legs tightening around him, your ankles locking together, trying to pull him closer.

He pumped his hips, burying himself deep inside you. You tilted your head back, exposing the soft flesh of your neck.

It took every bit of control he had not to give in and bite you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, feeling your blood pump just below the surface of your skin. His hips snapped harder, driving into you, focused on fucking you, on drawing more delicious moans and whimpers from sweet lips.

The coil within you grew tighter, the pressure increasing with every movement of his hips. You clung to his jacket, needing something to anchor you, feeling as if you were spinning out of control. He grunted with each thrust, the sound of skin against skin almost drowned out by the blood pumping furiously in your ears.

His eyes never left yours, a predatory look crossing his features, his fingers gripping the swell of your ass, pounding into you with incredible force, your head hitting the wall with each powerful thrust.

It was intense and consuming and you couldn't get enough of him, and neither could he.

You lost track of how many times you'd come, all you knew was the sweet, aching tension was building again and you didn't know if you could handle another. He held you so tight, your body pressed so close to his, his fangs threatening to pierce the delicate skin of your neck. You couldn't stop, you didn't want it to stop.

Then his rhythm faltered, his breathing becoming labored, his hips pumping furiously. He needed a release. It had been a while since he'd experienced such raw, carnal lust.

He could no longer keep himself from drinking from you, he'd waited too long, denied his primal urges. With a snarl, he sunk his fangs into the side of your neck. A guttural cry fell from your lips, your back arching as you came undone, the sudden pain mixed with the pleasure so intense, you felt your vision darkening as you blacked out.

Elijah gripped your thighs, his lips pulling blood from your body, sending your pulse racing, your blood so hot and sweet that he thought he would combust. He let himself go, cumming deep inside of you, your blood in his mouth, the sweetness coating his tongue and rushing into his system. Your body went limp in his arms, your heartbeat slowing.

Sudden panic consumed him, what had he done? The guilt and fear crashed over him in waves. You looked so pale, you were dying in his arms and it was his fault. The rage and self-hatred he had tried so hard to keep in check ripped through him, his true nature unleashed.

But then you opened your eyes, smiling at him dreamily and something inside of him snapped back into place.

Elijah chuckled, still inside of you. He grinned, the edges of his lips curving upwards. He kissed you softly, reverently.

"Holy fuck Elijah," you chuckled, panting slightly, your heart beating erratically, but you felt alive and amazing, and loved.

"You scared me for a moment," he confessed, resting his forehead against yours.

"That was.. You are..," you struggled for words. "Just wow," you laughed.

You held on to him, wrapping your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He wrapped an arm around you, supporting you, the other stroking the side of your head. You breathed him in, savoring the moment, never wanting it to end. He smiled, nuzzling your cheek, his nose rubbing against your skin.

"Let's go home, I want you all to myself," you murmured, kissing his neck, the taste of him filling you.

He chuckled, his voice a deep rumble. "As you wish."

"We have a lot of catching up to do," you grinned, thinking of all the things you were going to do to him.

Elijah chuckled. "My sweet girl," he murmured, kissing you gently.

The elevator rattled, the emergency lights coming on. Elijah pulled away from you, adjusting your dress, smoothing the fabric. He zipped and buttoned his trousers, straightening his clothes. The panel was broken, slight electrical sparks coming from the metal. Elijah gripped the doors, forcing them open. He stepped out and helped you down. You smoothed your dress, looking at him shyly. He grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers, leading you out of the building.

"I like it when you lose control, perhaps that was the solution all along," you teased, walking along the street, your fingers intertwined with his.

Elijah laughed. "Perhaps, my darling, you may be right."

And with that, he swept you off your feet and into his arms, carrying you out into the night.

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pedgito · 2 years

Text

𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 ✎ 𝐝𝐚𝐝!𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐱 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary: eddie doesn’t have his life together any better than the next person, but for his daughter, he fakes it well. all he really needed was balance, but he wasn’t sure that even existed—not until you.

cw: 18+ (for safety), mechanic!eddie, reader and eddie are the same age (29/30ish), girl dad!eddie, mentions of loss/death, mentions of miscarriage/stillborn (briefly), more than your typical sass from a small child, reader is great with kids (obviously), mostly just a bunch of meet-cutes and fortunate circumstances that help push eddie toward reader, if i missed anything lmk!

word count: 11k — part two

Eddie never imagined he would in this position, not in a million fuckin’ years. While he would trade it for the world, days like these made his skin crawl, the anxiety creeped in, all the worst feelings you could feel as a person—and more specifically, a parent.

She’s the spitting image of him, curly hair and big doe eyes that she could sick on anyone to get exactly what she wanted. It was a proven fact that had worked on Eddie countless times. She’s got his habitual nose scrunch, always making a face when she’s upset or mad, arms crossed over her chest as she sits and pouts. There couldn’t have been more of a carbon copy than her and Eddie didn’t know how to handle it half the time.

“Okay,” Eddie breathes, plopping his daughter onto the counter, “Shoes,” He taps her light up sneakers, “Check.” He scans her over once, all clothes accounted for, matching socks, a small jumper to keep her warm during class, “Hair—“ He takes a moment, examining the sloppy attempt at pigtails, “it’s gonna have to work.”

“Dad,” Her voice drags, soft and melodic as she stares up at him in annoyance, “breakfast?”

“Shit—right,” Eddie facepalms in frustration, turning to rummage through the fruit bowl on his counter, picking out a semi-ripe banana and offering it to the girl, “that’ll do.”

“Language,” She sings, using her brute strength to rip open the peel, a small grunt escaping her, “—you owe a dollar to the jar.”

It still amazes him how well-spoken she is for her age, five nearing six and still able to keep up with him in conversation and sometimes even leaving him speechless, her comments just as fiery as his own. She did a good job keeping him in check, grounded, and never taking himself too seriously.

“Ri,” He begs, “you’re cleaning me out.”

“You know the rules, dad.” She smiles, taking a ferocious bite of her banana, speaking with a full mouth, “pay up, please.”

Eddie huffs begrudgingly, swiping his wallet from his back pocket and plucking out a single collar, slipping it into the jar on the shelf near their front door, the thing was bursting at the seams almost.

“Okay so,” Eddie turns back toward her, “what did we talk about?”

“Manners—please and thank you,” She says, counting her with tiny fingers, “no mean looks to the other kids, and—“

She stops, the memory spilling her brain.

“And no F bombs from you either.” Eddie warns, poking softly at her chest. “Even if it was only once.”

“It was part of the song—“ She argues, mouth turning down at the corners in frown.

“Riley.” Eddie says more sternly, causing her to shrink slightly.

“Okay,” She answers softly, taking smaller bites of the banana until it’s nearly gone, she glances at the digital clock on the microwave and glances back at her dad, who still seems completely frazzled, “—I thought school started at eight.”

“It does.” Eddie nods, slipping his wallet back into his pocket and gathering his things for work; lunch, tools, although surely he was still missing something.

“Look.” She tells him, finger pointing just past his head.

Eddie turned, eyes widening at the numbers appearing back to him.

7:50.

It was the first day and he was already starting off on the wrong foot, but given his track record, he couldn’t really be surprised.

Eddie quickly lifts Riley from the counter and places her down, letting her run for her backpack on the couch—a faded, black backpack that Eddie got from Wayne a few weeks ago; money was tight, but he always tried to make the best of their situation. He ironed a few of his old patches from his favorite bands he had stored away and even the one he’s gotten made of his old band as a joke, a true one of a kind. He wanted to save it for something special—or someone. Luckily, that was Riley.

“Alright,” He says, clapping his hands together loudly, “let’s go, go, go.”

Riley’s feet pitter patter underneath him as he chases after her, urging her out of the trailer—the one he rented out just beside his uncle, as much as he’d hoped to get out of this town, he couldn’t think of a better place to be held up in.

Eddie’s never been a stickler for rules—and he makes it with a couple minutes to spare, but no one needed to know about him driving a smidge over the speed limit to get Riley to school on time.

He feels immensely underdressed around the other crowd of parents—and noticing the one obvious factor, most of them were women. He realizes it shouldn’t matter much, but it was also painfully obvious that he was all over the place, clothes slightly dirtied from grease stains and general car grossness. It didn’t matter how much he washed them, the stains were coming out.

Riley’s eager, unbuckling herself and opening her own door before Eddie can even reach her, suffocating his hand in a tight grip as she yanks him along, humming along to a tune that Eddie can only guess is from a morning cartoon. When it came to music she sang her heart out, an obvious sign that he was hers—she loved music.

“Come on, dad,” She complains, Eddie’s feet keeping up with her hurried steps, “we can’t be late.”

“For a five year old you’re incredibly bossy.” Eddie notes, her giggling trailing down the hall as they entered the school.

She eyes the walls with rapt attention, all decked out with arts and crafts, eye-grabbing from every angle. Eddie had made a point to remember the name of his teacher, at least, if anything. So, when she trails just a little further than she needs to, Eddie’s pulling her back with a hand against her chest.

“Woah, hold your horses.” Eddie chuckles, her body knocking into his chest as he knelt down. “Do you want me to walk you in or are you okay?”

The soft scuff of soles on the tile floor pull Eddie’s attention up, eyes landing on you. You offer a friendly smile amongst the chaos—crying kids, worried parents, and all the restless energy a small child could carry this early in the morning.

“Hi.” You greet cheerfully, addressing yourself formally, hand extended for him to shake. Eddie’s still squatting at Riley’s side but his hand extends too, enveloping yours in a gentle grip, a polite handshake.

You sense the nervousness of the young girl before you, squatting down to her level as well, “You must be Riley.” You guess accordingly, seeming as she was the last kid on your list to show up, her face beamed with a brightness that was entirely too infectious. You introduce yourself to her too, shaking her smaller hand in greeting.

“Alright kid,” Eddie pats her back softly, standing slowly as his knees groan in protest. Eddie was nearing his thirties and not nearly as nimble as before, with a mix of aging and his job it seemed like his body was wearing away faster than he liked, “you ready?”

“Oh,” You interrupt, standing too, “you can come inside and see where’s she sitting if you’d like and if you have any quick questions I can answer them.”

Eddie blanks for a moment, but is quickly pulled out of it when Riley tugs at his hand in excitement, “Okay, just a couple minutes, Ri—I can’t be late for work.” Eddie follows along dutifully, narrowly missing the flurry of tiny people that run past him.

Riley arrives at the desk in a hurry, taking her seat and examining her area. “Look daddy,” She points out, “the desk has my name.”

“Yep, baby,” Eddie nods, smoothing out her tattered curls, still beating himself up over not taking the time to make them look better, “can you read it?”

Riley nods enthusiastically, “Riley Munson,” she sounds out, “Duh, I know my name.”

Eddie chuckles at that and you can’t help but laugh. She was a character for sure, but most of the kids were, blossoming personalities and all.

You interrupt for a moment, leaning down to Riley’s level again, “And we even get to decorate these with cool stickers!”

Riley gasps in joy, staring up at Eddie with wide, glistening eyes.

“She loves stickers,” Eddie tells you, “Uh—I should probably already know this, but what time is pickup?”

“Oh, you’re fine.” You assure him, noting his frazzled state. It was common for parents, specifically first timers. “Three is when we actually let them out, but the line can get pretty long so it’s always better to show up early if you can.”

Eddie nods slowly, glancing around the room. He’s never been one to care what people think of him or his appearance, but in this setting it feels magnified. “Sorry, I feel a little underdressed.”

You quickly shake your head, watching as a young girl approaches Riley. You nod toward the door, silently asking Eddie to follow. He bids her a quick goodbye and a kiss in the crown of her head which she could care less about, already chattering to her newfound friend.

“Don’t feel like an outcast,” You tell him, “it’s definitely not worth beating yourself up over.”

Eddie had been there his entire life, he wasn’t sure he could ever escape that.

Oddly, it comforts Eddie for the moment. “Shit—wait shoot,” Eddie fumbles over his words, voice hushed as he realizes his mistake, “I’m Eddie by the way, I probably should’ve started with that.”

You laugh in amusement, nose scrunching up slightly. You’re far enough from earshot that their impressionable ears can’t hear, but it’s still charming that he tries to save himself.

“Well Eddie,” You say with a lilt to your voice, “if we run into any issues—which I’m sure we won’t—we’ll give you a call.”

Eddie nods, “Okay uh,” He points toward Riley sparingly, “she can be a little—headstrong, so if she gives you problems—“

“I can handle her,” You assure him, leaning forward with a quiet whisper, “it’s kind of my job.”

Eddie smiles at that, a nervous laugh rumbling through his chest. He needs to excuse himself before he embarrasses himself further.

“Okay, three. I’ll be here.” He tells you, loose curls bouncing over his shoulders as he moves.

“And I’ll see you then.” You nod, watching as he hurriedly leaves then, bolting out faster that you can process. Considering how daunting days like this could be for parents, he was still handling it surprisingly well.

The day is just as hectic as you’d expect. A few meltdowns later and a messy lunch with over a hundred rambunctious kids and you’re all out of energy for the day but keep it up until the very last minute of the school day, letting each child pick a sticker to put on their own name tag on their desk—it’s an easy way to give the kids an outlet to express themselves and show of their personality, plus, the kids loved the stickers.

Pickup is gradual, the children leaving in troves until there’s only a few left, lingering around the hall as they wait for their rides. You find Riley perched on a bench outside of your classroom, fiddling with the laces on her shoes, frayed from wear and tear as she attempts to re-tie them. She huffs dramatically when she can’t figure it out, shoulder slumping as she frowns

You approach with a weary caution, taking a seat next to her on the bench. She doesn’t immediately look up at you, kicking the toes of her shoes together. “Stupid,” She grumbled, “stupid shoes.”

“Do you need help?” You ask sweetly.

“I don’t know how,” She expresses dramatically, “I try and the loop doesn’t work. My daddy ties my shoes for me.”

“Well, Riley—would you like me to teach you?” You ask.

She nods enthusiastically, clumsily turning to place her feet in your lap, staring up at you expectantly. You laugh softly, making a show of taking the two strings in your hand, guiding her through the motions as she watches, cataloging every step. She helps you sing, bouncing with energy.

“Okay, your turn.” You tell her, watching as she fiddles with laces, murmuring a ‘bunny ears, bunny ears’ under her breath as she focuses, tongue slipping out past her lips in concentration. It takes her a moment, struggling to get the lace under the loop, but eventually she gets it. You erupt in a soft cheer, shaking your fists up in celebration. Riley beams a toothy grin that lingers, her eyes squinting with how big she’s smiling.

You take a peek at your watch, reading it to yourself. 3:15. It wasn’t unusual for late parents, as a few kids were also lingering about, but while they were antsy and anxious to leave, Riley sat quietly, attention turned up toward a spot on the ceiling as she waited.

You wait a bit longer in silence, listening to Riley sing the lyrics to a faintly familiar rock song, much to mature for her ears—but that can only be the product of her father, which you couldn’t really fault him for. Kids were just as good at paying attention as they were being passive, it was all subjective and only when they wanted to.

By 3:30 you’re a little more concerned, Riley being the last kid left and not a car or parent in sight.

She sighs exasperated, playing with the loose string on her jumper, “Daddy’s late isn’t he?”

“A little,” You nod, “Is this normal? Does it happen a lot?”

You weren’t trying to point fingers or scrutinize anyone, just simply prodding for more information.

“My dad works on cars—s’why he looks dirty all the time.” She explains, her words mixing together. “Sometimes the men are mean and keep him at work late.”

“Oh dear,” You sigh slightly, “well, I guess we’ll have to do something to keep us busy.”

You didn’t leave until late into the evening anyways, closer to five—and it wasn’t the first time you’ve had to keep a kid past the normal pickup time, though it had been a while.

“Do you like to color?” You ask curiously.

Riley perks up suddenly, nodding.

“Well, you’re in luck, Riley.” You tell her, hand held out for her to grab, leading her into the classroom and setting her at a separate table away from the desks. She waits patiently, feeling squeaking against the linoleum as she watches you move around, grabbing a box of crayons and a few spare drawing pages for her to color in. “Can you work on this for me?”

Riley nods again, furiously sifting through the colors and getting to work, scribbling a dark red crayon onto the paper.

You slip away for a moment, crossing the hall to the office and attempting to find someone—anyone that you can check in with, wondering where Eddie was. The secretary pops her head out of the lounge room suddenly, eyeing you curiously.

“Hey, the little one, Riley Munson—has anyone come to ask for her yet?” You ask, “I wanted to make sure she didn’t get lost in the bunch?”

“That’s Eddie Munson’s kid, right?” The older lady asks, a gruffness to her voice from years of smoking. “Huh.”

Huh. You make an annoyed face as she turns her back, walking toward her desk.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask.

“That kid has never had his life together,” She tells you, having known Eddie when he attended Hawkins, “I used to write tardy slips for him everyday—boy would come in smelling of weed almost every day, he’s always been trouble.”

“Weren’t we all trouble in high school?” You ask daringly.

“Not like him,” She tells you, “repeated his senior year three times and didn’t graduate until he was twenty.”

You roll your eyes subtly, the judgment oozing from her in waves. “Can you just call her emergency number and see if we can get someone to pick her up?”

The older woman responds with a noise, picking up the phone between her brittle fingers, startled rightly when someone bursts through the front entrance, keys jingling in their hand.

“God, I’m so sorry—“ Eddie looks even more stressed out than earlier, his face slightly dirty and a greased up handkerchief shoved in his backpacker, “where is she?”

The old lady watched with a pointed look as you nod toward your classroom, avoiding her gaze as you turn your back.

“I’ve got her busy in my room,” You tell him, leading him toward your door silently, “she’s been very good considering.”

“I promise it’s not always like this,” Eddie says defensively, “today has just—it’s been a day.”

You stop him just outside the entrance, hand placed gently against his chest to still him.

“It’s okay,” You tell him honestly, “but this can’t be a regular thing. You either need to have someone available to pick her up after school on time or work something out with administration. I don’t mind staying after—but I can get in trouble if she stays too late.”

“Look, I mean it—this is the only time.” He stressed, eyes pleading in hopes that you won’t judge him too harshly.

You couldn’t. You would never. You weren’t in a place to judge anyone.

You nod in understanding, extending your trust. “She’s coloring—go ahead.” You tell him, letting him walk in before you.

Riley can hear the footsteps before she spots you both, her chair skidding against the floor as she bolts toward the door, barreling toward Eddie. He picks her up with ease, scooping her up onto his hip, coloring pages forgotten.

“I missed you.” He tells her, fingers squeezing gently at her side. She laughs, hugging him tight despite his dirtiness.

“I miss’d you.” She says softly, arms squeezing around him even further. Eddie smiles, burying his face into her bundle of curls placed lopsided on top of her head.

Eddie pulls away after a moment, looking over at you. “I’m so sorry.” He apologizes again and you’re starting to sense a theme.

“No need,” You insist, “but come Monday—“

Eddie nods, “I’ll be on time.”

And for whatever odd reason, you believed him.

You smile at him then at Riley, features softening as she peaks at you from over Eddie’s shoulder.

“I’ll see you on Monday Riley, okay?” You speak to her.

“Yes!” She cheers, leaning over to whisper into Eddie’s ear.

Eddie leans in, laughing at whatever she was saying to him. Eddie pulls away, nodding at Riley in agreement.

“She said you can call her Ri,” Eddie explains, “which is a very prestigious honor, right?” Eddie turns to Riley, her face scrunching up in confusion.

“Prisigious?” Riley repeats in an innocent tone, “Dad, that’s not a word.”

“Oh, it is Ms. Ri,” You respond matter of factually, “prestigious,” You sound out, “it means super important and special, like you.”

Eddie watches the interaction in a happy silence, the exchange more endearing than anything he’s ever witnessed. It had always taken a while for Riley to warm up to new people, which is why he had been so nervous for her first day, but it all seemed ridiculous now after watching the two of you interact.

“Thank you.” Eddie says suddenly, eyes connecting with yours.

It startles you for a moment, face pulling up in a confused smile.

“For?”

“Not judging, I guess.” He shrugs, “And keeping her company.”

You chuckle softly, “It’s kind of my job, Mr. Munson.”

Eddie grimaces at that, “God—am I that old? We can stick to first names, right?”

And truly, you’re only teasing. You nod in response, waving a warm goodbye to Riley as Eddie grabbed her backpack, shrugging it over his own shoulder.

“Byeeee,” She sings, hand waving over Eddie's shoulder as he triggers her along, more than eager to get her out of your hair, Eddie does mumble to Riley for a moment before she screams out again, “—my daddy said bye too!”

Riley was a character, that was for sure. But seeing her with Eddie, it all made sense.

Eddie keeps his promise, the next month of school going off without a hitch. Riley is there on time, every morning, hell or high water, and she’s just as chipper as you would expect from someone her age. Eddie doesn’t come inside often, only on the few days that Riley has a hard time rolling out of bed, so you don’t see him that often—not that you wanted to.

You totally didn’t want to. Either way, it didn’t matter.

October is one of the few months that you can enjoy real fun with the kids—holidays always have their positives, as well as their negatives. But, the kids loved crafts and so did you.

A week out from Halloween and you had purchased a full box of small pumpkins for your kids, one for each, and all the crafts you could imagine—paints, markers, stuff for making silly faces or glitter bombing their pumpkin. You’d made it clear about messes and the kids had followed for the most part.

But, you could only expect so much from a group of six year olds. And in hindsight, you never expected your degree to end up with you constantly hovering around a group of kids hoping they wouldn’t eat the glue sticks or shove crayons up their noses—unfortunately, that was your life.

You wouldn’t change it for a thing.

And it’s almost peaceful until the time for cleanup comes and there’s a rushed call of your name, the tiny panicked tone sending you into fight or flight, turning on your heels to spot where the voice is coming from.

When you do, it lands on her. Little Riley, covered in paint—her face, hair, clothes, and a boy at her side caught red-handed, quickly dropping the paint when your eyes flick to him. You steady yourself with a deep breath before going back into teacher mode, instructing the rest of the class to sit on the rug at the front of the class room with their legs crossed, grabbing both of the kids gently by the hand and walking them out of the classroom, luckily coming face to face with another teacher who happened to be on break from her class while they attended their specials class, practically begging her to watch the rest of the class for the time being.

“Fifteen minutes, that’s all I need.” You tell her and she agrees.

When you’re finally alone with the two you kneel, taking the younger boy’s hands in yours, calming their insistent shaking.

“You’re not in trouble,” You tell him, Evan, the younger boy responsible, “but do you realize what you did wrong?”

He nods silently.

“I get big emotions too, trust me.” You tell him softly, “But, we can’t take them out on others. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“He made fun of my clothes!” Riley interrupts with a screech, eyes welling with tears. “He said I dress like a boy.”

“Is that true?” You ask him, receiving a shameful nod.

“It’s not fun being picked on,” You explain to him, “how would you feel if Riley said you dressed silly?”

“Sad.” He answers softly.

“Exactly.” You smile slightly, “Can you apologize to Riley?”

He turns to her, unable to meet her tiny, heated gaze.

“I’m sorry, Riley.”

You stare at Riley pointedly, her arms crossed over her chest in defiance. There’s a silent pleading that she seems to understand, chewing on her bottom lip as she relents.

“It’s okay.” She tells him, “I forgive you.”

You nod, satisfied. “Okay, Evan—head back to class, please.”

The boy walks slowly, head hung in shame and embarrassment at having been caught and doing what he did—this behavior was all too familiar and not new in any way.

“He’s stupid.” Riley says with a bite, face smeared with paint.

“Riley,” You warn, “we don’t call people that.”

“Did you say anything to him after he made fun of your clothes?” You ask, hoping to get to the bottom of their little squabble.

“I called him stupid.” She says—it’s almost impossible not to laugh, but you mask it well, gaze flitting up toward the ceiling as Riley flicks the paint off of her hand and wipes them against her ruined overalls, the shirt underneath barely unscathed.

“Can I let you in on a secret, Ri?” You ask, kneeling down in front of her. She nods slowly, giving you her hands. You did it often with the kids, finding that it calmed them the quickest. “All boys are stupid.”

Riley smiles slightly, giggling quietly.

You sigh, taking a glance at her and then her outfit.

“Your dad doesn’t pack extra clothes for you, does he?”

Riley shakes her head, pigtails swinging wildly.

You huff, “Okay—let’s brainstorm.”

“Brain…storm?” Riley asks curiously.

You nod, “Yeah, like…come up with ideas. It’s just a silly word for it.”

Riley ponders for a moment, lips pursing together in thought.

She sighs after a moment, “My brain is empty, no storms.”

You laugh audibly, a short giggle as you stare fondly at the girl.

“Actually,” The thought hits you suddenly, “I think we have some spare clothes in the office, we could take our chances and see if there’s anything in your size. If not, I’ll have to call your dad.”

“No, no—“ She says hurriedly, “don’t call my dad, please.”

You since her concern, eyebrow raising in question.

“I broke his rule.” She frowns, “I gave Evan a mean look and I called him stupid.”

You smile tensely, trying to weigh how to explain things to her, before settling on, “I think he’ll understand, Ri. But, I’ll try my hardest so we don’t have to.”

The best you can do is a god awful pair of pink corduroy pants in her size, which she very loudly states she dislikes.

“Ew!” She says in disgust. “Can I stay in these, please?”

“Riley,” You stress, “You have to change.”

She slumps in defeat, not putting up much of a fight. She holds her hands out begrudgingly, making small grabbing fists until you hand them over, quickly skittering off to the bathroom.

When she returns, she looks even more annoyed, but cleaner.

“My face,” She frowns, “it’s sticky.”

“Yep, kiddo.” You nod, taking her ruined overalls and stuffing them into a plastic bag before tying them off, leaving them for Eddie to pick up later. “I’ve got wipes in my classroom and we’ll get you cleaned up.”

It’s a struggle, but you do manage to get most of the paint cleaned up while the other teacher manages your class, holding their attention with a book she read out loud, letting you deal with Riley in silence. Her hair is a challenge, still sticky and hardened with paint—you manage what you can, undoing her pigtails and wiping out as much paint as possible before braiding the hair back nicely and keeping it out of her face. She feels the bumps in her hair curiously, making a face.

“Braids.” You explain. “Have you ever had them?”

“Daddy can’t do them.” She tells you. “I like piggies. But I also like the braids.”

“Well, maybe you can bribe him into learning if you like them a lot.” You tell her, helping her down from the desk she was perched on. “But, I can always do it for you if you really want them on a certain day.”

You urged her back toward the group of kids, watching as she took a seat toward the rear, hands twisted in her lap as she listened quietly—she seemed less comfortable, more outcast than normal, and while Riley had a big personality—it wasn’t showing now.

When Eddie arrives later that day for pickup, it’s a flurry of emotions. Riley immediately bursts into tears when she sees him, still one of the last kids to be picked up—but he’s not too late.

He stares up at you with a myriad of questions and you hand the dirty clothes over wordlessly. He glances at Riley, nudging her face away from his shoulder. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?”

Riley looks up at you desperately, frown pulling at her face.

“Ri, why don’t you go play over at the table,” You suggest, “the toys are in the bin underneath.”

She nods, letting go of Eddie in an instant.

When she’s finally busied herself, you pull Eddie aside, leaning against the edge of your desk. “There was a little incident today. A boy teased Riley for her clothes and she called him stupid,” You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest, “we were decorating pumpkins and there was some paint involved—the other kid spilled paint all over her.”

“And no one called me?” Eddie asks, frustration evident in his face.

You held your hands up defensively, “Riley was very insistent that I don’t—luckily we had some spare clothes in the office.”

“Why—why wouldn’t she want you to call me?”

“She said she broke your rules,” You explain to him, “whatever that means. Regardless, I tried to clean her up as best I could. She still has a bit of paint in her hair.”

Eddie glances over at his daughter, still frowning as she plays. He knew the sadness was temporary, but damn if he wasn’t playing into it. He notices the braids a half second later, glancing back at you briefly and then toward her again.

“Sorry if I overstepped—her hair was a bit of a mess.” You admit to him, “I won’t do it again if you don’t want me to.”

Eddie laughs slightly, “No—it’s fine. I’m at a complete loss when it comes to that stuff.” He scratches at his cheek, grime covered rings leaving a dark mark against his skin in the process. You smile to yourself, pulling a wipe from the packet and handing it over.

“It’s—you got something on your face.” You tell him, pointing to the spot.

“Here?”

“No,” You point again, Eddie moves a smidgen over but still isn’t in the right spot, “—just, here, give me it—“ Eddie hands over the wipe and waits for you to clean away the mark, leaning toward you slightly.

“She’s had a rough day,” You tell him quietly, wiping at his face until it’s gone, tossing the wipe into the trash, “and maybe paint with a bunch of six year olds wasn’t too smart, but I think you’ll really like what she made.”

Eddie eyes you suspiciously, watching as you call out to Riley.

“Hey Ri, did you want to show your dad what you made today?”

She perks up slightly, skittering over to her desk in hurry as she fetches the small pumpkin before handing it over to Eddie.

“It’s you, daddy!” She beams, pointing out the dark marks that were supposed to be hair, comically wide eyes and a half smile on the front. He turned it, seeing the small group of bats she drew on the back. He smiles, rubbing tenderly at her chin.

“I wasn’t sure what the bats were all about but she insisted.”

“Oh,” Eddie notes, pulling his sleeve up to show off his inked up arm—and really, it didn’t shock you much, “that’s why.”

“Crap, Ri—I almost forgot,” You tell her, rounding your desk to open the drawer housing the pages of stickers, “I need you to pick out a sticker for your desk.”

She gasps excitedly, yanking away from Eddie without hesitation and running to your side, fingers dragging along the page until she finds the one she wants, letting you pluck it from the paper and hand it over.

Eddie knows he’ll still have to sit and talk with Riley when they get home to make sure she’s working through her emotions correctly instead of bottling them up—something he was much too guilty of as a teenager. He hates seeing her repeat the same habits he did, doing as much as he could to avoid it.

Eddie’s quick to thank you again and again, a strange habit he’s formed around you. Oddly enough, you couldn’t find it in yourself to stop him.

Grocery shopping is always an adventure with Riley. Eddie never had a list of things he needed, more or less just picking out whatever sounded good, but that also meant an unhealthy amount of snacks being piled in the cart. Eddie didn’t have it in him to tell Riley to put things back, knowing she’d pull out the big guns. Some would call him weak—he was, he could admit that.

“Can you reach it?” Eddie asked, Riley hoisted up onto his shoulders to reach the cereal box on the top shelf. It definitely wasn’t the safest option, but it was working.

“Higher!” She instructed, grunting out as she stretched, “Ha—gotcha!”

Eddie laughs, “Are we good?”

No response, a small amount of wiggling on his shoulders.

“Ri?”

She gasps suddenly, screaming out your name from over the aisle—Eddie rightfully panics, hoisting her off of his shoulders carefully.

“Riley, you can’t scream in public like that.” Eddie tells her, pulling the cereal box from her grip.

“But…Ms.—“ Riley defends feebly, her fingers pouting to the aisle over.

You did spot her, in fact, giving her a quick wave and a cheeky smile as you pushed your cart down the aisle, making your way through the store. When you round the corner, Eddie and her are still standing there arguing, animated enough that you stand back, not wanting to interrupt.

Eddie stares up at you after a moment, eyes already speaking an apology.

“Stop,” You tell him suddenly, a grin breaching your face, “no apologies, it’s not necessary.”

“I was going to apologize for my child’s lack of filter,” Eddie says, pulling gently at Riley’s ear, “but I guess she was just really excited to see you.”

“As I am you, miss.” You tell her softly, offering out your fist to her. She bumps it gently, giggling up at Eddie.

The silence that settles is bordering on awkward, both of you deciding to speak at the same time.

“So, you shop here—“

“You’re in the way of—“

Eddie chuckles awkwardly, “You first.”

“You’re in the way of the cereal I was going to grab.” You inform, waving toward that side of the aisle.

“Oh, shit.” He curses, quickly shoving his cart out of the way.

“Dad,” Riley sings, a telltale sign that Eddie had done something wrong, “that’s another dollar.”

“How about I buy you a chocolate bar and we call it even?” Eddie barters, staring the small child down.

She contemplates for a moment, “Deal.”

“She’s clever.” You note with a smirk, reaching around Eddie to grab the box of cereal before shoving it in your cart.

“And a handful.” Eddie adds fondly.

“Dad,” Riley pokes at Eddie’s side, “Dad, daddyyyy.”

“What, Ri?” He asks, turning to her.

“Can we invite her over for dinner?” She asks innocently, a grin appearing on her face, hopeful optimism some would call it.

“Riley—she’s your teacher, I can’t do that.”

“It’s not against any rules.” You shrug, mouth speaking before your brain can process. “I wouldn’t want to intrude though, that would be very nice of me.”

Eddie quickly answers, “Uh, you wouldn’t actually.”

“He’s making my favorite!” Riley interjects.

“And what’s that?” You ask with a similar enthusiasm.

“Spaghetti!” It was a mouthful for her to say, but you understand her well enough.

You shrug, glancing up at Eddie. “I don’t know, she’s selling me a pretty good dinner.”

“Would you?” Eddie asks, “Want to?”

“I don’t see why not?” You ask redundantly, “I would’ve ended up grabbing a pizza on my way home anyways—so why not some real Italian food?”

Eddie looks at you with an uneasy expression, “I don’t know about real—or Italian, but I promise it’ll be edible.”

“I’m sold.” You admit, slipping out a pen and paper from your purse, “Give me your address and the time I should be there.”

Riley is a tiny ball of excitement, yanking at the unoccupied hand Eddie left by his side as scribbled down on the notepad before handing it back to you. You note the information before slipping it back into your purse.

“Well Ri, I guess I’ll see you in a couple hours.” You tell her with a smile before looking up at Eddie, “Should I bring anything?”

“No, no—it’ll be our treat, right?” He asks, looking down at his daughter.

“Yep!” She pops the word, bouncing on her heels.

Even being around her energy was enough to exhaust you, so you could only imagine how Eddie was feeling. You offer a friendly wave to both of them before disappearing down the aisle, wondering what the hell just happened.

The moment you arrive at the trailer park, your heart feels like it’s going to pound out of your chest—not out of fear or nervousness, but mostly out of the unknown. It was the first time you’ve interacted with parents outside of work, not that you made it a habit, but you have befriended a few. It was a natural thing that happened and nothing that ever felt forced—with Eddie, it was strangely comfortable despite how little you knew about him, or Riley, even.

You pull to a stop outside the pale blue trailer, the front yard a mixture of new flowers and some wilted away, a few small statues of animals that you could guess were a product of Riley. You can hear her on the other side of the door before you even knock, belting out a song at the top of her lungs.

You knock loudly in hopes that Eddie can hear, thankfully he does, opening the door in record time—strangely fast when you take time to think about. You smile at the thought of him having been waiting at the door, then feeling ridiculous for even having that thought.

“You’re just in time,” Eddie says, slightly out of breath, “Riley’s putting on a show in the living room.”

You take in his appearance fully now, unashamed—he’s cleaner obviously, his hair looks more thought out and poised, small ringlet curls falling around his face and his bangs looking straighter, like he might’ve cut them. He’s got a pair of jeans on and a clean shirt, stain free—socks covering his feet, a pile of shoes stuffed by the door.

You step inside, toeing off your shoes wordlessly and placing your bag and coat on the coat hanger behind the door. Eddie shuts the door for you, nodding in the direction of the noise coming from several feet away.

“Is that Nirvana?” You ask curiously, turning your head back toward Eddie.

“She’s a character, I know,” Eddie feels the need to state, but that was already blatantly obvious, “it’s one of her favorite bands.”

You shrug, feeling indifferent.

“You don’t like them?” Eddie asks, noticing your stagnant expression.

“I don’t listen to much music.” You admit, “I don’t really have the time unless it is something from Barney or one of those silly education videos we show the kids.”

Eddie looks pained to hear it, eyebrows shooting up under his bang. Riley notices you then, hopping off of the couch and running toward you, arms wrapping around your legs in a tight hug.

“You made it,” She says, “daddy said dinner was almost done.”

“It is,” He confirms, setting the plates down on the kitchen table as he wanders around finishing things up, “you can sit, if you want.”

You opt against it, waiting until Riley busies herself with something else, joining Eddie near the kitchen stove, tapping your fingers against the kitchen counter gently.

“Smells good,” You tell him honestly, the scent invading your nose, “I can’t even remember the last time I cooked for myself.”

“She keeps me in check,” He nods behind him, “otherwise I’d be ordering carry out everyday like I was still in high school.”

You smile at that, silently agreeing—it was your current reality, but you also didn’t have the same responsibilities Eddie did.

You look around curiously, eyes falling on the jar placed on the shelf a few feet away, labeled ‘swear jar’ and by the looks of it, it was definitely time for a new one. Eddie looks up briefly to catch you staring at things, chuckling loudly behind you.

“I already know,” Eddie tells you, “It’s a terrible habit and I’ve tried to break it, we’re still working on it, clearly.”

You smile fondly, watching as Riley scattered her toys on the floor. “I try to keep it constrained around the kids, but it slips out every now and then. You just have to get creative, come up with other words—otherwise she’ll be saying fuck in public and I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing.”

Eddie gawks at your vulgar use of the words, face splitting into a subtle smile. “Too late.” He tells you.

You couldn’t even act surprised. Eddie nods knowingly at your expression, turning off the stove.

“Could you do me a huge favor?” Eddie asks.

“Anything.” You nod.

“Let Riley know the food is done and get her to the table—she can be a little hard headed about it.”

If there was anyone to combat that, it was you.

It only takes one try, much to Eddie’s obvious frustration as he glares Riley down—the young girl knew exactly what she was doing and he couldn’t fault her for it, she was clever.

“Do you want a beer?” Eddie calls from the kitchen.

You glance over at Riley who’s oblivious to the conversation, dragging her spoon along the empty plate. And as much as you would normally say yes, you can’t bring yourself to do it now.

“Uh no, I’ll be okay.” You tell him, waving your hand dismissively. Eddie shrugs nonchalantly, grabbing himself one.

Dinner is pleasant—and delicious. Riley takes up most of the talking points—her favorite animals, her favorite shows, and all the cool things she’s learned at school, not that you didn’t already know about them. But, she’s also terrible at stopping intrusive thoughts, much like any young kid is, and her questions catch you off guard every now and then.

“Are you married?” Coming from her, it sounds ridiculous—but she’s pointing at the ring on your hand with a curious look, her fingertip dragging over the gem.

“Riley.” Eddie reprimands, “Stop being nosey.”

Eddie was just as curious, but that didn’t matter.

“No, sweetheart—I’m not.” You tell her honestly with a short laugh and a head shake. “It was a present I got when I finished school.”

Riley’s lips puff out, thinking. “School like I do?—but you’re old.”

Eddie hangs his head slightly, taking a big chug of his beer.

It’s nothing you haven’t heard before, “I am.” You nod in agreement, “But no, it’s a little different. It’s school for grownups—it’s how I became a teacher.”

“Oh.” Is all she says, satisfied with your answer.

There’s a beat of silence before she turns to her father.

“Can I have a ring when I finish school?” She asks innocently.

“Sure.” Eddie agrees, downing the last bite on his plate.

Late dinners had become a habit lately with Eddie’s job not being as convenient as it used to—long hours, angry customers, it was a monotonous cycle but that money was good. Eddie really couldn’t complain, he’d just wished there was more time for Riley.

“Hey, squirt—go brush your teeth and get ready for bed.” Eddie tells her. She slumps a little, frowning over at you.

Eddie gives her a look—you’ve seen it several times before from many parents. Riley sighs in defeat and slips from her chair, stomping away quietly. You glance down at the dishes, then the sink before looking at Eddie. He’s got that distracted stare on his face as he turns, finishing off his beer as he watches Riley disappear into the bathroom.

“Why don’t you help her?” You suggest, “I can clean this up and you can get her into bed?”

Eddie looks uncertain, “No—I can—“

“It’s the least I can do,” You insist, “seriously—it’s not a problem.”

Eddie knows there’s no reason to argue, placing the empty bottle down on the table and meeting up with Riley down the hall, a squeal echoing through the trailer as he bursts through the doorway.

Eddie’s gotten Riley into a routine pretty easily, so it doesn’t take much for her to fall asleep besides a quick bedtime story while she snuggles up to Eddie before she’s out like a light and he’s sneaking out of her room, pulling the door closed slowly until it finally clicks shut.

You’d already managed to get most of the dishes washed by then—plates, silverware, cups, save for the giant pot that Eddie had cooked in.

“I can handle the rest if you need to leave.” Eddie says quietly, voice still low as he walks into the kitchen, flipping off the other lights as he goes. “Also—I’m sorry if you felt obligated to do this. Riley really likes you and sometimes she grows these…attachments.”

You take the clean towel he hands you, drying your hands as you turn to him, hip pressed against the counter as you lean there. “She’s not the first, trust me. I see those kids almost everyday and for the younger ones it’s a little…tricky, I guess.”

“Tricky?” Eddie asks curiously, sensing your apprehension around the word. He tossed the pot into the sink and scrubbed quietly, listening to you talk.

“Some of the kids don’t have the best home life, I try to keep things positive and cheerful—as much as I can, at least. Kids love being surrounded by love and I try to emulate that. The ones with divorced parents or just one even—you can tell they just need someone to understand them.”

Eddie tries not to think about it often—his past, his present, how Riley has to survive this world without her mom. He knows she’ll be safe and protected for the rest of her life, Eddie would make sure of it. But, for a kid to grow up without a mother—he knows the pain personally and it bothers Riley, even at this age and no matter how good she is at masking it.

Eddie huffs out a faint laugh, drying out the dish before placing it on the dish rack next to the sink, pressing his hands against the edge of the counter.

“I don’t ever mean to press or pry,” You assure Eddie, “but if Riley ever needs anything, tell me. I extend that to all of the parents but—she’s—“

“Different.” Eddie answers for you, a smile pulling at his face.

“She’s incredibly smart, you know.” You inform him, backing up slowly as he follows, reaching for your things to leave. “She picks up on words like nothing, she can do math in her head really well—you’ve got a tiny little genius on your hands.”

“Yeah—I’ve been helping her with her homework, she keeps telling me we need to brainstorm,” Eddie tells you, throwing his finger up to do air quotes, “when we get stuck on a problem.”

Your nose scrunches up in amusement as you find your coat over your arms, “That was definitely my fault.” You admit.

Eddie follows you out like a gentleman despite the frigid wind, hands shoved deep into his back pockets. He opens your door, the metal groaning in protest—it was an old car, reliable, trustworthy, and as your key turns in the ignition, nothing happens.

Scratch reliable—it was a piece of shit, through and through.

You rest your forehead against the steering wheel, mumbling a low, “Fuck me.”

Eddie takes a step forward, leaning between your open door to poke his head inside, “I can take a look if you want.”

You rub your hands over your face in frustration, looking up at him sheepishly. “I really don’t want to bother you with it.”

“Come on,” Eddie smiles, “I work on cars for a living, I think I’ll survive.”

You wave your hand toward the hood of your car in response. Eddie taps the hood of your car absentmindedly, rounding the front as you pull on the pedal near the floor to pop the hood open. He leans down, out of view, and you can’t help but follow after him, leaning into his space slightly as he examines your engine.

You wouldn’t even know where to start or what cord goes to what point or however it all worked—fortunately for Eddie, it only takes him a few minutes to figure it out.

Eddie makes a face of concentration as he reaches further inside, pulling at a small part until he can hold it in his hand, inspecting it further.

“Shit, yeah—“ Eddie says, confirming his suspicions, “you need new spark plugs.”

Your eyebrows knit together in obvious confusion.

“I can clean them up a bit and we can hope it starts—but you’ll need to buy new ones soon, otherwise this is gonna keep happening.” Eddie tells you, using the end of his shirt to wipe away the built up residue, your mouth dropping in shock.

“Eddie, what the—“ You quickly yank the spark plug from his hand, “that shirt is clean, what are you doing?”

Eddie’s a little startled, given your immediate reaction. He stumbles out an awkward laugh and gently pries the spark plug from your grip. “They’re just clothes.”

And you do feel bad, but it’s become your second nature to stop messes, keep kids clean, and slip into the normal habit of being a teacher and in turn, a bit motherly.

Eddie’s faze doesn’t linger from yours, watching as you deflated slightly. “Sorry—I can’t help it.”

“I get it,” Eddie grins slightly, “but don’t worry, it’s an old shirt anyways.”

Your cheeks run hot, triggered by embarrassment and something you were too afraid to admit.

And if Eddie sees it, he doesn’t say anything.

He fiddles with the car a moment longer before finally closing the hood, “Try it now.”

It does start—with some moaning and groaning, but it works and that’s satisfying enough for you.

“Thank you.” You tell him, looking up at him from where’s squeezed between the car and the door again, dark grease stains staring you in the face—along with a lot more, but you quickly turn away.

“No problem,” He shrugs, “—hey, why don’t you bring it to the shop when you have time?”

“Are you sure?” You ask.

It’s a recurring theme with you two, constantly afraid of offending the other or doing something out of line.

“Yeah,” He nods, “It’ll save the hassle of you being overpriced or selling something you don’t need. I can have it done in an hour.”

“Small problem,” You tell him begrudgingly, “I’m pretty sure I work the same hours you do—so that makes it nearly impossible.”

“Are you busy next Saturday?” He asks boldly, no easing into it.

“No.” You answer hesitantly, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Stop by here and I’ll drive you up to the shop,” He tells you, “I’ve got a set of keys so it won’t be a problem.”

“Do you do this for all your customers?” You ask with a soft laugh.

“Only the special ones,” Eddie replies with a wide grin, bordering on flirtatious, “—Riley would have my head if she found out you needed help and I didn’t at least try.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” You respond teasingly.

Eddie shrugs in response, the smugness written all over his face. “I’ll see you on Monday.” He says, slipping the door closed gently.

You’ve never sat through a longer Sunday waiting for a dreadful Monday to come.

Eddie has a rough start to his morning, which isn’t new, but he tries to make the best of it, even if Riley is having none of it. She sobs most of the time spent getting dressed, not even allowing Eddie to touch her hair, leaving it a tangled mess atop her head. He’s learned to choose his battles, managing to get her ready and to school with enough time to spare that can allow him to drive to work without the constant worry of being late.

When you spot him you can’t help but smile, less forced and a lot more genuine than most of the ones you gave.

“Hard morning.” He mouths over Riley’s shoulder, her face tucked into his neck and arms wound tightly around it.

You frown in response, patting Riley’s back as he moves closer, “It’s okay, I hate Mondays too.” You tell her comfortingly.

“Hey, kid—you’ve gotta let go.” He tells her softly, nudging her away from his neck, “I have to get to work and you have school.”

She doesn’t move—Eddie’s face falls, a heavy sigh leaving his mouth. You hold up a finger to him, asking him to wait. He nods, slightly confused as you walk around him to his back, catching Riley’s gaze. She quickly hides her face, making a small noise.

“Tell you what,” You start, crossing your arms over your chest, “if you let go of your daddy now, I can probably have your hair braided before class starts.”

She peaks her head up slowly and you know you’ve got her attention.

“Daddy, I want down.” She tells him and Eddie scoffs lightly.

“How?” Eddie asks you with a look of disbelief, placing Riley on the floor. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve been struggling with her all morning.”

“She probably senses your frustration.” You tell him honestly.

Eddie never took his own emotions into account, looking down at Riley, her hand still latched into his.

“Besides, kids are complex but really simple,” You kneel down to Riley’s level, grabbing a single stray curl, “they all want, you just have to figure out what it is.”

“I tried touching her hair,” Eddie defends, “she wasn’t having it.”

“Because daddy makes my hair look ugly.” Riley complains softly, staring up at you with earnest eyes. You laugh to yourself, patting her hand and letting her curl her fingers around your palm.

You look up at Eddie with a sad smile, sending his rapidly growing frustration, nodding at him slightly. “Go—it’s okay.”

He scratches at his forehead, feeling horrible for wanting nothing more than to leave immediately. He prides himself on being able to handle himself well under stress, anger—every god awful emotion imaginable, but he needed a break, even if that meant leaving without a proper goodbye.

Besides, you did a perfect job at distracting Riley, playing with the ends of her hair as you asked, “One braid or two?”

“Two.” She smiles, bouncing on her heels. “Please?”

“You got it, babe.” You tell her.

You’ve experienced connections with kids before, some stronger than others, but nothing like with Riley. It was hard to comprehend, or fully imagine was capable, but you’re happy to be there for any kid, however they needed you.

The week remains meltdown free after that and Saturday rolls around quicker than you expect. When you arrive at Eddie’s trailer Riley is nowhere to be seen.

“She’s with my uncle.” Eddie explains. “He’s more like her grandpa—but yeah, he’s keeping her for the night.”

“Oh, okay.” You nod.

“I needed a break.” He admits without prompting, feeling the need to get it off his chest.

“Look, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.” You tell him politely, “I’m not in any place to judge you.”

“I know—I just, nevermind—“ He laughs awkwardly, holding his hand out, “Mind if I drive?”

“Please?" You beg, slapping the keys into his open palm.

The drive is quiet and Eddie can’t be bothered to fill it, relishing in the silence and letting it settle. His hand grips the worn out steering wheel, rings cracking against the leather. He remembers the feeling faintly, the pull in his stomach from anxiety, the fluttering butterfly feeling of the unknown. It only happened once, with Riley’s mom.

It was their first date, a girl Eddie had met by chance at one of his shows at the Hideout—he never expected her to turn his life upside down, but she did.

It feels cheap, thinking this way—that the possibility of you and him having the same experience as he did several years ago could even be possible. He barely knew you, yet he could see it. He saw it then and he saw it now. Eddie’s never believed in soulmates or one true love’s—he still doesn't. But, he’s always believed in taking chances, even if things seemed slim to none. He pushes the thought aside for now, offering a tight smile to your warm one, pulling into the entrance to the shop.

He leaves for a brief moment, unlocking the side door to raise the garage and leave enough room to fit your car inside.

You hate how it feels like you’re back in high school again, sneaking into somewhere you shouldn’t, even though you knew this wasn’t illegal and Eddie worked there. It made you feel giddy—that same naive exuberance spreading throughout your body.

When you’re finally inside and Eddie can start his work, it’s a waiting game. You wander around aimlessly, finally interrupted by Eddie’s voice, “We have a lobby if you want to sit down.” He offers, using the wrench to point in that direction.

You shake your head, gradually walking to his side.

“Are you sure it’s safe to wear your rings while you’re doing this?” You ask, pointing at his hand.

“Yes,” He says with a laugh, “I’ve done it for a little over seven years and I’ve never been hurt before.”

Eddie catches your gaze, eyebrows pulling together.

“Would it make you feel better if I took them off?” Eddie asks in a slight teasing tone, a playful way of making fun of you.

“No, no—I believe you—“ You tell him, but Eddie’s already removing them, placing them on the tray behind him.

“Better to be safe than sorry, right?” He asks with a smirk, flipping the wrench between his fingers.

Showoff, your brain screams. “Yep.” You answer meekly.

He leans over the hood, shirt riding up his back in the process, revealing an even larger ink than the one on his arm, you tilt your head and can’t help but stare, wondering what was underneath.

“Can you hand me a rag?” Eddie asks, his hand shooting behind him blindly—you don’t hear him immediately so he turns, catching where your gaze had been.

He smiles cautiously, glancing down at his chest.

“Were you—“ He points toward his back, aiming for his ass.

“No—no god, I was—I saw the tattoo on your back.” You stutter out, “I was just wondering what it was.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, lifting his shirt up with no warning, toned muscle and pale skin on display, a large intricate design of tree spreading from the side of his chest and over his right pectoral around to his back, covering a large percentage of it, “it’s not that interesting—but it’s a special one.”

“Can I ask why?”

It’s an innocent question, only wanting to understand him better.

“Uh—it’s a little silly, so don’t laugh.” Eddie prefaces, shifting his shirt back down. “I got it a couple years after I met Riley’s mom—she never like restaurants or fancy dates so we always ended up grabbing fast food and sitting out at the park under a tree.”

“That’s beautiful,” You say truthfully, “it’s beautiful.”

“It was, uh—before she passed,” Eddie clears his throat, rubbing at the back of his ear awkwardly, “anyways, it comforts Ri when she asks about her, all she really has is pictures. She’s still young though, so I try to answer questions when she has them.”

“I’m sorry.” You say, but you can tell Eddie doesn’t need to hear it. Still, he accepts it.

“It’s been a while, I’ve processed it.” Eddie tells you, “I guess it’s my dedication to her and that I’ll always be there for Riley.”

“You’re a good dad,” You tell him, a hand placed on his fidgeting ones as he twisted the spark plug in his grip, “—but I don’t think that needs to be said.”

“Yeah, but shoving my kid off on my uncle isn’t very fatherly of me.” He says, deprecating himself. “Some days are just…rough.”

Eddie turns to finish up the job with a somber look, eyebrows pulled together in concentration, managing to replace your spark plugs with brand new ones without a problem before testing to make sure your car starts with ease. It does, thankfully.

“I have those days too,” You assure him, arms crossed casually over your chest, “I know it’s not the same but I understand, to some degree.”

Eddie makes a soft ‘pfft’ sound, pulling up the front of his shirt to wipe away the sweat and grime from his face.

“A classroom full of kids all day and no way to escape,” Eddie’s voice is muffled behind the cloth, “I’d lose my fucking mind.”

You stare selfishly, eyeing the small patch of hair that disappears under his belt, the other littering did tattoos on his chest—it should feel wrong, but it doesn’t settle the immense need and want you felt in the moment.

Again, Eddie catches you.

You’re better at recovering this time, ignoring his pointed gaze and subtly raised eyebrow.

“I’m usually about ninety percent of the way there every day.” You admit sheepishly.

“I know you’re probably going to say no, but do you want a beer?” Eddie asks, “I’ve got a few stashed in the fridge in my office.”

“Yeah, actually.” You reply and Eddie pulls his bottom lip between his teeth in an effort to suppress his smile, “I will.”

“Follow me.” Eddie instructs, nodding his head in the opposite direction. You follow closely behind his quick footsteps, failing to hear the, “Oh—but watch out for the tires—“

Your feet slip out from under you and you fully prepare your face to hit the concrete, but it never does.

“Holy shit,” You gasp, “this place is like a death trap.”

Eddie chuckles loudly at that, the arms that squeezed you tight to keep you from falling finally pulling you up.

“That’s my fault,” Eddie admits, “I forgot to put them away yesterday.”

You sigh shakily, staring up at Eddie. “Once my heart stops pounding out my chest I’ll be okay.”

“Sorry.” Eddie offers a weary smile, shifting you in front of him rather than letting you trail behind. “It’s on your left, yep—and the light switch is on—nevermind, you got it.”

You laugh under your breath, scooting forward as Eddie slipped in behind you, fetching the two bottles from the fridge and slamming them on the edge of the desk, subsequently popping the caps off. You stare on with a dazed astonishment.

“No bottle opener.” He offers humorously, handing you one of the bottles. You take it from his hand, regardless of how dirty it may be from his hands that were still horribly messy.

You take a seat on the edge of the old desk, legs crossed at your ankles as you sipped at the beer. “So, how much do I owe you?”

“Oh, don’t worry about—“

“Eddie.”

“I’m not joking.”

You roll your eyes, pulling a small wad of cash out of your front pocket—it was around a hundred bucks, since you weren’t sure how expensive those parts actually were.

“Take it.” You say, shoving the money at his chest.

“No.” He answers adamantly, pushing your hand away.

“At least let me pay for the parts?”

Eddie says your name once, full tone and leaving no room for argument. “I meant it, you’ve done enough to help me out, let me repay the favor.”

“It’s my job, Eddie.” You retort, a tinge of annoyance in your tone.

“And this is mine.” He tells you. “So get over it—I’m not accepting your money.”

“You’re so infuriating.” You complain with heartfelt irritation, shoving the money back into your pocket. Eddie rolls his eyes just as enthusiastically, shifting from his spot on the wall until he’s lingering in the space between, still a comfortable few feet away.

Eddie chugs the beer like nothing while you continue to nurse yours, only taking a few measly sips.

“The ring,” Eddie asks suddenly, “you said you got it as a gift for finishing school?”

And maybe he’s just trying to start friendly conversation—but you’re not sure if you should lie again, or tell him the truth. You set the beer down, twisting the jewelry over your finger. You never talked about how it came about or the history behind it. It had always been a secret for you and you only. Unlike Eddie, you didn’t process death as easily.

“That was a lie,” You tell him honestly, extending the moment of sincerity you had with him earlier, “can I trust you with something and swear you’ll never repeat it back to anyone—even me?”

Eddie makes an odd face, trying to decipher your choice of wording. But, he nods.

“I got pregnant during my final year of college,” You start, the words hitting harder than you expect, but you swallow the painful lump in your throat, “she was due in December of that year, but I had a stillborn around six months.”

Eddie’s expression quickly shifts, eyes flicking down toward the floor.

“It’s her birthstone—“ You say, holding out your hand weakly as Eddie reaches for it, looking at the stone embedded in the silver, “she probably would’ve been around the same age as your daughter.”

Eddie says your name tenderly, fingers still lingering on the underside of your palm, “I’m so sorry.”

You laugh softly, clearly uncomfortable. “Anyways, everything happens for a reason, right? I guess it’s just a small way to remember her.”

Eddie hates how well he can relate to it.

“Are you done?” He asks, reaching for your beer.

“Uh, yeah.” You respond slowly, forcing yourself to take a breath. “Thanks.”

The walk to your car is even slower, quiet, whatever happier mood that lingered earlier was nowhere in sight. You blame yourself for bringing the mood down, trying to find someone to lighten it. But, Eddie’s quicker than you, and throwing you a curveball from miles away.

“Can I take you out?” Eddie asks boldly, “On a proper date, I mean.”

“Um,” You linger on the word, standing uneasy as you lean against your car door, “—Eddie, we probably shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Eddie asks, headstrong like his daughter unfortunately.

“Things can get…complicated.” You tell him, “I don’t want Riley getting the wrong idea.”

“Fine, not a date then.” Eddie levels.

“Then what?”

“We can hang out.”

Suddenly it’s like you’re eighteen again and you can’t help but want to go against every moral set before you.

“Hang out,” The words feel weird on your tongue, “Eddie—you do know what that usually entails, right?”

“Hey, I’m a complete gentleman, okay?” Eddie defends, “That’s why I asked you on a date.”

Your lips pull together in a tight line, hating yourself for wanting to say yes so badly.

Eddie pulls that salaciously sweet grin of his, hands placed on either side of the top of your car, breath quickening as he pulls a bit closer, still giving you enough room to feel comfortable.

“Tell me no then,” Eddie challenges, “just say the word and I’ll drop it.”

Eddie can see it in your face, how badly you wanted to cave and say yes.

“Eddie.” You warn, the name sounding too wicked on your tongue. “Please.”

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

“Fine,” Eddie tells you lowly, eyes connecting with yours when they try to pull away, “—but let me do this one thing and then if you want to change your mind, we can forget about this.”

“What thing?” You retort back with attitude, conflicting emotions causing you to play into his game, whatever it was.

Eddie shakes his head in disbelief, “I’m gonna kiss you.” He tells you openly, “After that, if you change your mind, that’s fine.”

You find yourself nodding without fully realizing and Eddie’s lips are against yours in a slow press, not hurried or rushed, a small noise pulled from your lips as he pushes further, lips smacking against yours loudly. You inhale sharply, the scent of Eddie surrounding you—it was sweat and cigarettes and everything that would normally disgust you in an instant, but with Eddie it was intoxicating. Your hands drift to his face carefully, thumbs dragging along his cheeks gently, pulling up to wrap your arms around his neck, fully giving yourself over to him, allowing yourself to cherish the moment properly.

Eddie muffled a soft laugh against your lips, a hand cupping the side of your face out of curiosity, wanting to touch you as much as he possibly could while still trying to be respectful to you. Eddie seems to forget how dirty he is though, because when he does finally pull away, he’s laughing again.

“Fuck, I forgot,” He says, reaching for the clean handkerchief in his back pocket, wiping the dark mark off of your face, “sorry.”

“You apologize too much.” You tell him, shoving his hand away playfully. “—I will, by the way.”

Eddie beams at the answer, “I fucking knew it.”

“Hey—no gloating,” You warn him and Eddie shrinks slightly, it was a wonder what a stern voice could do, and you’d mastered that pretty well in the past few years, “we need to be careful about this—whatever this is.”

Eddie nods, “Yeah, of course.”

“Riley can’t know, my job—no one.” You tell him. “If this is just a one time thing, I don’t want it ruining anything.”

And Eddie should feel slighted, but he does understand.

“It won’t.” He assures you and you hate how easily it makes you smile.

You both knew there was no possible way this was going to be a one time thing. You’d be lying to yourself.

“Good.” You smile triumphantly, “Now—are you driving or am I?”

Eddie snatches the keys from your hands with an eye roll and a self-righteous smirk.

There was never a way for you to realize just how much trouble you were getting yourself into, not yet.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #my writing #1kfic

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hazbin-writings-and-musings · 3 months

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Lucifer Morningstar x Pregnant!Reader Headcanons Part 3

Keeping the ball rolling after part two, here's Lucifer and reader headcanons as baby gets ever closer to arrival. I think I'll do two more, with the last one detailing the actual birth and dear Lucy welcoming his second child. Thank you for reading and please enjoy!

Warnings: Pregnancy Mention, Smut

- His dedication to soothing your aches and pains grows even faster than they do as you get further along. The wealth of information now available about pregnancy (albeit not of the supernatural variety) initially overwhelms him, but he manages to find what he needs in books about prenatal massage. It doesn't matter where or when pain strikes, he'll be there to roll up his sleeves and work as long as he needs to make sure you're better. He's happy to have a professional masseuse join the palace staff to provide the help you need, but he also just enjoys doing it himself. There's a kind of intimacy he can't explain when it comes to tending his beloved and the body you're growing his child with. It doesn't hurt that his fingers are literally magical.

- He wants the FULL stereotypical expecting-a-baby experience, so yes, he'd love to do some breathing classes with you! The King of Hell might struggle to do anything in public without attracting attention, but he manages to locate a relaxed enough class that the two of you can attend without fear of paparazzi, and he is beyond thrilled from the very first session. There's not much he can offer now and through delivery beyond support, but he intends to give 110%. Pregnant yoga is also not off the table, nor is any activity that lets the two of you bond and enjoy the experience. To a very small extent, he enjoys these sessions because he gets to be seen with you. The Sinners and Hellborn just can't help sneaking an extra look at the King and his expecting lover. He doesn't need to say a word whenever he meets the gaze of someone looking the two of you over, the proud puff of his chest says it all as he lovingly splays a hand on your belly; that's right, I pulled this.

- He wants to brainstorm names right away, and because the two of you elect to be surprised by the birth sex, a very long list of potential selections is drafted for any outcome. His tastes tend to be a bit more old fashioned, but he has a knack for choosing those whose beauty has passed the test of time. His selections are also based on humans that have caught his attention through the ages, for good and bad reasons. Charlie was named after an ancient king, for example, who stood out most to Lucifer because he managed change on a scale few can ever hope to achieve, and change was what he desired for his child above all else. As he follows the naming rule of "two yesses, one no" he listens to all of your suggestions just as eagerly, which over the months results in an increasing long piece of parchment covered in names and notes. Vetoed suggestions are crossed out and he makes a point to note any potential issues with a name in great detail, and while the process is far from streamlined, the two of you have a great deal of fun selecting a final list of favorites.

- Out of everything required to prepare the nursery, selecting baby clothes tends to get him crying from the cuteness most often. He'll hold up potential outfits and try to imagine the baby in them, and while he's got a fantastic sense of fashion, the fabulousity doesn't detract from the adorableness before him. The itty bitty booties, the tiny socks, the cute little onesies... Stars, he's going to have another perfect baby, and since they'll no doubt be as precious as Charlie was... You'll often find him tearing up but beaming in silent thought as he looks over your future child's wardrobe, and he'll always explain himself honestly; he just can't wait to enjoy another round of baby days. If only they didn't go by so quickly...

- Lots of things grow increasingly difficult as you get further along, but he's always up for the challenge of making life easier for you, especially in regards to the bedroom. A baby bump will make certain positions impossible, but that's of little consequence for a man that can bend reality and his own physical form with ease. His capacity for effortless flight makes gravity a non-issue, and where his magic hits its limit, his creativity takes over. Whatever position results in comfort and satisfaction for you will be achieved, and he thinks of plenty to be offered. With his long, forked tongue added to the mix, you need not worry about missing out, no matter how much your middle swells. If anything, he rather enjoys being on the bottom...

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undercoverpena · 6 months

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x. make me yours

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter ten of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. flirting. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings/love confessions. smut - p in v, mirror sex, praise (for both) worshipping frankie's cock. happy ending in more than one way.

word count: 4.6k

an: thanks to @thetriumphantpanda for being here every step of the way, holding my hand. to @secretelephanttattoo for the comfort over the last week since i finished and to you, amazing readers, for putting trust in me once again that i could write something. i was so nervous after late night texts i'd never deliver a thing you'd all love, but here we are. thank you.

There’s a calmness to an early morning—especially one where you feel his legs tangled with yours.

Your room splayed in the glow of a new day, it fluttering through the slit of the closed curtains. Just enough for you to know it’s morning, but not enough to convince you that you need to rise.

Especially when he’s beside you.

From the steady, faint way the tips of his fingers seem to trace up and down your arm, you can tell he’s been awake for a while. The world around all so silent, just his breath and yours—the soft thudding of heartbeats and the occasional moving of limbs brushing against your sheets.

It’s enough to soothe you back to slumber, faintly hearing him whisper I’ll be right back, just awake enough to mumble an okay as the mattress dips and your cocoon of warmth begins to cool without him.

All of it perfect, almost picturesque—doing all you cannot to ruin your own delusion or fantasy with thinking about last night.

When you finally move from your sheets, you listen for him. The heavier footsteps, the way he occasionally bumps into the corner of your counter—a thing he’s done ever since you moved here.

But, there’s none.

Not even as you layer on a jumper, or pull on some socks from your bedside drawer—nothing flooding the silence except the water down the drain as you brush your teeth, as you make eyes at the bleary eyes coming back to you in the mirror.

It’s only when you leave the haven of your room, do you see him walking back in through your front door, his keys joining yours in the bowl on your side table—jacket hung beside the other, hat thrown onto the sofa.

And it makes your heart squeeze, makes your chest tighten for a moment. Because this is what you want. This. Him. His things being all messily arranged around yours, your things moving for him. A morning like this, down to the sheepish smile he gives you.

Lifting the paper bag, he begins to grin—all soft, gentle—lines beginning to appear near his eyes as he does. “I got us breakfast.”

Biting your smile, you nod, moving from the doorway to the kitchen—helping. It being all you can focus on, breaking the things down into small tasks, because it’s that or fall apart. It’s that or spill to him a mess of words you’d rehearsed for last night.

Swallowing them, the two of you move instead. All in a fluid motion, grabbing plates, a mug for him and a glass for you. The scrunching of the paper bag is all that can be heard, not the clatter of your hand against the plate as it shakes or the way you keep swallowing back a lump. One which sounds awfully like I don’t want to lose you.

He must know—be able to tell. Always able to read you like you’re the most obvious flight plan laid out for him. Because he nudges you, just ever so slightly:

“We’re okay, alright?”

You’re not sure if it’s the years of being let down by others or the sheer weight of your feelings for him, or the odd combination of both, but it crashes together inside of you, dissolving the lump, making fresh tears rise to your eyes. One falling, unable to cling itself to your lashes—unable to hide it, disguise it, not quick enough in turning before he’s already seen it.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” he whispers, all soothingly.

It’s similar in tone to the one he used in the Heli that one time. Close in relation to the voice he used sometimes when he had his hand between your thighs, pleading with you to give him another, because you can do it, hermosa, you can.

Covering your face with your hands, you bite down on your cheek—the tide of pain enough to halt the fallout of tears. The pitter-patter on your cheeks, fingers sliding them down, smoothing them out over your skin as you take a breath, remove your palms, lashes lifting.

His brows are pinched together, one thick line, surrounded by a few others—eyes wide, all brown, glistening in worry and concern.

“I don’t want breakfast.”

Blinking, his eyes move around the room, before landing back on you. “O-okay, that’s—that’s okay—”

“I want you.”

It isn’t anything you like you rehearsed.

Nothing close to the script practised in mirrors and as you chopped, prepared and cooked the dish last night. It’s more an array of balled-up words which hastily leave your lips—chest rising and falling, a pang in your chest.

“I want you—and admittedly I do actually really, really want breakfast. But I want… this, the whole thing, not just the food, the act. I want the morning we began having—I…”

Your voice trails off. Keenly aware that your body has begun to tremble, the enormity of it all rising inside of you like a snake—slithering, clotting, making it hard to breathe without focusing in on it coming up your throat.

“I’m not—this isn’t making much sense. I want mornings like this. I know you saw what I did—and I don’t know if you cleaned it up because you don’t feel the same and that’s your wonderful, gentle way of telling me. And, I’m not sure if you came to fetch me out of some guilt, just like I’m not even sure if you lay with me because you wanted to make sure I wasn’t sad…

“But, Frankie, I like you. I like the way you make me feel lighter and happier, that you don’t even pretend to have all the right words. I like that you show up, that you make me feel…”

His head tilts, eyes fixed on you—unwilling to move.

Captivated. Enchanted.

It makes your skin warm and the nerves seem to settle as you take a settling breath.

Swallowing, you smile. “I like the way you make me smile. That you make me feel good, incredible even. I like you, Frankie. You.”

You watch him roll his lips, gentle movements, brain likely whirring a mile a minute under his curls. Ones you want to run your fingers through—soothe him, comfort him.

But you remain where you’re stood. Feet planted, unwilling to move closer. Not prepared to bend and curl into him, even if everything in you is screaming too.

The fear of him rejecting you keeps you still, braced—waiting and watching, studying each micro-inflexion for an insight into whether sun or rain is going to come and land on your parade.

Then, he whispers your name.

It sounds so jagged—sharp in places it is usually soft. It hits your ears wrong, not matching the look on his face, as a hand reaches inside of your chest and squeezes, while other parts of your crumble.

“Do you… not want to be with me?”

You shouldn’t ask, but you have. It's more pitiful when you replay it back, worsened by the look he gives you. It’s one you assume he’d wear if you’d slapped him. Half-wounded, half-irritated. As though what you had just proposed was the most stupid thing you could ever say.

“Fuck, no. I just—”

“Just, what?”

His jaw slides from side to side, fingers picking at the bread he’d just gone out to fetch. “I just think…

“Think what?”

“That you deserve better, alright?”

Your face falls.

Inch by inch of it shifting, feeling it do so—as though a mist has washed down over you, clinging to your features, dragging them down. From your eyebrows to your upturned lips.

Slowly, you press your spine into the back of your kitchen counter, hand resting on the top of it, not moving, not circling the pattern or tapping against the side.

“Frankie…”

“No, listen. You deserve someone who has their shit together, someone who can take you out—spoil you—give you the life you want. I… I can’t do that. But someone else, someone like—“

“Like Will?”

His chin lifts, his eyes landing on you. Fear and panic eroding away the earlier irritation.

You’re breathing heavily, seething and panting. Adrenaline darts through you, making your back straighten and your fingers want to close into fists.

“Yeah, I know. Surprise, surprise, you don’t need to be military-trained to know that you’re being a dick to him because you’ve created a narrative in your head. Which, by the way, is all that is, because I don’t like Will like that. Never have. He’s… he’s not my type for one.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I like you.” You chew your cheek, staring at him, sighing. “Frankie, I don’t deserve better.” Trying to blink away tears that begin to spring, feeling them practically stinging. “What is even better than you?”

He shoots you a look, lips rolling, before he pushes a heavy breath out through his nose.

You don’t care if it’s childish, you fold your arms. Anger suddenly crawls up your throat, wanting to throw whatever you can at him.

Narrowing your eyes, you drop your voice, “So, what? You’re good enough to be my best friend, to have a key to my house, to sleep with me—fucking regularly, by the way—but not to put a different label on it?”

He says your name, soft, barely in a breath. Eyes all dark, swarming with things you can’t begin to work out.

And it rises in you again. The feeling from last night.

The matted mess of emotions that rumbled out of you in floods of tears as your glare intensifies, your heart aching as you dig your stare into him with all you have.

“No, Frankie. No. You know I like you. I always have. It’s… it’s always been you. And, I think you know that, just like we both know this hasn’t just been fucking.” Straightening your spine, you take a more measured breath. “So, if you don’t feel the same, that’s fine—but I’d like you to go.”

The latter comes out more shaky—a crack in your resolve. Each syllable all practically broken by the time it hits the air, eyes unwavering in their stare at him, watching, studying. Easily able to spot the slight shift of his jaw, the tick of it to the side, and the way his throat bobs as he contemplates it—whatever he's fighting inside his head.

Then, he takes your hand and moves it from being around your other bicep, unfolding your crossed arms.

It’s simple to take your hand. Easy. A gesture he hopes says more than it does.

From your glare, he’s not sure it does.

So, he takes a moment. Weigh it up, tries to align up the words which will make the most sense, and have the most impact. Holding your fingers in his. Allowing himself to feel the little bones that make it up, the knuckles and the way your hand just instantly fits inside his own.

If anything, it’s only more evidence of how long this has been in front of his face. A thing he now can’t unsee or unnotice. Because with you it’s never forced, not the way he feels or the way you fit. A place there for you, growing as he did, especially made for you inside of him.

He beats for you.

A realisation he really only accepted last night when he stood in your home—the one littered with the little quirks he’s been around to witness take shape. Like your obsessions with fake hanging plants, because you can’t keep real ones alive; that you like black and white images over colour, because it doesn’t matter what colour the room is.

“I think…”

Your brows rise, pulling your eyes with it—making them wider, more like pools. There’s hesitance embroiled in the rest of you, appearing so close to unravelling that it hurts his heart.

But it’s your eyes he focuses on. He’s always found them beautiful, and expressive—a thing he could happily dive into and contently live inside of if allowed.

“I think we make new rules?”

His grip tightens on your hand, and he feels your fingers slide with ease between his. Letting yourself soften to him, come to him—like you always do.

It would be easy for someone else to admit it all, to tell you that he wants you, likes you, practically fucking needs you. That you’re important, the most important thing, if anything—that he couldn’t leave you, not ever.

It had already pricked at him before the of you began all of this. When the two of you were nothing more than just best friends. It being there, ready to pierce him when he leaves for work, when he says goodbye; when he’s in a different city reading your text messages.

The idea of leaving, leaving, would kill him. Would be worse than a bullet ripping through flesh or a knife plunging into muscle. It would ruin him, end him.

Because you’re the light that leads him back. The hands that somehow find all the pieces of him that have shifted from their places, able to solve him, complete the puzzle. You see him, bloom inside of him, force away the darkness and add little beams of sunshine when it had only ever been shadows.

“We can’t see other people—”

“Frankie—I already know this.”

He gives you a look, a pointed one. A give me a second kind of look, and you relent, mouth clamping shut, eyes narrowing a touch.

Tracing his tongue over his bottom lip. “And, one of the nights I’m back—we go out. Whether it’s for a drive, for dinner, for a movie, something—anything. I… I wanna take you out.”

Your face flickers, attempting to shift. “Okay… I think I can do that...”

Taking a half-step closer, he watches your other hand fall to your side, allowing him to slide his hand over your hip. “And, I want you to cook for me. Baby, I miss your cooking so fucking much. I miss the little smile you do when you see me take a second bite—I… I miss it.”

“You gonna turn up for it?”

Smirking, he pinches your side. “I deserved that.”

Nodding, you smirk, and he takes the opportunity to look at you—really look. The shine in your eyes having returned, the slight upturn of your lips.

Seemingly, and obviously, coming to the conclusion he’s offering—and he’s sure if he could tell you what he thinks, what he said to Will, it would shift into a grin.

Holding your hip, he takes another half-step, the gap gone, faded, vanished. “And, I’m going to buy you wine—because… well, hand it to you, I never actually stopped.”

“Wait. What? What do you mean?”

Letting his hand release yours, Frankie instead cups your cheek, thumb stroking against it in a soft line. “Couldn’t help it. Each time I went to the store, I ended up buying it anyway. I have been for months, since we first began our arrangement. It’s just…. stored away. My cupboards are full of it, my truck even—it felt wrong not to buy it for you.”

Glancing down at you, he quickly spots how your eyes have begun to fill, water filling at the bottom that he already feels is different from the way they had done earlier. The sun catching them, twinkling, practically shimmering with something he hopes is joy.

It’s why he reaches his finger to brush out over the corner of your growing smile, feeling it, basking in it.

Clearing your throat, you bite your lip before saying, “Can I stay at yours—'cause your bed is so much nicer than mine.”

Laughing, he feels a grin explode across his face. “Can stay over at mine whenever baby.”

“Because I’m yours?”

The question makes his throat tighten, just a touch before his body floods with warmth. “Because you’re mine.”

And fuck, the way you look at him as the words hit you, it’s like nothing he can ever explain. No words able to describe it, no phrasing that can properly explain it. It’s like a thousand things all flickering over your face.

It’s why he kisses you, needing to feel it, taste it. Finding you moving your fingers around his neck, nails scratching lightly at the base of his hair.

“I like our new rules,” you whisper, mouth hovering over his.

“Yeah?”

Nodding, you bite your lip, twirling a curl around your finger before tugging ever so lightly.

“Yeah. I agree to all our new rules.”

As he smirks, you must want to feel it—because you press your lips back to his, deepening it, tongue sliding past his, licking behind his teeth as his body presses you more to the counter. So reminiscent of that first time—your words coming to him.

That is—if you didn’t find me so repulsive.

He groans against you, keeping you close, flush. “Fuck you must really like me, querida.”

Licking your lips, he hears you let out a soft breath. “I do, actually—in fact, I love you.” Lifting his brows, knowing they’re cutting into his forehead, likely all deep lines appearing as his eyes get even wider. “Have done for a stupidly long amount of time.”

“How long?”

Needing to hear it—needing it to coat him.

Shrugging, you smile, his hand rising, taking yours from around his neck and pressing it against his cheek. “Too long to not have said anything.”

“Me too.”

He wants to tell you it all. The speech that barely makes any sense. How his feelings for you are something akin to love at first sight, but not. Like an ache, a need. A purpose to make you smile, to make you happy—a thing he tried to do at all the chances he had.

And at some point, between then and now, he’d fallen, head over.

And fuck was he glad. More so as he has the opportunity to dance his breath along your lips, feeling the softest flicker of your hammering through his chest.

“Been crazy about you for ages,” he says, instead. “Made it easy to be too. Nothing about you has ever been difficult.”

“Not what I’ve heard you say in bed.”

Smirking, he purposefully slants his mouth over yours, wishing to paint your lips in the feelings that rage and flow throughout him. That he wants this, you, for the rest of his life.

“Thought I could never deserve you.”

“Fra—“

Your chastise is swallowed, muffled against his mouth as he silences you with his lips. Moving you, walking you—happy that you let him, as he twists his body, the two of you walk back to the room the two of you had woken up in. The one he wishes he gets to wake up in many more times.

“Tell me again.”

He knows he’s not specific, but he hopes you know. Not hiding the doubt he knows that usually strums inside of him, offering the chance for you to brush it away, remove it. Like you have done so many other times, but just never like this Your brain is cruel to you, Morales.

“I love you, Francisco.”

He kisses you, a groan vibrating against his lips as your body smothers his—all welcomed, a weight he’d missed.

“I love you so much, Frankie,” you whisper again, closer to his ear, his mouth on your neck, finding that spot.

Lifting the bottom of your jumper up, his thumb brushes over your soft stomach as he pulls it up off your body—unveiling you, smothering you in soft yellow as the sunlight tries to peek through your curtains.

“I love you, querida.”

He speaks it, then he burns those three words against you. Right under your ear as he casts your clothing to a corner, then against your pulse as he cups your breast, thumb brushing over the hardening peak as you whimper, before he does it a millimetre from your lips, watching you fix your gaze on him.

Your body is slowly smothered with his, letting himself feel you, all that he can. The few items the two of you are wearing are removed, falling in a littered pattern against the floor, until it’s just a skin-to-skin—the cool air pebbling both of your skin.

It’s your turn: say it again.

And he does. Not just with his lips, but with everything he has. Warming you, making you smile against his mouth as he slides his hand between your thighs, feeling it, how much you want him, how much you love him. Coating his fingers in it, that honeyed slick that he would feast on forever—almost tempted to drop to his knees and draw each letter of those three words against you.

“Wanna try something,” he whispers, instead.

Your eyes pinch, before smoothing out as he slides two fingers inside of you, easily up to the knuckle. Feeling enveloped, delving into silken warmth that welcomes him like you have done since the beginning.

“Wanna show you how pretty you are.”

His thumb catching your bundle of nerves, your pussy fluttering around his fingers—tightening, pulling him in. A gasp of his name leaving his mouth, already so wet, all beautiful, a sight to fucking behold as the tension fades and you relax around where he’s touching you.

“Can I?” he asks. “Show you?”

Yes.

I love you, he responds.

And you grind into him at the words, chasing a high from the fingers buried inside of you. He wants to say it more, let it be all he says to you today. Press it to every part of you, make sure you know only those words—

Your hand wraps around him, gripping him, thumb sliding over the head of his stiff, leaking cock as he grunts—and you grin. Twitching in your hand, mouth open as he rests his forehead against yours.

“Y’have the nicest cock, Frankie.”

“Fuck, baby.”

His eyes clench shut, your name falling from his mouth.

“Love how it feels inside of me.”

“Y’want it now, baby? Want my cock inside you?”

Please, you whimper. But, it’s only when you moan his name does he move, shifting you, removing his fingers from you, noting the whimper at the loss of him, as he guides your body in front of him, shifting until the two of you are standing in front of your mirror.

That mirror.

The one he’d thought of nothing else since you’d begun sending the photos, the phone call, the noises he was able to pull from you even miles away.

“Haven’t stopped thinking about your mirror, baby,” he whispers, nipping at your ear lobe. “Thought of taking you in front of it.”

Your head tilts, eyes meeting his, lust there—

And you sink to your knees without hesitation, staring up at him, waiting. That wave of whether he deserves you darting through him, but he stuffs it away, easily able to do when you offer your hand to him.

Following behind you, your back to his chest, a hand planted on your hip, the other guiding, leading the head of him in until you’re sliding yourself down on his cock. He buries himself inside of you, hissing as he does, as you take all of him, hearing the noticeable gasp as you do.

You’re so right, tight—so perfect. Moulded around him, adjusting, stretched just for him.

“So good for me.”

“I like it when you say that to me,” you whisper, eyes locking with his.

His fingers are on the base of your neck, staring at you in the mirror, letting his gaze wander up and down your naked frame. His hips slowly moving—cock sliding in and out. All slow, deliberate strokes that are so deep you whine in the base of your throat each time he leaves just the tip in.

“You look so beautiful taking me,” he hums, fingers flexing on your hip. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Me or—fuck, Frankie—my—“

He doesn’t let you finish, nipping your ear lobe. “You, querida. Always you.”

Your hand coming up around his neck, gripping, digging your nails into him as you move with him, hips slamming back into his—thrusts increasing, the noise the two of you are making together filling the air, a poignant reminder that it’s real, this, the two of you.

“I’m yours,” you croak.

Heat pools in his stomach, more so when he watches you in the mirror as your fingers slide between where the two of you are conjoined. Moaning, whimpering as your fingers move just above where his cock pistons in and out of you.

“All yours—always yours—“

Your walls tighten around him, fluttering, sucking him in and he wants nothing more than to fill you. Taking in each moan, noise, gasp you emit as your fingers begin to draw circles, his eyes focused on it, lasered in on your movements—knowing your eyes are on him.

“Gonna come, Frankie—so close—“

He’s tight, fingers grasping as his hips snap to yours, his mouth on the space between your neck and shoulder, licking, kissing, biting.

“Please, baby, please—“

“Let go for me, baby. Show me, let me have it.”

It’s heaven.

Getting to both feel it, watch you in awe of yourself as you do, while still getting to enjoy a view of you as your body tightens and then snaps. Your body arching into him, nails likely cutting into his skin, but he doesn’t care. Wants a bruise, and desires little half-moons scarred on his skin—evidence of the marks you constantly leave on the inside of him. The ones he welcomes, thankful for.

M’gonna come.

It leaves his mouth all foreign, your eyes opening, landing back on him—in awe, like he’s something you’ve fantasised about and found truly exists. And it’s all he needs, the look in your eyes, so close, impossibly so, flames dancing through him, all twisting, becoming an inferno.

“I love you, Frankie.”

His eyes lock with yours, your words hit his ears—and he comes hard. Shivering from it, shaking from it. Blissed out and fucked out as your name rips from his throat, painting the air in the same way he paints your walls.

Then he breathed, twitching, one last roll of his hips as he dragged your chin to face him, kissing you hungrily, desperately.

“I love you too,” he says, breathless, but very much fucking content.

At some point, you’re led back from the carpeted floor, back to the sheets you both woke in. His mouth sliding over your shoulder, fingers looped in yours.

The breakfast he had bought long since cold, but devoured, his hand on your knee as he grins at something you say, and you want to find your phone, open the camera and snap it.

It isn’t until the two of you are lay, silent, your hand inside his, head on his chest.

“When are you taking me on a date then?”

Hearing him snort, you look up, finding his eyes already on you, watching. “You free tonight?”

“I think I could move things around.”

And you smile, mirroring the one which slides across his—your heart thumping, all in a pattern it has been since the very beginning. I love you. I love you. I love you. Excited, thrumming with energy that slides against contentment, because—

“Really glad I’m yours, Frankie.”

Feeling his fingers fan out across your jaw and cheek, you let your eyes trace his smile.

“Glad you’re mine too, baby.”

Body curling into him, you let your fingers slide across his chest, you let the beat of his heart hammer against your wrist, smiling. Brain ticking, thinking, suddenly coming to a thought.

“Since Will knows. How long do you think it’ll take Benny to figure out we’re together?” you ask.

Staring off, you watch his eyes narrow as he begins to smirk. “Wanna see?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

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