Hot Artists Don't Gatekeep

Mallowsweet Muses - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: This wasn’t anything new for you– on the contrary, you’d sucked Sebastian off enough times to know how he liked it, what made him crumble in your hands and sing praises of your name. But Mallowsweet hadn’t been a factor then, and you hesitated for a moment as you considered whether or not you were taking advantage of him like this. You looked up at him once more, the question hanging silently in the air, and with the enthusiasm of a puppy Sebastian nodded hungrily.

Alternatively summarized as you and Sebastian getting high and fooling around.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, explicit content, recreational drug use

Full fic can be found here on Ao3! PART 2 with Ominis now included! PART 3 can also be found here.

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Baby, Slow It Down

Eddie Munson x fem!reader[6.7k] just smut, really. soft, sweet eddie, who finally gets a chance to take you home. a friends with benefits situation.

Eddie Munson was a really good kisser. He was really good at eating you out too. He had nice hands, big, heavy, with guitar string scars that felt rough and lovely on your bare skin. He liked it when you tugged his curls, he liked it even better when you got a little loud. 

He fucking loved it when you told him what to do. 

You weren’t sure how your situation with the boy started, but it had been a few months now.. He went from a pretty face you knew in school, to a friend of Steve’s, introduced to you at a party. Then there was a rolled joint offered to you in the woods behind school, shoulders bumping, eyes interested, laughter exchanged. 

Knowing eyes gazing over the other by the lockers, the offer of a ride home one day when it rained and didn’t stop. It went from there, more looks, heated and heavy, a hand on a knee, fingers that brushed back hair. 

And then you were on his lap, dress gathered in one of Eddie’s hands as he held it out of his way so he could watch the way his cock slid in and out of you. He was noisy, encouraging you to do the same with low, rough moans and teeth that nipped at your jaw, your neck. 

That was it, an addiction that needed to be fed, kisses that you couldn’t really go without for more than a day or two and after the last bell rang, you found his van in the school parking lot. Eddie could never make it further than past the old sports fields, pulling over somewhere private so he could get his hands on you, needy and greedy and all consuming. 

It’s where you found yourself now, parked behind the old building that used to house the soccer teams changing rooms, hidden from view from the school, its students, the main roads. You were comfy in Eddie’s lap, a familiar weight on his thighs, your skirt already rucked up around your hips. 

His lips were that maddening touch of soft, slow, fast, deep, lazy, needy, teeth, tongue, fuck, god. 

It turned heated fast, the same way it always did and it was fine, it was good. It always was. It didn’t matter if Eddie had you in his lap for five hours or five minutes, the boy always made you come. He had a way of making it creep up on you, hard and fast, eyes rolling, white flashes of heat rippling through your body and then there were stars. Stars everywhere. 

The boy kissed constellations onto your lips, dripping gold dust over your skin. 

He had his hands under your skirt, palms squeezing at the flesh of your ass, kneading each cheek in a way that made your skin prickle with heat ‘cause he was spreading you over his thighs and it that made you feel real fucking dirty. 

You were breathless, hands in his curls, pulling him closer, eyes fluttering at the way he sucked another bruise you couldn’t explain onto your neck. 

You felt close enough to fall apart without him even touching you, underwear still on, lace slick and wet already, but Jesus Christ, he hadn’t put his hands on you yet. Not really. You were a livewire, body electric, the air around you both buzzing. 

It wouldn’t last long when you were both like this, pent up from not seeing each other for five days, school and homework and jobs and hellfire meetings keeping you apart. And well, a five minute fuck wasn’t going to do. No, not anymore. 

So you pushed at his chest, firm enough that his head fell back onto the headrest and Eddie’s hair was a mess and his brown eyes were wide. He was staring, chest heaving, palms still squeezing at the curve of your ass, fingers grazing over the lace edges of your underwear.

"Slow down," you tell him, voice a whisper.

You were sure you heard him whine, a pretty noise that got stuck at the back of his throat. You plucked the chain that lay there, shiny against his collar bones, and you twisted it between your fingers. It was sinful the way you used it to pull him a little closer again, nose brushing against the bridge of his own, lips hovering just out of reach. 

He could’ve moved him he wanted to, surged forward and took control, kissed the commands right off your lips. But he didn’t. 

“You can have me all night, if you want."

He whined, whimpered. You heard it that time.

"Be a little soft about it, huh? Nice and slow, for me, please?"

And then Eddie was nodding, eyes turning to burnt caramel, hooded and staring at you. His jaw was slack, lips parted and glossy from your kisses and suddenly his hands were skimming over your thighs, climbing up to hold at your waist instead. He touched you a little softer, sweeter than before and it made your stomach twist. 

Fingers tucked your hair behind your ear, his heavy gaze taking in every feature, like he’d suddenly been told he could have you forever, like he wanted to commit you to memory in case you changed your mind. 

Then he was kissing you again, slower like you asked, like he’d never kissed you before. Sweet and soft, his mouth a gentle push against your own and you so desperately wanted to lick into him, to tug on his pretty hair and make him grunt into you but that’s not what you asked for. 

So you let Eddie set the pace, sighed into him, wriggled in his lap when he sucked the curve of your bottom lip between his own, and god were you going to regret this?

He tasted sweet, like the blue raspberry jolly rancher you’d seen Lucas hand him in the hallway, a little smoky underneath it, entirely like Eddie. He took his time with you, did as you asked him and the way he slowly curled his tongue around yours made your legs tingle, your heart skip a beat before racing a little faster than before. 

His hand found your face, curving at your jaw, his thumb on your chin and he tap, tap, tapped at it until you let Eddie drag your mouth open a little more, whining when it resulted in him licking into you a little deeper. 

He pulled away quicker than you would’ve liked, smiling all pretty at you when you gazed at him wide eyed. But then Eddie was nodding at the passenger seat, giving your ass a cute little smack. 

“C’mon, sweetheart, seat belt on.”

You let his chain fall from your fingers, unsure you understood. But Eddie was surprisingly strong, wide hands clutching at your waist to lift you back over the console, dropping you a little clumsily onto the seat next to him. 

“Eddie?” your voice was soft, a little worried, like maybe you’d crossed a line you weren’t sure the boy had. 

But he was starting the engine, the van rumbling underneath you and then he was gazing over at you, bottom lip sucked between his teeth and god, he looked sinful, he looked like he wanted to eat you up. You’d let him, without hesitation. 

“You said I could have you all night, yeah?” Eddie prompted, big eyes shining earnestly, his voice so sincere, like he couldn’t quite believe you’d told him such a thing. “Did you mean it?”

You nodded, suddenly shy and then Eddie was smiling, that wide, slow stretch of his lips that made you feel so many things. The van started moving, the boy tsked and nodded to your belt again, which you quickly pulled across your lap. 

“Okay,” he nodded too, final in his decision. “Let’s go back to mine then, sweetheart.”

—————

You hadn’t been to Eddie’s before, not really. You knew which trailer was his, had seen in across from Max’s when you dropped her off with Steve, waved shyly and with warm cheeks when you saw the curly headed boy out of the front window. 

You knew enough to realise his uncle Wayne was out, the older man’s car gone from the grassy makeshift drive. The park was quiet when Eddie parked up, making a noise of protest when you went to open the door for yourself. So you sat still, smiled hidden between pressed lips as you watched him bounce around the front of the van. 

He opened your door with a shy grin, bright eyes and a hand that was ready to clasp your own. Eddie helped you down, wet grass brushing your ankles and it felt like a storm was coming with the way the air was buzzing. 

Maybe it was just you and Eddie. Maybe it was just anticipation. 

He opened the door to the trailer for you too, unusually quiet as his fingertips found the small of your back, guiding you inside the small house that was much cosier than you expected. It smelled a little smoky, like coffee and boyish cologne. 

And then Eddie was rocking on the balls of his feet, fidgeting and pulling at a curl as he watched you take in his home. 

“D’you, uh, want a drink or-?”

You turned, smiling soft like you wanted to show him you weren’t judging anything about the trailer. How could you? It was all Eddie. 

“Do I not get to see your room, Munson?”

Eddie looked like he had all the air punched out of his lungs. The curl he’d pulled to brush against his mouth sprung back, his hands dropping to his sides as his eyes went wide. 

He cleared his throat, nodding, giving a little bow and a wave of his arm, showing you down the narrow hallway. It was sweet, you thought, the way he was acting. Like he hadn’t been balls deep inside you countless times, as if he didn’t know the exact way you liked his fingers on your clit. 

So you grinned at him, walked down the hall with your hands clasped coyly behind your back and you knew he was watching you, he always was. You could feel his eyes on you, a familiar burn that tickled your skin.

Eddie’s room was exactly like him, dark and warm, a little messy, littered with music posters, guitars on the walls, amps piled in the corner. His bed was unmade, pillows squint and sheets rumbled but they looked surprisingly fresh, the smell of laundry detergent, cologne and little smoke taking up space in the air. 

You knew you’d asked for slow, for soft, for the boy to take his time with you. But suddenly you didn’t know what to do now you had Eddie all alone, all to yourself. Maybe for the whole night. The thought made you swallow hard and you were overcome, overwhelmed with how the boy was surrounding you without even touching you. 

You never usually get Eddie for more than half an hour, a full sixty minutes at most, if you decided you could afford to be a little late for work that day. You never got to pull more than his belt off of him, jeans shucked down his thighs just enough for his cock to spring free. Likewise, you were confined to shirts and pulled up skirts, underwear hanging off one ankle or pushed to the side, Eddie’s fingers quick and concise against you. 

So you huffed out a little laugh, nervous, but Eddie was smiling down at you and you liked the way the pulse in his neck jumped when you grabbed his hands and pushed him backwards to his bed. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and he let you nudge him down to sit, playing pretend with you, as if he couldn’t easily overpower you if he wanted. 

He leaned back, weight spread on the palms of his hands as he looked up at you, silver chain and big, brown eyes shining in the low light that came through the crack of his closed curtains. 

“What’re you up to, trouble?”

You shrugged, playing coy, lips twisted into a pretty smile you tried to hide but then your hands were toying with the buttons on your shirt, your cardigan long lost to the floor of Eddie’s van. But the boy was enraptured, gaze trained on the way your fingers were popping each button, trailing downdowndown, until the soft material hung open and your lilac bra was on show. 

It wasn’t anything fancy, soft cotton triangles with ring straps and god, you knew for a fact that your light green underwear certainly didn’t match. But looking at Eddie, you had the realisation that he probably would care, no, not at all. ‘Cause his eyes were wide and his lips were parted, sitting the most still you’d ever seen him. 

There wasn’t any music, just the quiet sounds of the town outside, the hum of a generator, the chirp of some birds nearby in a tear, the wind rushing softly over the metal roof. Eddie’s soft breathing, a little choked noise he caught in the back of his throat when you let your shirt slip off your shoulders, let it pool at your feet. 

You toed off your shoes, eyes on Eddie’s the whole time and you wondered if this is what he imagined, what he thought about because all of sudden you were only in your skirt and bra and it was the most bare skin he’d seen on you. 

Was your tummy too soft? Were your boobs too small? Did he see the scar on your bicep from when you fell over when you were five? 

“Christ, you’re perfect,” he breathed out, eyes trailing over every inch of you. “So fuckin’ pretty.”

You flushed, cheeks and chest warm under his gaze but you didn’t stop, didn’t want to. Your fingers hooked into the band of your skirt, teased along the edges of it and you grinned when Eddie swore again, under his breath, hands fisting the comforter in a way that made your own breath hitch. 

“Yeah?” you asked, blinking prettily, looking at the boy from under your lashes, fingers still slipped underneath the waist of your skirt. “Y’think so?”

You were playing up, you knew that, Eddie knew that. Neither of you cared though, because Eddie was grinning, nodding as he let out a low whistle. 

“Prettiest little thing I’ve ever seen.”

You lit up at his words, cheeks rosy, lip tucked between your teeth to hide your grin but Eddie was still smiling enough for both of you. You rewarded him by putting on a little show, body turned to the side so you could pop your ass out a little, arch your back real nice and slide your skirt down your hips all slow. 

You didn’t let go of the material until you smoothed it down your thighs, letting it fall to the floor once it reached your knees and you were bent over for him. Nice and slow, you eased back up, almost scared to look at the boy who’d been hidden behind the mess of your hair as you eased your skirt off. But when you stood back up, pushed your hair back and pressed your thumb nervously to your lips, you saw how the boy looked a little wild. 

A little wrecked. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Eddie breathed, sitting up to catch your hands in his, coaxing you to stand between his knees. He licked his lips, smoothed his palms over the dip in your waist and drew a line up your stomach with the tip of his nose. “Look at you.”

He certainly was, taking his time to gaze over every part of you, hands following suit, fingers trailing across the soft curve of your stomach, snapping the lace edge of your underwear against your hip. He pressed a kiss to your sternum, an open mouthed and lazy drag of his mouth over the swell of your breast. 

“Y’wanna tell me what you want? Hmm?”

Your eyes fluttered closed at the feel of the boy so close, all this new bare skin for him to explore. His hands were so big, wide and warm and rough, scratching lovely at your waist, over the tops of your thighs, his mouth trailing down until his tongue licked at the edge of your underwear, flicking a little dirty at the cute little bow there. 

“Eddie,” you didn’t mean to whine, not already. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, disappointingly still covered by his shirt but you felt a little unsteady, dizzy. “Told you what I wanted.”

You felt rather than saw his smile, pressed to your tummy and you let out a sharp gasp when his hands spun you, catching you when you turned, facing the other way so his nose was pressed to the curve of your spine. 

You suddenly felt a lot more naked than before. 

He tutted, close enough to you that you felt his lips move against you, his curls tickling the curve of your ass, his hands keeping you between his knees. 

“Wanna hear it again, sweet thing,” a kiss, on the dimple of your lower back, another on the lace edge of your underwear. You squirmed. “That alright?”

You let out the breath you’d been holding, hands making fists by your sides and uncurling your hands again and again, at a loss with what to do with them because you’d never not been facing Eddie, tucked into his lap, able to watch him gasp and curse for you, fingers tangled in his hair. 

He seemed to notice this, caught your hands in his own and soothed this thumb over your palms. 

“This okay?” he asked you and the boy peered up to see your head tilted back, eyes closed, lips parted, chest heaving. You nodded and he smiled. “Yeah, baby? Lemme hear you?”

“Yeah, Eddie,” you murmured. “S’good.”

He rewarded you with a kiss to your hand, planted where his thumb was and then his mouth was trailing along your arm, lips pressed to the sensitive skin inside the crook of your elbow and he didn’t stop until his teeth were catching on the clasp of your bra. 

He fingered the band, ghosted a touch over the metal hooks and you were gasping, nodding again so he didn’t have to ask permission and the flimsy fabric was soon joining the rest of your clothes on Eddie Munson’s bedroom floor. 

Fuck. 

“Pretty girl,” he cooed, “my sweet little thing, huh?” 

Your heart stuttered over the possessive remark, your thighs rubbing together because you were still standing facing away from the boy and he wasn’t touching you where you wanted him to. 

You couldn’t see what he was doing, couldn’t guess his next move and when you groaned and tried to spin back around, Eddie ah ah ah’d and gave your hip a little tap. 

“You’ve not answered my question,” he tried to sound scolding, but he was sweet enough to kiss the spot he’d given you a little smack. “Gonna tell me what you want? Comin’ into my bedroom and givin’ me a little show? Then you can’t even tell me what you want me to do with you?”

He traced a line down your spine, tucked his index finger into the edge of your underwear, rings cold against your skin and he pulled the elastic back until it snapped back against you. You jumped, whimpered, pushed your ass further into his wide hands.

“C’mon now trouble, what did you tell me in the van, huh? You were so bossy then, what happened to that girl? Got you all fucked out already?” Eddie laughed, not meanly, but unkind enough to make your toes curl. “Hardly touched you, sweetheart, Christ.”

You loved and hated the way the boy could run his mouth, in and out of the bedroom. He could have you wet with just his mouth at your ear, spinning tales of exactly what he was going to do with you when he got you alone, sneaking away from your locker before anyone else had a chance to spot you both. Eddie was loud, brash, too confident, dramatic to boot. He was dirty, unashamed, hot with it, teasing. 

You loved it. 

But the boy couldn’t fucking handle it when you gave it back to him. 

“Eddie.”

Another cooing noise, almost sympathetic, but you knew him better than that. “Yeah, baby?”

“Want you to take care of me,” your voice was sticky soft, sweet like honey, just as easy to get stuck in. “Can you do that? Please?”

You heard his breath hitch, a hard swallow, a wrecked sigh he tried to hide. 

“Want you to take your time with me,” your hands found his, small on top of large, but you were the one taking control. You smoothed them up your hips, along the ridges of your ribs until both rough hands were cupping at your tits and you were lowering yourself into his lap. “Be nice to me, slow and sweet, baby.”

He was already hard against you, the length of him sitting stiff between your ass cheeks and you knew for a fact he’d been that way since the van. He’d admit it to you too, completely unashamedly letting you know the effect you had on him. 

Eddie liked to take your hand in his, cup his hard dick through his jeans and whisper to you, asking you if you knew what you did to him. 

So you stole his move, brought your joined hands to the heat of your lace covered cunt and leant back into his chest, his chin hooking over your shoulder so he could watch. His eyes were dark, almost black, hooded and staring through the line of his lashes. 

“Fuck.”

You nodded as if you were agreeing with him, coaxing one of his fingers to draw a line up the length of your folds, gathering enough slick under the lace that it stuck to you, showing off every outline of you for Eddie to see. 

“Eddie,” you couldn’t manage more than a whisper, but your lips found his ear under his messy curls easily, your head thrown back onto his shoulder. “Feel that? You’ve got me so wet.”

“Fucking, Christ, sweetheart.” He moaned, loud and wanting, his other hand grabbing a little roughly at your thigh, hooking it over his knee so he could spread you wider for him. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You pouted. “That’s no good to me.”

He huffed out a laugh, fingers kneading into the soft of your thigh as he kept you open for him. You let go of his other hand, happy to lay slack against him, propped up by his solid chest, arms holding you in as he touched and touched and touched. 

“Like this?” He whispered, his finger tracing up and down, up and down through your folds, bumping against your clit on every pass. He was impossibly slow with it, gentle and soft, a maddening tease that had you pushing the tips of your toes into his carpet so you could try and chase the friction of his touch. “Slow like this, sweetheart?”

You nodded, eyes clenched shut, mewling and then his middle and index finger were swiping over your bottom lip, tapping until you opened. 

“Suck,” he told you. “Good girl, hmm?”

If your eyes rolled to the back of your head, he didn’t see from the way he sat behind you. But you did as you were asked - no, told - laving your tongue under his fingers, enjoying the slight weight of them in your mouth, the cool silver of his rings at your lips, whining when he took them away from you, slicker than before. 

But then his hand was down the front of your underwear and his fingers were sliding through you. You keened, squeaked at the sudden touch and tried to clamp your thighs around his wrist but Eddie was shushing you, soft noises in your ear as his other hand held your thigh, spreading you back open for him. 

“Shh, shh, sweetheart,” Eddie quietened you, “y’okay? I’ve got you, can I touch you, baby? Yeah? Gonna squeeze that pretty cunt around my fingers?”

You were nodding frantically, hips thrust out to him in offering, desperate to feel a little more full than you were. 

“Eddie, please.”

He was the same boy as always, running his mouth, talking to you dirty, hands knowing every inch of you. He was just slower with it, softer, like you’d asked. It turned him into something you’d never seen before, this quieter version of himself. Just as cocky, just as eager to please, but Jesus fucking Christ, his touch was making you dizzy and the way he was whispering to you all soft made you want to cry. 

He was bordering on mean with it, a little condescending, hands petting at you to try and get you to settle. 

“Baby, c’mon, sit nice,” he tsked, grinning at the way you were wriggling on his lap. If the grind of your ass against his hard dick was doing anything to him, he did well not to show it. “I know, I know, just a greedy little thing, aren’t you?”

And then his palm was running flat down the front of you, spreading your folds so the heel of his palm could grind against your clit as he slipped two fingers into you. It was all so easy with you wet you were, the slick sounds of your cunt almost as embarrassing as the ones falling from your mouth. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmured low, lips against your ear. Your head was thrown back, laying against his shoulders and at his words, you cried out and pressed your face into his curls. You couldn’t do anything but let him fuck his fingers into you, a slow, wet drag in and out, in and out, in and out. “That’s it, sweet little thing, look at you.”

But then it wasn’t deep enough, it wasn’t fast enough and Eddie was still wearing far too many clothes, and suddenly, you were starting to regret everything you’d asked of the boy. 

Your hands reached up, finding his curls, fingers twisting in the soft strands as your nails scratched against his scalp and you rugged, moaning for more. 

Eddie stopped. Let go of your thigh and slid his hand out from your underwear, dragging wet and warmth up your tummy as he did so. You whined and you heard him laugh, a soft huff into your neck before he kissed your shoulder and patted your hip to make you stand up. 

You climbed from his lap, a little unsteady on your feet because the maddening push and pull of his fingers had made you dizzy, white spots floating in your vision and you turned to him with a pout. 

“Eddie, what the fu-”

But then he was pulling off his shirt, hands gripping the back of his collar to rip it over his head and it joined your clothes on his floor. He popped the button of his jeans but didn’t do much else, groaning slightly at the small relief it brought him as he palmed his hard cock through his boxers. 

“On the bed, baby,” he nodded to the space beside him, a pile of pillows that probably smelled like him and when you let yourself crawl into them, you found out you were right. “Good girl.”

He laughed when your fingers curled into fists, an honest to god visceral reaction to his words. 

Then he was moving over you, kneeling between your spread legs and crowding into you. It was a familiar sight, if not for the fact that you were horizontal this time. Nose to nose with the boy, lips within reach, big, brown eyes staring hotly back at you. 

So you did what you always done, pushed your hands greedily into his hair and arched up to him, tugging a little when he didn’t comply and suddenly it felt like a fucking month had passed since Eddie had kissed you. 

You whined, and you couldn’t deny you sounded like a brat. “Eddie!”

His hands wrapped around your wrists, gently pulling your fingers from his curls. He tutted, tried to look disappointed but he was hiding his smile by biting at his lip and then, fuck, he gathered both of your hands in one of his and pinned them to the pillow above your head. 

“Sweetheart,” he cooed softly, “you said you wanted me to take my time with you.” He leaned down to press a kiss to your cheek, so close to where you wanted him. “Nice and slow, is that not what you said?”

You whimpered, turned your head to chase his lips with your own but he was pulling back just slightly. His hold on you was strong enough that you could pull away, couldn’t get close enough and the realisation made you moan out. 

“C’mon pretty girl, that’s what you asked for, right? For me to take my time?” Another kiss, under the line of your jaw this time, his lips parted and wet and warm. “Can’t do that if you’re gonna yank at my hair, hmm? Like a dirty little thing? Can’t have that.”

A kiss again, anywhere but your lips, his mouth trailing over your throat, a sweet peck pressed to your chin. You wanted to cry, eyes glassy, overwhelmed at all the soft, lovely touches he was giving you, all whilst he had you pinned and pressed down underneath him. 

“Baby,” Eddie tutted, eyes on yours, watching the way wetness brimmed at your lash line, threatening to spill over when you gave him a watery smile. “Baby, too much? Y’alright?”

You could feel the way his hand around your wrist let up, slackening just a little but you were crying out, a babble of noise that had him raising his brows and you were nodding furiously. 

“M’good, Eddie, so good,” you could hardly catch a breath. What the fuck had he done to you? “Want this, want you.”

That seemed to appease him, his hand pushing yours back down into the pillows and he smiled, all lovely just for you, dimple showing. “Yeah? You do? Oh, good girl, what d’you want, huh?”

Another fucking kiss, the cutest little peck, right by the corner of your lips. He knew what you wanted, he was just being a dick about it. 

“A kiss,” you huffed, shivering when his chest dragged across yours, the hang of his chain coke against your tits, a moan bubbling in your throat when he deliberately let it graze and catch against a peaked nipple. 

“That’s all?” Eddie asked you, “better make it a good one for my girl then.”

His girl. 

You didn’t have time to process that before he was on you, free hand curving around your jaw, thumb on your chin to tug at your mouth, licking into you almost immediately. It was like he’d went too long without it too, like not kissing you was the worst thing imaginable because it had been at least half an hour since he had his mouth on yours and well, that just wouldn’t fucking do. 

He kissed you like he missed you, like someone was going to take you away from him, mouth and hands greedy on you, tongue curling around yours. His lips were always soft, so impossibly soft and every stroke of his tongue over yours made you whine, hands flexing in his hold because holy shit, you wanted to grab and scratch and pull at him for making you feel so damn good. 

You were gasping against him when he pulled away, eyes still glassy, lips swollen and rosy and Eddie’s hand was getting greedy, trailing down your sides to hook into your underwear, pulling at them until they slid down your hips. 

His nose nudged yours to grab your attention, unable to help himself when you pressed another, quick, sweet kiss to your still parted lips. 

“You listening’ sweetheart?” 

You nodded, blinking up at him. 

“There’s my girl,” Eddie cooed, “good, ‘cause I need you to keep your hands up here for me, ‘kay?”

You whined, ready to argue back but then Eddie was pulling off lace from around your ankles and kissing his way down your naked body, hands bracketing your hips, curls tickling your stomach. 

You clenched down on nothing. 

He was eye level with your cunt, eyes shining, lips smirking as he pushed at your thighs, spreading you out in front of him, grinning when you wiggled against his palms. 

“Nuhuh,” he told you, “let me see you, yeah?”

He’d never done this before, was never able to, with the logistics of a quickie in the front of his van. Sure, you’d gone down on him before, a much easier task over the console, his dick heavy on the flat of your tongue and Eddie always promised you that next time, he’d return the favour, get you spread out in back but, well. 

Next time would come and you’d be too pent up and he’d be too impatient and before you both knew it you’d be sinking down on his cock in the driver's seat of the van, bouncing up and down whilst Eddie could only watch, fucked out in minutes at the sight of you. 

So this? Eddie blowing warm air over your already hot cunt? This was new. 

“So pretty,” he told you, voice awed. “Can I taste you baby? Would you like that?”

You couldn’t do anything but whimper, moans catching in your throat until they came out like needy little gasps and it took everything you had to follow Eddie’s orders and keep your hands to yourself. You fisted them in his pillow, gripped on tight because his lips were ghosting over your folds, butterfly kisses pressed to the outside of you, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips like he couldn’t help himself. 

“Don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he groaned, hips rutting into the bed as he palmed at your ass, tugging you down the bed so he could settle himself closer to you. “Could just eat you up, pretty girl.”

His tongue was swiping through you before you could answer, before you could beg. And despite the way he was grinding himself down into the bed, Eddie took his time with you, licked through your folds real slow with the flat of his tongue, pushing the soft of it over your clit at the end. 

He kept you spread wide, hands on the inside of your thighs, fingers splayed over you, thumbs pulling gently at your folds so he could push you open for him. His nose hit your clit when his tongue dipped inside of you, and fucking hell, Eddie was moaning almost as loud as you were, his lips wet with you, getting himself messy as he sucked and kissed his way across your cunt. 

“Can’t get enough of you,” the boy groaned into your thigh, kissing the soft skin there too, a reminder of how fucking sweet he was. “Christ, sweetheart, look at you, so pretty, all fucked out, huh? Look at those eyes, fucking hell.”

He was babbling, talking sweet in between licks, dirty flicks of his tongue that had your stomach clenching, your chest heaving. You were pushed onto your elbows to watch, a move that Eddie had given you in trouble for because your hands were still twisted in his sheets, kept to yourself. 

Your eyes were glassy, tears pooling at the corners, kissing your lashes that couldn’t stop fluttering at every kiss he gave you clit, every soft suck. You were sure you looked a mess, wrecked, ruined. Hair a riot, cheeks blooming with heat, lips still swollen and slick from his kisses and when Eddie slid one finger, two fingers back inside of you, you fell back with a wail. 

You were close, so close already, the thickness of his digits dragging in and out of your cunt was enough to throw you onto the edge but then the boy smiled against your stomach and dipped his head back down. His lips wrapped around your clit and suckled, soft and gentle, enough to keep you hanging. 

“Can feel you,” Eddie whispered, placing soft, quick kisses around your folds, across your tummy, one on your hip bone, followed by a scrape of his teeth. “Can feel you gettin’ tight around me, sweetheart. S’fucking hot, so fuckin’ hot.”

The boy sounded as wrecked as you felt, his voice shot, lips slick with you as you looked back down the length of your stretched out frame, eyes rolling at the sight of him between your thighs. He was watching you, brown eyes dark and hooded as he held your gaze and licked back over your clit. 

“Oh, fucking hell,” you moaned, “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie-”

“That’s it baby,” he encouraged, wrist twisting, fingers moving in and out of you a little faster. His rings weren’t cold anymore, but you could feel the hard nudge of them against your cunt, the feeling making you clench down. “Christ, that’s it, yeah, you gonna come for me?”

You couldn’t help it, not anymore. 

You grabbed at Eddie’s hair as your back arched, pushing your hips further into him, his fingers reaching places inside of you that had you seeing fucking stars. You tugged at his curls, unable to stop yourself but Eddie groaned at your toughness, letting you pull him into you, his hips rutting against the bed as he hooked his digits up and rubbed, tongue circling around your clit relentlessly at the same time. 

You broke, shattered, fell apart, cried out. Your eyes clenched shut, your body curling in on itself as you clamped your thighs around Eddie’s poor head, his mouth still sucking and kissing over you as you came. 

And then you  were whimpering, patting at the mess of curls you’d created on his head, trying to shimmy away from the overstimulation and Eddie took pity, dragging himself up your bottom, laying kisses on your damp skin as he went. 

He was grinning when he reached your face, kissing your neck to let you catch your breath, looking entirely proud of himself. You shined at the drag of his denim jeans over the inside of your thighs, laughed weakly when Eddie snorted at your shivers. 

Then he was pushing himself up on his elbows to hover over you, a palm smoothing back the hair that was clinging to your forehead. He looked down at you with eyes that were shining, so full of affection and fondness and something that it made your heart ache, made fresh tears spring to the corners of your eyes again and you huffed out a watery sigh. 

“That good, huh?“ Eddie asked smugly, smiling when you nodded, still a little dazed. He thumbed at your mouth, squished at the soft of your cheeks with his fingers and rubbed his nose against yours. “Gimme a kiss, sweetheart.“

You obliged happily, humming a pretty sound against his lips when Eddie kissed you soft and sweet, his mouth a gentle slide over your own. 

“Love your little noises,” he whispered, kissing you between words. “Sound so fucking cute when you’re coming for me.”

Your body burned at his words, another ache creeping across your cunt and despite the way he’d made you fall apart, you wanted nothing more than Eddie to be buried to the hilt inside of you. 

“Eds,” you whispered, hand palming at the front of his jeans, groaning when you felt him straining against the denim, the hardest he’d ever been. “Let me help you.”

But he took your hand in his, kissed your palm before you could feel the sting of rejection and he was crowding you back into his pillows, curls falling in a curtain on either sideed of you, lips back on your neck. 

“Give yourself a second, sweetheart,” he mumbled. “You said it yourself, I’ve got you all night.”

PART TWO

when I read your fics it genuinely feels so real that I have to wake myself up to rejoin the real world and when I finish the post I think I enter the five stages of grief

honeybody | tasm!peter parker x fem!reader

summary something about music makes you desperate to feel it. something about Peter, pretty and magnetic and light, multiplies this immeasurably. or, you and Peter want to try everything [wc: 12k]

warnings fluff, friendship, idiots in love, falling in love, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, intimacy, the intangible breadth of the human experience or something similar, mentioned/implied past self-harm (nothing graphic)

the honeybody playlist

<3

You perch on the edge of a yellowing cushion, nose tickled by the sweet sick smell of pot and cheap beer, and worry about being by yourself. Are you overstaying your welcome? The room is crowded to the point of awkwardness, two girls crammed onto the sofa besides you having a lovers quarrel, perfect noses turned up at each other. 

You look down at your covered thighs and rub your thumb over the smooth material, thinking. If I go home, I can sleep. But, if I go home, my life remains the size of my room. 

"They're nice pants, I agree," a voice says. 

You look up, mostly worried to be laughed at. And he does look like he's laughing, Peter something. 

"Hi," you say, shy and not knowing if that's what you were supposed to say. 

The perpetual amusement on his face wanes ever so slightly, replaced by something soft. "Hi," he says back, and then, glancing at the arguing couple next to you, "Do you want a drink?"

You say yes, eager to escape from the unpleasant smells and tensions of the main body. Peter something from Biology 102 juts his chin, a gesture to follow. He leads you into a kitchen similarly crowded but smelling more of salt and cocktail mix than smoke. Your shoes stick to the floor as you follow him to the drinks. 

"What a terrible assortment," he says, groaning at the countertop of booze, unimpressed. 

You can't think of something to say back. He turns to you with his eyebrows pinched, guilt evident in his face. 

"We have classes together, right?" 

"We did. Biology. You're Peter." You cringe as you say it. 

He only smiles. "I am Peter. You're…" 

You tell him. He winces and nods like he remembers, and maybe he does, patting his thigh. "I remember. You changed classes?" 

Your turn to wince. "I dropped out." 

He looks shocked for a moment, kind brown eyes wide like a child's. He's the type of handsome to give you chills if you think about it. 

"Well, that's something exciting to drink too." 

Exciting is not the right word. However, he's pretty and giving you attention. You let him make you a lukewarm mix of things and drink it like it's water, leaning against the cool front of the refrigerator. Peter towers above you, chin basically flat with his neck to see your face, too close for comfort because of the rowdy nature of the party. Still, as he speaks, you decide you like his closeness more and more. He has a nice voice, soothing, and when he chuckles halfway through his own joke you decide he has the most attractive laugh any boy could ever hope to have. 

"I mean, I'm sorry you dropped out but I envy you for never having to see Professor Müller again. She's twice as scary as she's ever been." 

"Has she divorced her husband yet?" Your words are careful, concise, likely too soft for the volume of the room. 

He hears each one perfectly and his laugh is a riot of butterflies in your stomach. 

"No, they're hanging in there." 

Small talk is tricky. There are intricacies you likely haven't learned. He's looking down, and you're looking up, but meeting his eyes is hard. You glance at his broad chest again and again to the point where you could likely draw the Bruce Springsteen shirt he's wearing with your eyes blindfolded. 

You find he isn't put off by your quietness. He fills any awkward gaps with chatter without steamrolling you. He listens. He smiles. 

"I came with Avery," you say, bending the plastic cup in your hand. It crunches. 

"I like Avery," he says agreeably. "I mean. I don't like her. Like like her." He clears his throat. "She's nice." 

"I'm surprised she's put up with me this long. Um, you know, she told me you sell photos. To the Bugle. You're a photographer?" 

He scratches the back of his neck. You push your lips together all lopsided as he smiles like he hadn't wanted you say that, and you go to correct yourself. 

"I mean, I'm sorry, was that-" 

He leans in a little closer and drops his hand. You're close enough to kiss, and that realisation makes your heart skip. "Don't be sorry," he says quickly. He's almost whispering. "Only, it's a secret. I don't know how Avery knows." 

"It was in the-" you get distracted by his eyes, unflinching, and look down at his stupid shirt for salvation, "-girls chemistry group chat. Apparently." 

He sighs and leans back. Why he's stressed over this is not apparent to you. When he straightens quickly you pretend you hadn't been staring at his jawline.  

"Are you in this chat?" he asks. 

You shake your head.. 

"I can't imagine how they would know," he says mostly to himself. 

His lips perk up from their thoughtful frown, a beatific smile taking its place. It's an image you're sure to replay in your head for weeks, this normal conversation, this interaction with somebody who's talking to you just to talk to you. You can't believe how pretty he is.

"Isn't it a good thing, to be credited?" you ask gently. 

"Have you seen the photographs?" he asks without a hint of sarcasm. 

You shake your head, a palpable wave of relief washes over him. You pretend not to notice. 

"It's a good thing," he agrees. His hands drift to his stomach. "Are you hungry?" 

You're not. "Yeah." 

"Wanna go get something? Ditch this popsicle stand. Smells like an ashtray in here." 

You think it might be a really bad idea to disappear into the night with a guy you've just met properly. Still, you're lonely, and stupid, and somebody lovely wants to go get food with you. 

You find yourself elbow to elbow with him in a greasy McDonald's, illuminated by neon and laughing harder than you have in a really long time. It's the first meal you've eaten in months that isn't a microwave meal in bed. It's nice. You like it. You like him. 

"Oh, gross." 

"What?" he asks, a milkshake covered fry an inch from his open mouth. 

"That's weird." 

"It's 'weird'?" he asks, extremely amused by you. There's a fondness to his disbelief. "Have you ever tried it?" 

"No," you admit, watching in disgust as he eats it.

Your mumbling amuses him tenfold. He giggles to himself as he plucks a fry from the bottom of his carton, translucent with grease. He dips it generously in his open milkshake and offers it to you. 

You don't reach for it. He shakes his head, bewildered, and moves his hand slowly to your mouth.

"Try it! You might like it. It might be your new favourite flavour on the entire planet, and you'll have me to thank for it." 

You doubt that. 

Honestly, you think you might lick the tables if he asked you to and the shame of it makes you flush white hot as you take the fry from him and eat it. 

"Do you like it?" Peter asks eagerly.

You wrinkle your nose. "Can't tell." 

He picks up a second fry, dips it in his thick shake and passes it to you fast. His fingers shine with grease. You take it from him.

"Atta girl," he praises. 

You melt under his watch. You're embarrassed that he's looking at you like he is - attentive, soft - though there's a thrumming pleasure that comes with his company. 

You chew the hybrid food in your mouth and find it isn't half as bad as you worried it would be. 

"Yeah?" he asks smugly, nodding until you nod with him. 

"Yeah," you say, laughing, eyes shying away from his. "It's nice." 

"I knew it! Knew you'd like it." 

"How did you know?" 

"I can tell. I've got amazing intuition." 

You dip one of your own fries in his shake and tilt your head back to avoid spilling it down your shirt, smiling so hard it makes it difficult to chew. 

"Your photos in the Bugle, what are they? Like, nature shots?" 

The smile slips off of his face. He thinks for a moment, tapping the table with his fingertips, staccato. 

"Do you want to be friends?" he asks you, brown waves falling into his eyes as his head inches to one side. 

You bite your bottom lip and start to smile, then lose it, worried he's pulling a prank on you. 

"You're fun. We mesh. And if you agree to be my friend, I'll tell you who I take photos of," he sells at your hesitance.  

"Yeah," you say. It comes out weird. You clear your throat. "Yeah, I wanna be your friend." 

His smile flashes, soft then contagious, ridiculously bright. He brings his phone out of his pocket, his screen smashed to pieces and held together with clear scotch tape, and clicks in the code, bringing up a small folder of pictures. 

"I take photos of Spider-Man." 

You blink. You look between the phone and your new friend, letting out an excited gasp that startles him. 

"You've met Spider-Man?" you ask, louder than you've spoken all night. 

He gawps at you. "Well," he says bashfully, seeming in two minds from your attention. "I mean… you could say that." 

"No fucking way," you mutter happily. Then, before you can stop yourself, "What's he like? Is he nice? Is he funny? People always say he tells good jokes." 

His cheeks are pinking. "I'd say he's pretty funny." 

"Wow. Peter, this is awesome," you tell him truthfully. 

"Oh," he says, eyes hard to read. "Thank you." 

You pass the phone back to him. "Of course. Wow, Spider-Man. Hey, you don't take them on your phone, do you? They're so crisp." 

"Crisp," he repeats. 

"You know, high definition," you sing-song. 

"I have a camera. A few cameras. I fix them." 

"You fix cameras?" 

He tells you all about it, and he doesn't stop at cameras. He can fix everything. Laptops and TVs, video game consoles and fancy mechanical keyboards. You listen in awe. 

"Well, what do you do? For fun?" he asks.

You waver. "I'm a waitress." 

He raises his eyebrows. "For fun?" 

"I mean, no. It's my job. I just, I don't know what I do for fun." You bring your hands together and run your wrist with the pad of your thumb, suddenly unhappy with yourself. "I guess lately I work and then I come home and, you know, do all the things you have to do." 

You cringe at yourself. Peter starts collecting the rubbish and mess you've made on the table, slipping everything inside the beaten paper bag, eyes flitting in your direction as he says, "Hey, that's alright. Life gets really busy. Having a full time job must be pretty hard, yeah?" 

You nod mindlessly, grateful for his rescue. "Yeah." 

"Before your job, what did you do for fun?" 

You don't expect the question. "Anything. I would do whatever," you say eventually.

"Skydiving?" he challenges. 

"Well, no." 

"Paintballing?" 

"No, but-" 

"Go karting?" 

"You asked me for my hobbies, not my bucket list," you complain with no real heat. 

His laugh echoes through the entire restaurant. You look around to see if anyone cares and he doesn't, reaching out to grasp your wrist lightly, a friendly clasp that makes your skin burn. 

"Maybe we should try doing some of these things. Get you your hobbies back. Hobbies make everything worth it. What's the point in working so hard if you never have time to slow down?" he asks earnestly. 

You beam, staring at his hand. There's no sign that he's just touched you, no mark, no burn, nothing. It doesn't make any sense. 

He finishes off his drink and shoves that in the paper bag too, turning to you with a question already on his lips. 

"How about skateboarding?"

-

"You're overthinking it," Peter says, watching you hesitate in front of his skateboard. 

The sun shines like sticky hot toffee in the sky, piercing the autumn cold. The skatepark complex is busy, more busy than you expected, kids and teens and twenties like you and Peter fighting for space. You and Peter stand off to one side, away from the bowls and congregation.

"I don't want to fall," you confess.

"I won't let you," he says firmly. "Get on." 

He offers his hand. You bite your lip, feel the sun warm the back of your head as you stall. 

"I'll help you on. It's easy, I swear." 

You put one converse-heavy foot on the board. Peter had texted you to wear shoes you didn't mind getting all dinged up and you'd realised that was every pair of shoes, besides your flats for work. He also insisted on bringing knee pads and a helmet. You feel like an idiot. He obviously doesn't mind how you look considering he's tightened the helmet so much your hair is crushed and messy. 

"Is this really necessary?" you'd asked. 

He'd rolled his eyes. "Yes." 

"Look," he says now, "move your foot back a little bit." 

"It's gonna move."

He puts his foot behind the wheels. "There, now it won't. Angle your foot, like this," he shows you with his own, though it's the inverse foot and you get confused. He's patient. "Good job. Now this one, straight on the curved part." 

You wobble and grasp his wrist too tight in your fingers. He moves a little closer. "Alright. You'll push with this one," he says, pointing at your foot on the back of the board, "from this side. But don't worry, I'll show you. For now, let's just practice standing." 

You giggle breathily, nervous at being so close to him. "Not something I thought I'd ever have to practice doing." 

He laughs with you. 

"I know. As soon as you can balance, everything will feel a lot less scary." 

You wobble again. He sighs sympathetically, a half smile on his lips. "Want me to hold you up?" he asks. 

"Yes. Please," you agree. 

You can't help the tiny gasp of fright that leaves you when he lets go of your hand, though he's quick to wrap his both hands around your waist, steadying you on the board. He moves his foot from behind the truck and you're suddenly aware of the boards freedom to fly out from under you. 

You grab onto his arms unthinkingly, feeling the unmistakable curve of defined muscle. It only furthers your dizziness. 

"You're good," he murmurs, fingers flexing on your waist. You can feel his touch in your ribs. "How do you feel?" 

"Fine." 

"I'm gonna move you back and forth, okay?"

He does. It's odd. You sway forwards and backwards, barely moving. It's not as scary as you think it is. 

"You can use your hands for balance if you want but most people get away with having them loose at your sides," he tells you. His instructions are slow, said with a melodic cadence. 

His words click. "Oh, right. Sorry," you rush to say. 

You pull your hands away from him quickly and almost topplez ending up with your hands right back where they'd been moments before, scared at the change in your balance.

"Hey, you're good to hold onto me. Whatever you want to do," he reassures you.

He moves you for a few minutes. You're distracted by his touch and his proximity, of his smell and trying to work out what it is, and then worried about your own smell and how you look, and if you're making a good impression in his head. This is the first time you've seen him since the night you'd gone for food, though he'd texted you every now and then, friendly things, between the waiting days. The weekend had approached quickly. You offered the scarcity of your spare time to him in an uncharacteristic display of courage, texting him: 

I don't have work tomorrow if youre still okay to teach me how to skateboard 

Omg yes I've been looking forward to this all week!! You know where Maloof skatepark is? 

Yeh. Do I need to bring anything?? 

Just yourself and a pair of shoes u don't mind ruining, I'll bring everything else :D

"Okay, climb off." 

"Which-?" 

"This foot first." 

You clamber clumsily off of the board and his hands linger on your waist for a warm second. He climbs on the skateboard swiftly, movement smooth as honey. He's agile. 

"I'm gonna push with my leg," he lifts it up to show you. Impressed isn't the right word. "It's really easy, I promise you. You're gonna get this in no time." 

"Do you want the helmet?" you ask him. 

"No, sweetheart, you keep it." 

It's almost like being struck. He demonstrates how to push off, how to put your foot back behind you. You're too busy buzzing with something unfamiliar to pay attention. 

"See how I'm bending my knees a little bit?" he asks. 

You nod with no clue. He comes to a controlled stop and kicks the board up with his shoe, something that in consideration is mildly impressive but has you squeezing your palms closed tight. He braces it against his leg.

"Are you thirsty? I've got drinks," Peter says. 

You sit with your backs to a cold metal wrought fence sipping Sunny-D, the climbing sun cutting through the afternoons chilly weather until you're basking in it, lifting your face with your eyes closed. 

It's not quite peaceful, the childish hubbub and the sound of wheels, blades and metal screeching loud in your ears, but it could be. You can imagine how it might get to be white noise. 

Peter nudges you with his elbow. "You're like a cornflower." 

"A weed?" you murmur, bemused. 

"No!" he scrambles at your teasing tone. "They love the sun." 

"Like sunflowers." 

"Sunflowers aren't really flowers, either. The part that looks like a flower is a capitulum of florests. That's why the middle is weirdly big. It grows like the wood of a tree." 

"So the sunflower isn't a flower," you say, tilting your head towards his. "It's just a plant of- what did you say? Florests?"

"It's a plant covered in lots of little flowers, basically," he sums up for you.

"A plant made of flowers." 

"Exactly." 

"I'd know this if I hadn't dropped out, I assume." 

"That and a handful of other tiny useless facts."

Useless or not, he's hot when he talks, when he explains. You might think he was glaring at you, his eyebrows pinched, his mouth almost pouting like he's mad with himself for needing to concentrate. Whatever it is, it's pretty. He looks like a painting, you think. The Fallen Angel. 

He stops thinking so hard and lifts his head to drink. You watch him swallow and wonder after what kind of friend he wants you to be. 

"Flower or not, all I meant was that you look like you're enjoying the weather," he says after a moment. 

"It's nice. I like the warmth." 

"You're not too hot?" 

You look down at your hoodie. You are warm, but you won't take it off. "Nah," you say, smiling peaceably. 

He takes a second to digest this. His own hoodie is tucked away in his backpack, bare arms on show and a sight. You trace the small arm hairs with your eyes, then his veins, then a scar so silver it would be invisible without the sun's exposure. 

"You wanna try again?" 

You get up reluctantly and he sets his board back out and tucks his foot in front of the wheels. You step on, wobble, find your balance. He's more gentle with you than you think he should be. It's like he's known you for years. 

"Can I move my foot?" 

You nod. 

"Just stay steady. You have your knee pads, but I'll catch you if you fall anyway. All you wanna do for now is stand on the board." 

You trust him to do what he says he will and catch you. You take in a deep breath as he moves his foot, knees slightly bent, arms at your sides, trying your best to be steady. 

"Hey, amazing! Alright! Look at you!" Peter cheers, ecstatic.

"Should I be moving?" you ask through a small smile. 

He shrugs and moves backwards, close enough to grab you but far enough away that you have space to get comfortable on the skateboard by yourself.

"Do what feels right," he advises. 

The sun hits him, turns his hair alight. He's the prettiest boy you've ever met, his eyes dark in the halo of light, eyebrows darker. Light kisses the hills of his cheeks and taper, carving deep shadows under his jaw. You falter on the board, distracted again, and his jaw clenches, his hands reaching out to scoop you up before you can fall flat on your face. 

You're one foot touches down and the other slides out under you, skateboard rolling. Peter laughs straight away and you follow his example, giggling as his fingers hook under your arms. You barely feel them. He smells nice. Vanilla, you think, mixed with something aromatic. Amber, maybe. Whatever it is, it's warm. He smells warm. 

You remember to pull your foot off of his board and feel like you're made of jelly. He pulls his hands off of you but doesn't move away, peering down at you in question. 

"Did something surprise you?" he asks curiously. 

"I- yeah. I don't know." 

"Wanna go again?" 

You get up on the board again. It takes time and mishaps. Peter doesn't ever let you hit the ground. 

The sun edges further and further into the sky. By the time it's begun its descent you can push off by yourself, able to traverse a few slow feet without falling. Peter throws his arm over your shoulder when you dismount by yourself and shakes you gently. 

"Amazing. You're a real Tony Hawk," he compliments. "Next time we'll see if I can get you turning. You don't have anywhere to be, do you?" 

"Nowhere." 

"Wanna get something to eat? There's a place nearby that does Pão de Queijo, you'll love those." 

"Is it like the whole milkshake thing? 'Cos there's only so many stamps on my freak-of-nature card left." 

"Very funny. They're just cheese puffs, swear. Maybe we can get milkshakes on the way for a completely unrelated reason," he says, a vexing smugness behind his joke. 

"Ew, Peter." 

"Ew," he agrees.

-

Do you want to go to a painting class with me

Yeah it's like a Bob Ross rip off at the creative arts centre . They have all the stuff there we just have to pay like 49 dollars 

? 

a painting class? 

Which is on me if u say yes obviously 

You want me to go paint with you ? 

Yeah it'll be fun

I don't own anything  

Peter we can do all that stuff for free at my house if u want to 

wait 

is painting one of your pre job hobbies???

oh awesome. if that's OK with u then sure we might as well. also a relief cos its 49 each so that's like 98 dollars for us to paint waterfalls :0

yeh lol. i have the stuff

You stare down at your phone. Your answer blinks but you can't make yourself press send. You know you don't have to organise these big things to spend time with me, it says. Only, what if he does? What if your friendship doesn't work without something to do? You've known Peter for three weeks now and gone skating every weekend, though last time you'd given up early and insisted he impress you with tricks. He had delivered, and your mouth had been bone dry by the end of it. He'd barely broken a sweat. 

You delete your draft and start anew. 

Do you have a tarp or a big sheet we can lay down on the floor? I have carpet and I rent 

I'll get you a tarp, sweetheart

You scream to yourself and push your phone deep into the sofa cushions beneath you. It chirps and you leave it. It chirps again and you scrounge for it. 

look at this video https://youtu.be/A5L8bdYY9FY

he's eating a tomato

You laugh to yourself, giddy with the pleasure of having a friend. Giddy that it's Peter. 

-

A rattling knock at the door. 

A text before you can get up. 

I'm outside maybe

You open the door in your painting clothes with your hair intricately done to look messy-pretty. Peter is wearing his usual nice clothes, thigh hugging jeans and his brown jacket, but under it is a shirt that smells like burning. 

"S'my soldering shirt," he says quickly, apologetic. 

You smile and hope he reads it for what it is; It smells like it. Also, I'm happy you're here. 

He shrugs off his backpack. 

"I brought sandwiches," he announces. "Like, thanks for inviting me, no I'm not going to murder you sandwiches." 

"Peter, I never thought you were going to murder me." 

"Good. May says hi." He pulls a plate from the bag, cookies covered in saran wrap. 

"Oh my god. Why don't you say hi this way?" you tease, accepting the plate from his hands. The cookies are still warm. You could scream. "Is it rude if I eat one now?" you ask him. 

"It would be rude if you didn't. I sw- rushed here so they'd stay warm." 

"Thank you." 

Beforeyou can psych yourself up, you step forward and hug him with one arm. You'd argued with yourself for hours this morning while cleaning if this was an acceptable thing to do. Friends hug, don't they? 

You do it quickly, reasoning that if he finds it weird then at least it's short. You pull away before his arms are even properly around you. Peter looks mildly confused but is ever a boy of endless generosity and so has the kindness to pretend you're not acting socially inept, instead setting his sights on your apartment. 

"It's bright," he says. 

You read it as a comment on lack of decor. 

"White," you agree. "Can't mess up if it's all the same colour." 

The walls, the rug, the cabinets. Though they're all a dull offwhite. It's horrible, you think, really horrible, but you're so afraid to try and to mess up that you've never bothered. 

Peter stretches the plastic tarp he's acquired out over your floor as you eat one of May's cookies, sighing at the taste of sugar and chocolate chips. You hold the cookie in one hand and use the other to weigh the tarp edges down with four worn paperback books. 

"You read a lot?" Peter asks, beaming. You can't understand it. 

You nod and finish up the cookie. 

"That's a nice hobby to have, sweetheart." Again with sweetheart, so warm it makes your fingers tremble. "What kind of stuff do you like to read?" 

You tell him the bare bones of your reading habit as you spread your freshly-dusted art supplies out onto the trap. You'd bought fresh turps and canvas and laid them out already. 

"What are we painting?" you ask him. 

He nods to himself and opens up his laptop from his rucksack, moving it so you have a good view with YouTube already paused. 

"That's not a waterfall," you say. 

"It looks pretty, though, don't you think?" 

It's an aurora borealis tutorial. "It might be above my skill level." 

"Not mine. Don't worry, I'll get us through it." 

You'd primed the medium canvases with a thick layer of white gesso. Peter rubs his fingertips over the smooth surface deliberately and turns to you. 

"I thought we'd take our time. I know the idea is to paint along with him but we aren't in any hurry. I watched it twice last night and I really think we can manage it," he says, confident. 

First, three stripes of a turquoise-green. Mixing that colour is a struggle that you both giggle through. You add white, Peter adds green, you add too much blue and he adds too much yellow. Eventually you get something right, the both of you already smattered in flecks of oily colour that transfers onto the pristine canvas, marring them. You look at each other with wide eyes. 

"We can just do the stripes across them," Peter says. 

"The background is dark," you agree. "It'll cover it up." 

You paint big green stripes. Peter tips linseed oil on his jeans and you have to take a break to clean it up, kneeling knee to knee with him and dabbing his leg with a rag. 

"I'm really sorry I don't have anything for you to change into," you apologise. 

"It's not your fault," he says, quiet, so close you can feel the heat of his breath on your forehead. 

When he's mostly dry you, in what is the most arduous and quite frankly terrifying step, fill in the gaps with a blue so dark it's almost black. 

"The wine-dark sea," you murmur. 

Peter looks at you in a way you can't decipher.

"You know, Homer?" you ask. 

"I don't know," he says, shaking his head. His voice is cloudy with something as he asks, "Explain it to me?" 

You look down at your painting and make small, careful strokes, working to cover the last corner. "I don't really know everything, but; they didn't have a word for blue, or maybe they didn't have a perception of the colour blue, back then. Culturally."

You go silent with concentration as you fill in the last stroke of dark paint, attempting to be as neat as you can be. 

"So they were all colourblind?" he asks. 

"Maybe," you murmur. "I don't know, I don't think so? I think it might've been about language and how they used it rather than just not seeing it at all. Homer once described Zeus' eyebrow as 'blue', like a synonym for 'dark'." 

It feels weird to disagree with him. You're worried about being pedantic, looking out your peripherals at him. He's leaning over his canvas with a stripe of paint up his arm like a turquoise vein, his shirt sleeve, soft with age, curling up. You can see a chest-aching silver of his muscled bicep. He doesn't seem annoyed at all. In fact, he seems pleased. 

"That's awesome, in a way. Don't you think so? And what, blue was just dark or dark red?" 

"I'm not sure. I don't really remember. I read about it a long time ago," you say hesitantly, afraid of sounding stupid.

"Maybe we can have a look after we're done painting. I'm sure you're right," he says lightly, sitting back on his calves with a pleased smile. "We are literally modern Picasso's." 

Well, they did look quite abstract. 

You paint gentle lines of purple atop the black, taking it straight from the tube with your brushes, waiting your turn like little kids. It becomes invisible as it blends, lying in wait for the white paint meant to go on top.

You clean off your brushes in the turpentine and squeeze out a big dollop of titanium white. 

"This is the tricky part," Peter informs you over the instructor on screen. "We have to use a lot of white, keep the lines really skinny and blobby but also try not to mix it with the blue underneath too much. Think you have the chops?" he asks, voice low, like a formidable opponent from some texas ranger movie. 

You don't. 

"Yeah, we can do it. Looks easy," you say, eyes on the screen. 

It's finicky. The white smudges and gets dirty fast. You don't suppose it will matter when you do the final brush strokes, but still. Peter's perfectionism begins to show and he grows quiet with concentration, white stripes arcing over his canvas in delicate hand. 

"The fun part," he declares when he's done. "You have a big brush, right?" 

"Only the one," you say, sorry. 

"That's okay, I like sharing with you." 

Peter goes first, slowly and then with more confidence when the beginning stroke goes well. He drags the dry brush from the bottom to the top over still wet paint. Where the white spread upwards it lightens the turquoise green and purple, and the aurora borealis is born on his canvas. 

You both look at it in shock. 

By the time he's finished you're beaming. It's so pretty, so simple. 

"I can't believe I made that," he says, then flushes pink. 

He clears his throat and cleans the brush off in turps, wipes it dry on the painting rag. He hands it to you and you take it impulsively, but after a moment you pass it back. 

"Will you do mine for me? Please?" 

"What? You don't want to do it?" he asks, incredulous.

"I'll mess it up." 

Peter takes the brush from you though he looks like it's the last thing he would ever want to do. His shoulders relax, down in fashion with the corner of his mouth. 

"Why would you think that?" he asks. 

You shift uncomfortably. "I just would." 

His face goes stony, and he looks like he did at the skatepark, that flash of fallen angel. His eyebrows furrow and there's a particular sullen quality to his pout. It's gone as quick as it came, overwhelmed by something like determination. 

"You try it. If you mess it up I'll finish it off for you. Final offer." 

"That's the only offer you've given me." 

"Exactly." 

It goes without a hitch. Peter squeezes your forearm gently, says, "I knew you could," and leaves a white-lilac fingerprint behind. Later, when he's left for the night and you're lying in bed with your arm still phantom tingling, you look at the paint mark and figure that it makes sense. A physical mark of how you feel. A soft colour of a soft touch. 

-

Peter waits for you outside the hotel restaurant where you waitress on Friday, 5PM, and looks exceedingly happy when he spots you like he hadn't expected you, despite your being his one reason for standing there. 

He has a bag hanging from the crook of his elbow and his earphones wired in. He pulls them out when he sees you. 

"Watcha listening to?" you ask. 

"Aw, look at you, sweetheart," he cooes instead of answering. 

You don't understand, looking down at your waitress skirt and tights, your white blouse and black overcoat. Your name tag is shining silver in the lamp light. 

"What?" 

"Aren't you cold?" he asks, handing you the drinks tray.

Before you can answer he's shrugging out of his jacket, transferring his bag from one hand then the other. 

"Here." He takes the drinks back and passes you the jacket. "Let's swap." 

"Peter, I can't wear your jacket." 

"I've got this hoodie on," he says, gesturing to his dark blue hoodie with a grin. 

Your cheeks burn. You pretend it's from the cold breeze, pushing your arms into his jacket quickly, shy but thankful for the warmth. It's thick and warm from his wear, corduroy with a puffier inner lining than you were expecting. Chills line your arms as his heat sinks in.

"Where's your jacket?" Peter asks. 

"It put it in my locker and then I lost the key, and the super isn't here on Fridays. So." 

"Typical." 

"Of me?" 

"Of the super. Four day work week! The nerve of that guy." 

You laugh and start to walk, prompting Peter into motion. He wraps your stiff fingers around a warm cardboard cup unnecessarily. You almost question him aloud. You bring the cup to your nose and sniff, quickly forgetting your question as it's replaced by another. 

"Pete, what is this?" 

"It's a honeycomb latte from Tim Hortons. You've been trying so many new things, I thought you'd like it. I'll get you something else, though, if you hate it."

You sip. It's nice. "This is grim," you lie, and it's so obvious it shocks a laugh from him. You're gifted a peek at the underside of his perfect jaw, his lovely neck as he tilts his head back. 

"How will I sleep tonight?" you ask after another burning sip.

"It's decaf, bug." 

"Bug! Like an insect." 

"Exactly." He grins. You take a big mouthful of latte and feel it heat you up inside out. 

He tucks his phone in his pocket but pulls the wired headphones through and offers an earbud to you. You plug it in your ear and listen to his music as you walk mostly in silence. It's nice to decompress after work, nice to enjoy his company without having to talk. There's so much talking, all day, and it's a comfort you can't believe you're privileged enough to have for him to be by your side, hands swinging, almost touching, between you. 

"What song was that?" 

"Raspberry. By Grouplove."

"And what song is this one?" you ask. 

"Honeybody." 

You smile to yourself. 

"What?" he asks, grinning, words all soft and warped with humour. 

"I've never heard any of your songs before." 

"You hate them?" 

"I really don't. They suit you." 

He grins and starts to sway, his drink sloshing, the bag hanging from his wrist rustling with his movement. You step around a mysterious mark on the sidewalk and when you return to his side Peter holds his hand out. You take it and he's suddenly pulling you in, your face by his face, giggles bubbling out of you when you realise he's serenading you in a falsetto. 

"Oh, honeybody, whatcha doing Sunday? Maybe sippin' a coca cola with me, babe?" he begins. 

It's ridiculous, and it makes you laugh, the beat of the song easy to fall into as he stretches your joined hands between you, his shoulders moving in dance. 

"Hands down on the ground, I'm begging you to please - honeybody, please me?" 

He laughs as he sings, words off kilter and high pitched. You smile so wide it hurts your cheeks and try not to spill your drink as his eyes flare wide and he spins you around. People must be looking at you, they have to be, the streets are quiet but not abandoned, and no one can hear the music but you - it must be something awful. And, as someone who is always so paranoid of what people think, you realise you don't care. This is fun. Your heart is racing as you dance, you skirt flaring in the breeze as you almost skip into dance moves, head bobbing left to right. 

Honeybody, want ya body.

You dance through an instrumental pause like idiots, and then hum along to the words you don't know when they start again, Peter moving your hand in his back and forth over the empty air in time with the music.  

It's magnetic in its awkwardness. Why do people dance? Because something about music makes you desperate to feel it, and something about Peter's pretty face open with the simple joy of singing in the street multiplies that. You're not sure you could've kept still if you wanted to, a vestibule of immeasurable slap dap joy. 

The song slows, swells, and you and Peter calm yourselves down now that the pop-y baseline is fading. You turn to each other and smile and laugh breathily, embarrassed and so disgusting stupid happy it hurts your cheeks. You let yourself look into his eyes, their amber flecked, sunwarmed-honey brown, ink black pupils blown wide. He drops your joined hands back down but doesn't let your fingers go, swinging them forwards and back between you. You don't just let him, you help, and you find that you love the weight of his palm in yours. 

The new song is slower but still jumpy. The singer has a deeper voice, a very deep voice, and you can't make out what he's saying until the bridge. 

I'm just a lover boy. I'm not cut out to be cruel. 

You look at Peter and reckon it of him. You can't imagine he's ever been cruel in his life. 

"What is this one called?" you ask, tightening your fingers around his. 

"Low beam," he tells you smoothly, an impersonation, grasping your hand back with a similar pressure. 

"I can't tell what he's saying," you confess. 

He tilts his head and listens to the song, humming and then singing, his voice steady and deep but without the passionate inflection of the singer, whose voice has climbed into a higher pitch for the next two lines. It sounds nice, and Peter's voice sounds nicer. 

"I know what you're all about, I know what you're on. Baby let me down, I just don't belong." 

You barely have time to think about how much you relate to the singer's words before Peter drops his voice down all sticky-deep and croaky. 

"I know what you're thinking, you can take me for a ride. Baby let me have it, 'cos I'm never gonna hide, you can keep on running-" 

He tries to keep singing his dramatic rendition and can't, your roaring laughter too infectious to ignore. 

How could you not laugh? He sounds so ridiculous, his impression of the singer so outlandish and yet spot on. You laugh hard enough that you have to bend over in the street and press your thighs together, gasping for air. You know it's the euphoria of dancing with him making you dizzy, know that this giddiness is a collection of all the ways he's made you feel high with the pleasure of being cared about. 

Peter's own laughter fades before yours, though he's not immune to each fresh wave, each shiny giggle. You wheeze and he snorts in response, pulling his hand from yours to pat your back sympathetically. 

"Alright, bub, laugh it up. We have places to be. Get it all out of your system." 

Get it out of your system! You laugh until tears well in your eyes. 

"If you don't stop laughing I won't heat your grilled cheese up. You'll have to eat it cold." 

You gasp, half mocking as the giggles taper. "Not my artisan-style grilled cheese! The horror!" 

You're not blind enough to miss the fondness on his face as he looks down at you. "Exactly: the horror."

"May won't let you do that to me. It's, like, a human rights violation." 

It's his turn to laugh. You stand giggling in the street with his hand buried in the fabric of your borrowed jacket, clinging to you for dear life. You only manage to sober up when his drink tips over the lip of the cup and miraculously drips into the opening of the plastic bag suspended from the crook of his elbow, ruining your sandwiches. 

-

"There's a phone call for you at the front desk," someone tells you. 

You rush to the desk and accept the phone from the secretary, leaning over the top, and raise it your ear. Nobody ever calls you, really, and it's unlikely they'd know you were here: you're picking up someone else's shift, a night shift.

"Hello?" 

Peter's voice, without greeting. "'In the 1980s a theory gained prominence that after Greeks mixed their wine with hard, alkaline water typical for the Peloponnesus, it became darker and more of a blue-ish color. Approximately at the same time P. G. Maxwell-Stuart argued that "wine-eyed" may simply denote 'drunk, unpeaceful'.'"

"Where'd you read that?" you ask quietly, peeking out the corner of your eye at the secretary. She seems to be uncaring. 

"Wikipedia." 

"So the wine-dark sea isn't red?" 

"I think it's up for interpretation still. Wikipedia isn't exactly the best source. But certainly not red in our context," he says. You can hear how tired he is from the slight monotony of his voice. 

"So it's not red to them, because they saw blue as a dark red," you say, not really arguing so much as thinking out loud. "It's 'cos their wine was blue?" You confuse yourself. 

"That's what I thought at first, too, but if you look at other languages from the same time period, it's very common for their syntax to also lack any mention or translation of the word blue." 

"I'm too stupid for all of this, Pete. You'll have to work it out for me." 

"You're not stupid," he says hotly. 

"I'm not not stupid." 

"You're not stupid. Don't say mean things about my friend." 

You laugh at the seriousness of his tone. "You got it, boss. Anything else? I gotta get back." 

"Right! Sorry, I called you to ask you out, not to theorise dead languages with you."

Your heart stutters. "Ask me out?" 

"There's a rerun tomorrow morning of Big Eden at the movies near your place." 

"What time?" 

"Like, 8AM." 

You check your watch. It's already 10PM. "Will you be okay with waking up early? You sound really tired." 

He laughs nervously. "What?" he asks, voice pitched up. "I'm fine. Of course I will be. So that's a yes?" 

"You're all scratchy… but yes, that sounds fun." 

"Is it ugly? My voice?" 

"It's nice," you say, too honest. 

His answering silence makes you want to slam the phone back into its receiver. A sound like fast wind statics the line. 

"What was that?" 

"What was what? You finish soon, don't you?" he asks. 

You sigh. "Yes, thank you God. Fifteen minutes." 

"You'll text me when you're home?" 

"Sure thing. Catch you later?" 

"Catch you later," he repeats, voice edged with lightness. You put the phone back and slink off to finish up your duties before clocking out and retrieving your things from your locker. 

It's cold and dark. You pin the feeling of being followed on plain paranoia. You hear the strangest sound, a thwip like wet paper towels hitting the floor, and it freaks you out badly. You rush home. 

Peter's timing is impeccable, your phone pinging as soon as you've locked the front door. 

Home?

Yes sir

Plans tonight? 

Calm down my racing heart and then knock out for moveis tomorrow :33 

Racing heart??? Everything OK? 

Yeah, just scary sometimes walking home. I felt like someone was following me 

His reply takes a little while. 

Fuck. Next time I'll meet you there? Even if we don't have plans, I'll walk you home whenever you want. 

You smile to yourself. 

Yeah. that would be nice. Thank you Peter 

-

You're so tired in the morning that your eyes burn. You don't care. You haven't seen Peter all week and there's a hole the size of him in your palm. You meet him outside the movie theatre and instantly narrow your eyes at him. 

"Peter! What the fuck?" 

"What?" he asks, sluggish, dressed briskly in a white shirt and olive green pants. His rucksack bulges on his back, hopefully full of contraband. 

"Your eye!" you say, furious. "What do you mean, 'what'? You have a shiner!" 

You catch his face in your hands, less gentle than you mean to be. You breathe out and try to be careful, tilting his head down and to one side to get a good look, gasping at the extent of it, a horrible wine stain of purple red on his cheek. 

"Peter, did you go to the hospital?" you murmur, chewing your lip. 

You brush your thumb over the very edge of his eye. He wraps his hand around your forearm and strokes down, a little bit of the worry you're feeling dripping away with it. You can't get over how messy it is, how his eye is squinting shut with it. 

"May looked at it. It's ugly but it's fine." 

"How did you do this?" you ask, and maybe he can hear how weirdly close you are to tears, because he tightens his grip on you and meets your eyes. 

"I'm alright," he says emphatically. "I- I ate shit on the rails. Everything's fine." 

You hadn't expected seeing him hurt to evoke such a visceral reaction. You clear your throat and tuck it away, blinking rapidly to push any wetness from your eyes. 

"Jesus Christmas, Peter," you whisper.

"Jesus Christmas," he repeats dryly. 

You drop your hand from his face and ball it into a fist, faux annoyed with him. His hand remains on your arm, slowly climbing up, and the press of his fingertips is a small heaven. Your annoyance doesn't last long; you're too concerned about his face to hide it. 

"Are you really okay? Maybe you should go home." 

"Are you kidding? I missed you all week, I'm not going home. I would've come with a stab wound." 

You might have smiled if his bruise wasn't as awful as it was. 

"Peter…" 

"Come on, it's Big Eden. I guarantee you'll cry and I already bought the tickets," he says this with a mischievous, self-satisfied grin. 

You look at the white t-shirt he's wearing with a little goblin man riding a skateboard, want to laugh at it, want to cry about his face and kiss it better or at the very least hold a tincture to it for a few hours. He's injured and it must hurt like a bitch, and yet he wants to watch a movie with you. That softens your resolve. You're quickly finding that Peter Parker is hard to say no to. 

"Well," you say, rolling the words around in your mouth, "if you already bought the tickets…" 

He cheers and readjusts the strap of his Jansport on one shoulder before leaning down to kiss your cheek. "Yes! Alright, let's do this thing. I have a ridiculous amount of snacks in this bad boy." 

You sit smack dab in the middle of the theatre. Peter is at first a pillar of strength, whispering jokes and forcing snacks not suitable for your early morning appetite into your hands. He grows less talkative as the movie continues and soon, with a struggle and a half, he's lightly dozing, his head thrown back. 

You can't decide whether to be enraptured by the movie or the sleeping boy besides you. Again, you're overtaken by this want to kiss his aching contusion like it might help.

The movie plays and all you can do is look at Peter's face. 

"Listen, you know what they say when you get lost in the woods? If you stay put, stay in one place and don't wander, they'll find you."

You reach out your fingers an inch from his face, half an inch. 

"And I was just hoping you'd let yourself be found this time. I was hoping you'd let us find you. But you keep wandering and-"

You touch his face. He stirs and you can't pull your hand back in time. You're not smart enough to lie, find you don't really want to, and he sees your hand and presses his own overtop without saying anything. 

You twist in the padded velvet seat. Peter slides your hand up his face, towards his eye, leans into your touch like a cushion. 

You worry he's fallen asleep again when his mouth ticks up into a small smile. 

"Was I asleep for long?" he whispers. 

You shake your head. He drops your hands from his face and pulls them into his lap and they stay there for the rest of the movie, catching teardrops. 

You cry too. A lot more. 

"This was the first movie I saw as a kid where I realised it was okay," he says quietly over wide shots of the town, "for me to love boys the same way I loved girls." 

That prompts a fresh wave. You sniff them away, squeezing his hand in his lap and feeling that overwhelming fondness for him that you always feel these days, as well as the pleasure and thankfulness that comes with being trusted brazenly. 

"Yeah?" you ask, eyes shiny. 

"Yeah." 

The lights come up as the credits begin rolling. Peter, despite his obvious fatigue, gets up quickly. He pulls his rucksack on and wipes his eyes, wincing when he brushes against his awful bruise.

"Maybe not the best movie to watch with a black eye," he says self-deprecatingly. 

You're busy trying to think of how to say what you want to say. 

"Thank you. For bringing me to see the movie with you. And for telling me," you say, looking down at the red carpeted floor, it's sprinkling of popcorn, descending the steps to the doors.

He nudges you with his elbow. "Thanks for coming with me. And waking me up before the best part." 

You blush at the memory. If he thinks you woke him on purpose you won't correct him. You don't want to make a big deal of his coming out to you if he doesn't and so you follow him quietly out of the theatre and into the bright day. His eye looks better in the light. 

He sees you looking. "Hm?" 

"Your eye looks less awful now." 

"Must've been the cloud cover this morning, enhanced my shadow," he says offhandedly. 

It really must've been. You feel sore from all the crying and can't imagine how he feels. 

"You could've warned me about the movie, Pete." 

"No! The best part about Big Eden is watching it for the first time and having it destroy and rebuild your heart." 

And don't you just feel yourself falling for him a little bit more? 

You bump his thigh with your hip. "You're evil, Parker." 

He laughs loudly. 

You try to keep too much hopefulness out of your voice when you ask, "So you're busy today?" 

His smile turns disappointed. He explains how much studying he has to do for an exam on Monday and apologises for bringing you out just to ditch you. "I'm really sorry. I love that movie and I was selfish enough to want to see it with you but if I don't study for this I'm gonna flunk the class." 

You wave your hand at him. 

"It's really okay. I'm glad we had the morning together. No hard feelings," you say breezily. 

He walks you home and tells you to text him and promises to try and reply, dropping a kiss in the centre of your hairline, hands braced on the top of your head. His smile tugs at his bruise as he walks away backwards, waving at you and nearly mowing down an old man and his dog. You pretend to shut your door, stand there listening to his panicked apologies through the crack, hungry for those extra seconds of his voice. 

-

Peter's room is busy. A million photos, a surprising amount of them featuring you, decorate the walls, the side of his wardrobe, wherever he can fit them. Some are Polaroids, some are 4×6s on Walmart paper, some you're not sure about. There's the ones he's obviously taken on his phone - you painting, you walking towards him outside the movie theatre, you on his skatebaord, determined. Photos he'd taken with his F2 from your escapades - bowling, go karting, air hockey. You hold your puck in your hand, hair a mess from the fierceness of your competition, wearing the usual glee that comes with his company. You stand outside the 7/11 with a slurpee in a bucket on for bring your own cup, cherry and blue raspberry and piña colada all mixed together in a rainbow mess, pink and blue sticky syrup down the front of your shirt. Peter, having encouraged you to try the F2, with his own slurpee, his inside a heavy casserole dish. So heavy you'd thought there was no way he could carry it - you'd struggled with the bucket, it's flimsy plastic handle untrustworthy - and yet he'd marched it home. A second picture, Peter on the floor in his living room with your slurpees and two comically long straws made of normal sized straws and sellotape for the occasion, Constantine playing on the TV. A third, you cross-legged on the floor watching the screen, half your slurpee gone and the movie now changed to chicken little. That always made you laugh to remember, how he'd demanded something fun after Constantine's hellish nightmare. 

Slightly aside form the photos is your aurora borealis painting. 

"We'll swap. I'll have yours and you'll have mind. That way we can't look at them and pick out all the mistakes we made," Peter had suggested. 

He was right. Having his painting propped on your dresser is nice, and you don't ever look at it and think about its flaws. Your own is a different story.

You turn your face from it. Where you lie flat on your back in Peter's bed he sits at his desk, head down, finishing up some practice questions. His allowance of your company is a win, you think. He'd been reluctant at first, unusual for him, as he let you do most everything you asked to do. 

"Please? I'm so bored here. I won't make any noise." 

"It's not about noise, it's about FOMO." 

"FOMO." 

"If I know you're there I'll want to know what you're doing and then I'll want to do it with you."

"I won't do anything. I'll just sit on your bed silently. Please? At least let me be bored somewhere interesting. Please." 

You watch him work, his earphones singing their bumpy song, dark head of hair bobbing as he goes. In the perfect life, you stand up and pull his hair from his face and he pulls his desk chair out and sets you in his lap, and everything is soft and lilac forever, his fingertips colouring every inch of your body, every centimetre of your hands and your arms and your chest and your neck. 

You feel awful for thinking it of him and quickly bring your hands up to hide, covering your eyes with your palms. Your heart beats so loudly you worry he can hear it from where he's sitting.

The squeal of his desk chair's wheels. His music, louder as he pulls out his earphones. 

"Are you okay? I'm getting distressed vibes," Peter says loudly. 

You rubs your hands down your face and hold them to your cheeks. "Leave me alone." 

"Don't be like that," he says, standing from the chair. Your watch his arms bulge as he does, how the muscles move and contract with his weight. 

"Budge up," he demands. 

You stare at him. 

"Come on." 

"You're not done." 

"I am now. Move over, heathen, it's my bed." 

"I had to plead with you to let me visit because I'm a 'distraction', but when I tell you to work I'm a heathen." 

You move over until your arm is pressed into the cool wall. He sits down with his back to your knees, pulling his sweatshirt over his head in that infuriating way that boys do, flashing his naked back at you. He sheds the sweatshirt on the floor to your shock-horror and looks over his shoulder, hair disheveled. 

"I was always gonna let you come over," he says, like it's obvious, "just had to mess with you a bit first."

"That's mean," you bemoan. 

He raises his eyebrows and lies back, his spine pushing into the soft swell of your tummy. You hear it click. 

"Peter, oh my god." 

He sighs as he stretches, using you like a roller. You blush at the sound he makes as he readjusts, your brain labelling it as a moan even when you begin it not to. You try not to breath weird as he curls up on your abdomen, a touch, face pressed above your naval, eyes on your eyes. Peter can't be comfortable in his position but he looks like there's nowhere he'd rather be. It makes you nauseous. 

You turn your face into his pillow and decide you can't deal with this right now, and you won't. Peter's hands are clasped together, knuckle of his thumb pressed into your ribs. Your own hands lie at either side of you, itching to move, to touch, to hold. 

You ball them into fists. 

"What should we have for lunch?" he asks. 

"What do you want?" you ask, a poor imitation of a normal person.  

He hums to himself in thought and you still as you feel his hand traverse the curve of your ribs. He traces the pattern of your shirt gently, fingertips touching you so slightly you might convince yourself you'd imagined it if you couldn't see his arm moving out of the corner of your eye. 

"The sandwhich house outside the 71 station had signs up for po' boys," he suggests, almost murmuring. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. "You like shrimp?" you ask, slightly wheezy. 

He flattens his hand with a laugh. "I like po' boys." 

You can't help it, you hate yourself for it, but the heat of his hand as he slides it lightly over your ribs makes you tremble. He doesn't say anything, but his hand quickens, as if to soothe, trailing back and forth over your rising abdomen. If he moves his hand up a few inches- 

"Or I can make mac and cheese," his hand pauses as he turns it over in his head, "I can make breadcrumbs. Oh, there's imitation lobster in the freezer. We could have lobster mac and cheese." He raises his head off of your tummy and smiles at you. "Right?" 

You force yourself to speak, scared to move, "I'm not sure I'm very hungry." 

He nods and lays back down, rubbing his face gently against the material of your shirt. It catches on the beginnings of his stubble. Your entire body flushes, a too hot feeling blossoming in your chest. 

"PB and J?" he offers.

Your hand shakes as you raise it behind him, warring with yourself. He's rubbing my chest. I'd hardly be the weird one if I stroked his hair, you think. Would I? 

You touch first single strand, then the outline of a curl. Peter turns his head before you can, crushing his curls, face to his ceiling with a dispirited grumble. 

"It's no use," he says, hands scrubbing his face. "Too many options." 

Then, as if remembering himself, "Oh, sorry. I'm crushing you," he says, sitting up. 

"N-" you physically stop yourself from protesting his departure and instead pull yourself up before he can try anything heartstopping again. 

A pointless exercise, you realise, when he moves to fix your hair for you, flattening your bedhead. He pauses with his hand over your ear and smiles triumphantly.

"Cereal," he says. 

You grin, appeasing. "Cookie crisp?" 

"Yes! Absolutely. Cookie crisp. And Apple Jack's." 

"Not at the same time, though." 

Peter's silent. He stands up and makes for the door, refusing to look at you. 

"Not at the same time, though, Peter. Right?" 

"You don't have to eat it!" he complains, rolling his eyes. 

You follow him down the stairs. Your socks are new and slippery. He's quick, and in your scramble to catch up with him and prevent any atrocity you mist the last step and gasp. 

Peter doubles back. "What?" 

You laugh, forcing mouthfuls of air into your lungs in relief. 

"I missed the last step," you admit, waiting for his judgement. 

He smirks like you knew he would. "Aw, doll, can't even get down the stairs by herself." 

"I can." You hate yourself for how his words make you stammer. "It's your fault, I was chasing you." 

"You were chasing me?" he asks, something evil in his eyes. 

You take a step back that you don't have and fall onto the stairs as he takes a step forward. You want to laugh but Peter doesn't, and so you don't, sitting on his wooden stairs with your hand wrapped around the banister, looking up at him worriedly. 

"No," you say. 

He takes your face into his hands. His black eye is healed. The only colour on his face is the beauty mark just below his nose.

His hands are hot. They cradle your cheeks, fingers pushed under your ears, tilting you up. He's playing a game of intimidation with you, you know, and you swallow, his touch calming but his proximity nerve-wracking. 

"You think you could catch me?" he asks, amusement written clear as day on his pretty face. 

"For cereal," you clarify, bargaining for your life. 

"Right, and if you caught me? Then what?" 

"I would have stopped you." 

"Yeah?" 

You stop with your lips parted. He strokes your cheek with his thumb. You feel suddenly overwhelmed and he must see that, because he pulls his hands from your face with enough gentleness to turn your stomach. 

"Hey," he says. "I'm kidding. I wouldn't hurt you, you know that?" 

And your eyes widen. "Of course I know that," you tell him quickly. You drop your head into your hands and feel your skin where his hands had been. "I didn't think that." 

"You looked pretty freaked out," he mumbles. 

You hold your hand out and he takes it, pulling you back onto your feet, chest touching his chest. He shuffles back. His fingers move down your hand to squeeze your wrist. Weeks and weeks of this. He's more familiar to you than anyone has ever been before, yet you have so much left to learn. 

You want to reassure him. No, Peter, you didn't make me uncomfortable or anything. It's just your hands feel like they were meant to be held to my face. I want to hold them there. 

You wrap your arms around his waist like a coward. Your face disappears into the strength of his chest. He wraps his arms around you without a word.

"I know you wouldn't," is all you can say. 

-

The picnic blanket is a kaleidoscope of colours against the rich green swatch of grass where you lie. Peter sits with one leg up in the opposite corner, your game of uno between you. 

"I think you're slipping cards," Peter accuses. 

"How could I? I don't have sleeves. Or pants." 

"I know what you're like," he says. 

He's right, you are slipping cards. A wad of them are sticky under your sweaty thigh. Peter gives the handheld fan he's propped up across from you both a good wack to get it going again. 

"I thought you were an engineer," you say. "Uno." 

He lays down a +4 and you sigh, picking up an extra four cards. 

"It's fixed. It's fixed, it's just temperamental. It has personality." He sounds personality out. Per-suh-nah-li-ty. 

"Uh-huh," you say. 

"Uno." 

Fuck. You put down a yellow and he sighs, picking up another card.

"It's actually offensive to me that you think I'm slipping." 

"It's offensive to me that you think I wouldn't notice." 

Another card, another. 

"Uno." 

He puts one down. "Uno." 

You pick up. He picks up. 

"You notice nothing." 

"So your leg, it's flat to the blanket for no particular reason?" 

"Uno," you say, your one card wavering in your hand. You refuse to lie to him but won't tell the truth, either. 

"Uno. You have a bad poker face." 

You place your last card. "I win." 

He puts his last card down on the blanket and steadies his gaze on your. His eyes flit to your leg. He throws himself at you. 

His weight pushes your back flat to the picnic blanket and his hand pushes under your thigh. His fingertips dig into your leg and he scoops up a handful of your cheating cards, moving off of you and brandishing them. 

You giggle and stay lying down. He drops them on your chest, red cards stark against your short white summer dress. 

"I knew it. You lose." 

"I won!" 

"You forfeit for cheating!" 

You concede, simpering. He kneels between your legs, looking only at your face, and then he catches sight of your legs and he stops smiling. You know he sees them. 

He looks at your face, as if to say, argue with me about them.  

"It's okay," you murmur. 

He follows a white, raised line once. His hands are steady and kind. His fingertips feel like the kiss of a soft mouth. 

You bring your legs up and push your knees together, folding them to the side and away from his view. He straightens your dress to hide your underwear and you can barely bring yourself to be embarrassed. His fingers linger, pinched in the white of your skirt.

"Are you sure?" he asks. 

"I promise." 

His relief is palpable. 

He crawls backwards on his knees to clean up the mess of cards. You listen to his movements, his breathing, the shuffling of cards as he puts them back in their cardboard box and the zipper of his bag. You think about the mess of scars on your body and how he's seen them, too inattentive to notice his creeping approach. 

He dangles a daisy picked from the surrounding grass in front of your eyes. 

"You're my best friend," he says, love sewed into the seams of each syllable. "The best friend I have ever had. Nothing will change that." 

You accept the flower and sit up, passing him the last red card from under your ribs. 

-

"Why did we agree to come here?" Peter asks into your ear, leaning over the sofa where you're sitting. 

"You didn't miss the smell?" you ask him innocently. 

"Or the taste," he informs you, arms hanging either side of your head. 

He rests his chin in your hair and you poke your tongue towards his cup until he gets what you're saying and holds it to your mouth. 

"Me neither," you say after you've swallowed. "Yuck." 

"Shall we go home?" he asks. 

You tilt your head backwards and watch the underside of his jaw move. He raises his head to look down at you. It's weird, like he's upside down. 

"We shall," you declare. 

Peter pulls you off the couch side through the apartment, down flights of stairs and onto the street, which smells better than the stuffy tang of beer that had lingered at the party by a small, almost invisible margin. 

The sky is split by our star's descent, a brilliant mix of orange and pink and white and blue, clouds dancing across it like lovers, unhurried. 

You and Peter walk much the same, crossing streets and ducking through cold alleyways until the road to his aunt's house appears in the distance, hands brushing against hands, dancing around each other.   

A car drives past playing sweet classical music. Another blares heavy rock. A dog sticks his head out of the window and wags his tail, tongue heaving. You and Peter wave at him excitedly. 

The sun sinks further through its rainbow sky like the fat yolk of an egg having escaped its shell, almost bobbing against the honey yellow horizon, a wave of light. 

There's no music to be heard as Peter knits his fingers through yours, pulling you towards him. You spin into him like it's a game, the edges of your skirt flaring out, the petals of a baby blue tulip over your thighs. 

You spin out for the simple pleasure of watching it. Peter digs through his pocket for his phone and sets his music to shuffle. The first song to come on is all you need. 

You spin out, spin in, arms joined and high in the air. Away again, in, you trip over your own feet and drop your head into his chest, something akin to peace wrapping itself around you like sheer ribbon as you laugh breathlessly.

Peter says your name. You lift your head from his chest and see reflected on his face how you're feeling now - light, pure light. 

"I think you're my honeybody," you tell him, beaming. 

He raises his hands to your neck, moves them up in synchrony to your face. He ebbs like a wave, hands falling down, pushing under your arms as he pulls you into a hug, leaning backwards. Your shoes leave the ground, Peter hugging you so tightly it aches, face buried in your hair. He sets you down on sure footing and kisses you, misses your mouth by an inch. You both giggle incessantly, fingers on faces and pulling each other in until you get it right. 

By the time you make it home the sky is dark as wine. 

<3

𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

thanks for reading ❤️

tasm taglist @pomminine @isabelleonabicycle @decafcoffew @runawaywithmyghost @joebobisachickenfart

In love with this ^^^

honeyed temptations

pairing: azriel x reader 

word count: 2.2k

warnings: some smut and suggestive language (mdni 18+ only pls!!), swearing, azriel is whipped for u but is also very stubborn, domesticity/fluff

summary: despite azriel’s relative indifference to most things, he absolutely, undeniably hates the heat. and fucking loves when you wear sundresses.

a/n: continuation of my ongoing headcanon that azriel is actually kind of a stubborn baby, especially with his mate; i have a summer oneshot for cassian coming out soon! <3

masterlist

banners by @/cafekitsune <3

Azriel was fucking furious. It was like the sun had a personal vendetta against him, determined to steal any and all comfort from him as he baked in the hot morning sun in your shared bedroom.

Peak summer in Velaris was nothing to scoff at. Though the Night Court was hailed for the beauty of its moon and stars, the same could not be said for its seasons. It was a solar court and that meant that its moon waxed and waned through the full dearth of the seasons. And summer just so happened to be Azriel’s least favorite. 

Though he could handle the strikingly cold winters the Night Court had to offer — it snowed quite heavily in Illyria, afterall — the heat of the summer was unbearably oppressive. It didn’t help that his current residence was the House of Wind, built high on a mountain cliff where the heat rose and was entirely too close to the sun. Not even the House’s breeze helped staunch his somewhat over exaggerated agitation at the rising temperatures. 

It was still morning, but it seemed that the sun had decided that it would be especially insufferable today, showboating its prowess even at 9 in the morning. 

“C’mon Az,” you implored, gentle hand poking his bare shoulder. “Rhys is here, we have a meeting.” 

He pouted at you from where he was sprawled out on the bed, not having bothered to get up — or put clothes on — despite having been awake for an hour now. He rolled onto his side to get a better look at you, hoping that if he pouted enough you’d have mercy on him and let him stay naked and as cool as possible; the thought of putting on clothes — most of which he owned were black — made Azriel’s head ache. 

“‘s too hot.” 

You huffed a laugh at his childlike petulance. Who would have guessed the feared Shadowsinger of the Night Court couldn’t handle a little heat? 

“You’re being a baby,” you chuckled, sitting on the edge of the bed as you attempted to negotiate with your mate to get out of bed. 

It was then that he took stock of your appearance. You had always been much less bothered by the heat than he was — and much more functional in it — and so your morning routines were never disrupted. You had already bathed and gotten ready, pretty little sundress skimming your curves as the hem tickled the skin on your legs. 

“You look nice,” Azriel noted with a hum of appreciation. Ordinarily, he would’ve reached over and pulled you on top of him to make both of you late for Rhys’s meeting for an entirely different reason, but he couldn’t fathom getting any more sticky and sweaty than he already was, so he resisted. Instead, he opted for toying with the hem of your dress in contemplation.

“Is this new?” He asked, taking in the sweet honey yellow linen and thin straps. You nodded your head and smoothed your hands down your front, fixing the neckline of your dress in a way that had Azriel’s eyes burning holes through your skin. 

“Do you like it? I bought it when I went out with Feyre the other day.” You intentionally left out that you had bought it with the explicit purpose of using it to tempt your mate out of bed, knowing that he always needed a little bit of incentive in the summer. 

Assessing hazel eyes tracked the familiar planes of your body, face lit with an entirely different kind of heat now, “Yeah, I like it.” 

His gaze lifted to yours and you nearly gave into him. The adoration in his eyes and the blush high on the apples of his cheeks was mesmerizing, “You’re very pretty, you know.” 

Azriel’s unfiltered affections for you always made your heart beat quicken, and your attention shifted to his hand resting comfortably on your thigh, thumb drawing innocent circles on your skin. You bent over to kiss him briefly in thanks before patting his hand and getting up off the bed. 

You could’ve sworn you heard Azriel whine in protest, but it was drowned out by the sound of you sifting through the dresser, no doubt searching for clothes to throw his way.

He watched you from his spot on the bed, eyeing the way the hem of your dress billowed from your waist and just barely covered the curve of your ass. He was convinced that he could stare at you for an eternity and still find new parts of you to marvel at. 

Before he could get too lost in his greedy appreciation of your beauty and the stunning way your dress complimented every curve and dip of your body, you were tossing clothes at his face.

“Stop staring and get dressed!” You laughed, “You know Cass is gonna give you shit for being late. Again.”

It was no secret to those closest to Azriel that he was an absolute terror when the summer rolled around. Though it only took a week or two for him to adjust and become begrudgingly functional again, the days leading up to his revival were always a source of great amusement to the Inner Circle. Ah, the perfect Shadowsinger finally reveals his flaws, Cassian would consistently tease.

He only groaned in response, rolling onto his back once again to stare at the ceiling. 

You sighed. Truthfully, you found this side of him endearing – and quite funny – but you knew he had a job to do and nothing would get done unless he was, at the very least, clothed. Sauntering over to the bed, you looked down at him with your hands on your hips. You were met only with a stubborn look in return; you could’ve sworn you glimpsed the ghost of a defiant smirk curving his lips, “Make me.”

You reeled at his challenge. Fine, you would make him. 

The bed shifted as you straddled him on all fours, careful not to let any part of you touch any part of him. His hands came up instinctively to grasp your hips as he didn’t even try to hide his triumphant smile. But you wouldn’t let him get away with it, at least not now.

You encircled his wrists in your hands, guiding them above his head to pin them to the pillow. Both of you knew he could easily wriggle out of your grasp, but Azriel was aware that this was riling you up just as much as him so he conceded. Allowed his beautiful mate to do whatever she pleased.

“Don’t touch,” you commanded in his ear, punctuating your words with a slow swirl of your tongue along the shell of his ear. “If you listen, I promise I’ll be so, so good for you.”

Unexpected emotion flooded his chest as he resisted the urge to break the tension with his affection for you. You were already so good for him. In more ways than he could have ever wanted, more ways than he ever imagined. But he kept his mouth shut, and focused only on the way he could feel the hem of your dress kissing his skin as your mouth nipped at sucked at all the places that drove him insane. 

“C’mon, Az,” you cooed, licking a sinful path up his neck before you blew on his skin, reveling in the way goosebumps rose on his flesh despite the sweltering weather. “Get up for me, huh?”

He didn’t miss the double entendre as you tracked a scathing wet trail down his body, your tongue — frustratingly — the only part of you touching him. He was being difficult and you were making him pay for it by teasing him in ways only you knew how to. Azriel groaned low and deep when your cool breath hit right beneath his bellybutton, abs flexing as he willed himself to maintain his composure. You still weren’t touching him, and he was already embarrassingly hard, body desperate to feel your skin on his. 

His brow furrowed with concentration and lust as he met your gaze right before your lips puckered and you took the head of his cock – pretty and swollen and throbbing just for you – into your mouth. Azriel’s head flopped back onto his pillow as he loosed a long, deep breath, a cross between a sigh and a moan so pleasing to hear that you nearly forgot your initial intentions. 

One well placed stroke of your tongue had your eyes meeting his yet again, all dark pupils and a thin ring of gorgeous hazel. You were the picture of perfect seduction, pretty lips split open on his cock, bent over him in such a way that gave him an unobstructed view of your cleavage beneath your dress. You released him with a sinfully wet pop! as you pulled back and smiled at him, sweet and teasing before you blew gently on his tip. Azriel shuddered.

Oh, Mother above. He was milliseconds away from flipping you onto your back and tearing your godsforsaken dress right off you — or maybe he’d keep it on — but you were faster, jumping just out of his reach and off the bed, as if you hadn’t just addled his mind with fantasies of all the ways he could fuck you in that dress. 

The wicked smirk of satisfaction curving your lips told him that you’d had your intended effect. Azriel was barely able to recalibrate his bearings in time for him to notice you heading towards the door. He sputtered in disbelief, “Where are you going?”

Before you traipsed out the bedroom door, you turned back to look at him, “To be continued, mate. After you get dressed.”

When you shut the door behind you, Azriel could have sworn he heard your giddy, maniacal laughter echo in time to the sound of your footsteps down the stairs. Now he had two problems: 1) he was still hot as the fires of Hell and 2) he was achingly hard and knew he’d have to make a concerted effort not to look too long at you in that dress all day if he wanted to cling to what little composure he had.

He sighed as his shadows swirled around his ears, barely offering any reprieve from the heat. 

Pretty mate. So, so pretty. Everyone thinks so. 

Make that three problems: 3) Cassian would be making innocent comments about you looking so good in that dress just to irritate him. 

The possession roiling around in his gut – courtesy of the mating bond – was his final straw as he scrubbed a frustrated hand down his face. Fucking fine, he would put the damn clothes on. 

☾𖤓 epilogue ☾𖤓

“Where’s that overgrown child you call a mate, anyway?” Cassian quipped after you made your appearance in the dining room for breakfast. 

“Exactly where you think he is,” you laughed over a bite of toast.

“What’s wrong with Azriel?” Feyre implored innocently, “Is he not feeling well?” 

Rhys chuckled and shook his head, “Azriel is not very fond of the summer—“

“That’s an understatement,” you and Cassian mumbled under your breaths in tandem.

“—and it’s a nightmare getting him to do anything in heat like this. But luckily we have Y/N.”

Before your High Lady could ask the question on the tip of her tongue, Cassian stole a piece of bacon off your plate, ignoring the way you protested, “I mean, you’ve seen how whipped he is Feyre. He’ll do anything if Y/N even suggests she wants him to. Az only gets out of bed in the summer because she asks.”

In retribution for your stolen bacon, you speared the rest of Cassian’s eggs and forked them into your mouth before he could inch away from you. You didn’t respond, knowing all too well that Azriel actually would not get out of bed even if you asked, leaving you to resort to other…tactics. 

“I’m not a child, you know.” Came Azriel’s petulant interruption as he greeted you with a brief kiss to your head and the rest of his family with a grunt of acknowledgement, “I can do things on my own, in case you forgot.”

“We’ll stop calling you one, once you stop acting like it,” Cassian taunted.

Azriel’s scoff was his only response as he sat down next to you at the table, plating two pieces of bacon in front of you to replace the one he knew Cassian had no doubt probably taken. You smiled up at him gratefully, and despite the still sweltering heat that had only seemed to have gotten worse as time progressed, he smiled back. 

Feyre was in awe; it was like the heat had melted away his stony exterior, leaving the real Azriel exposed for everyone to see. Feyre met your gaze across the table, a mischievous glint in her eyes that told you she was more than privy to the extraneous measures you had taken to coax your mate out of bed.

“How do you do it?” Cassian not-so-quietly whispered to you. 

“I have my ways,” you responded cryptically with a smirk as Azriel’s hand ventured beneath the hem of your dress, squeezing your thigh.

You would most definitely be paying for your little shenanigan in the bedroom later.  

mirror sex [dean winchester] ── ✮⋆˙

kinktober 2024

ship: dean x afab!fem!reader genre: smut, angst to note/warnings: explicit – minors dni, established relationship, hunt almost gone wrong, canon-level violence, patching/stitching up wounds, dean’s self loathing tendencies, hurt/comfort, little bit of praise kink, fingering, porn with plot word count: 3.6k a/n: three days until halloween and i feel like i’m way behind on kinktober. i might just try to get to some of these during november as well, my apologies. also, the cat’s out of the bag: i’m a sucker for angst. i’m curious what you guys enjoy to read/write the most, are you more into fluff, smut, or angst?

Dean’s harsh on himself. Always. You knew that even before you started dating him. It’s how he grew up, after all. From a young age it’s been drilled into him by John; that he has to be tough and strong, that he isn’t allowed to think before he acts, that certain things have to be done – even when these things are ugly. Even when they turn other things ugly. Things like the sight of his hands afterwards. Things like his whole reflection, honestly.

It’s days like these where he enters autopilot, in a poor attempt of resorting to a self-defense mechanism. He can’t stand the reflection in the mirror, so he simply doesn’t look. He wouldn’t like what he sees, so he avoids it altogether, if he can.

Saving people, hunting things, the family business – killing monsters always sounds so heroic until you realize your decisions are cut-and-dry to the cruelest degree, until the soap can only scrub clean the red from your hands but not the guilt that still sticks to your skin, and until you begin to wonder who the actual monster is.

Dean’s harsh on himself in that he blames himself for everything. It’s all his responsibility, the weight of the world always on his shoulders.

Hunts go wrong. It’s part of the job, but that thought isn’t as comforting as it should be, because it doesn’t change anything and it doesn’t take away any of the gravity.

Dean and you had been tracking down this pack of aggressive werewolves. The job had sounded so easy, everything had been so straight-forward. Until you two realized that the town’s sheriff was in on it, and ultimately, so was his son. Partially, at least. Just a kid, barely twenty-one – about the age when Sam hit the library, when he should’ve hit on cute girls on campus, around the age of frat parties with beer-pong cups and hangovers.

A guy who had his whole life ahead of him, but had it snuffed out by a silver bullet to his chest. (or rather, by Dean’s finger pulling that trigger, if you’d ask Dean how it went down, because he sees no point in distancing himself from the narrative when it was his doing). Not because that kid wanted any of it. Hell, as Dean and you had been investigating the case, you came to realize all that boy wanted was a peaceful life. And you knew it was possible, some werewolves were able to build up normalcy without killing anybody, picket-fence and all, more so than your average hunter, sometimes.

But you had shot the sheriff, given that he’d been systematically kidnapping his victims throughout the years. And upon witnessing the silver piercing through his father’s chest, the student went downright feral. He attacked you and jumping you, going for a bite that never landed, was the last thing he ever did.

“You had to shoot him,” you told Dean in the car, just like he predicted you would.

“I know,” came Dean’s reply and those were the only words during the whole ride, just like you predicted they’d be.

Even upon arrival back at the bunker, he remains silent. The loudest noises are just his footsteps, which are heavier than usual as he drags you to your shared room, and ultimately the slam of the bathroom door that he shuts behind the two of you.

“Sit,” he says, voice laced with anger that you know he only directs at himself, and nudges you to the edge of the bathtub. You know better than to argue with him and despite the fact that there’s a nasty gash on his shoulder, you let him clean the minor scratch above your eyebrow first. You must’ve hit your head back when the werewolf slammed you against a shelf, but you’ve definitely had worse. But Dean puts others before himself and your wellbeing is always his priority.

Yet, his ministrations aren’t exactly gentle. He dabs the rubbing alcohol to your cut brow without any regard for the way you wince slightly. His eyes don’t meet yours as he shoves his hand into the cupboard and impatiently fishes for bandages. His jaw is clenched tightly as he patches you up with a bandaid.

He’s in his own head, clearly – or trying to keep those spiraling thoughts at bay within his self-critical mind. Those what ifs and should’ve dones would kill him otherwise.

You can only watch as he straightens his back, turns around, takes a step towards the sink opposite to the bathtub, slams the cabinet shut again, and keeps his gaze purposefully low. His eyes remain glued to his hands as he washes them, as if he doesn’t dare to lift his chin.

“Let me help you with your shoulder,” you mumble softly and he almost can’t hear you over the running water and the running thoughts. It’s your gentle touch that makes him snap out of it, but even as he raises his head at last, his eyes only land on the reflection of you. Your face peeks out over his shoulder, one of your arms wrapped around his middle, the other hand ghosting over his blood-soaked sleeve.

“No need, ‘m fine,” he grumbles, stubborn as ever. But as he turns off the faucet, the movement reminds him of the sharp ache and the dull throb in his arm. Just the graze of the sheriff’s bullet. He knows he got lucky, but he also can’t bring himself to care about any of that with every other dreadful aspect of today.

“A couple of inches away from death doesn’t fit my definition of fine, Dean.”

He can’t argue with that, it would be hypocritical. A droplet of blood on your forehead is enough to make him worry and who is he to deny you your concerns when he’s been injured too? Besides, he knows you can see right through him. Physical injuries are one thing, but the emotional damage often runs deeper than any blade or gun could.

Though his muscles are stiff, Dean doesn’t resist as you slowly peel off his flannel. His eyes are still fixated on you. He can’t bring himself to look at the wound himself, much less let his gaze drift anywhere close to his own reflection right now.

Your movements are mesmerizing enough to keep him distracted anyway.

You reach around him to turn the faucet back on and you grab a washcloth. You tie your messy hair back and out of the way and you carefully roll up the short sleeve of his shirt. You dampen the cloth and wipe the blood from his arm. Once you disinfect the wound, he ultimately looks away. Not because of the sting of the rubbing alcohol, but because of the pain he recognizes in your eyes. Your brows knit together and you frown slightly, sighing to yourself.

He can’t bear watching you pity or fuss over him when part of him feels like he deserves this.

“C’mon, ’s not even that bad, sweetheart,” he grumbles, but his voice is strained.

Your movements come to a halt as you blink up at the mirror, expecting to see his green eyes look back at you through the reflection. But Dean’s head hangs low again and his hands grip onto the edge of the sink he’s staring into.

“I’m glad it’s not,” you hum, but you still grab ahold of his hands and pull him away from the sink. “Sit.”

When you say that word, it sounds a thousand times softer than when he did. You know he hadn’t huffed it at you earlier, but rather didn’t bother concealing his bad mood. Still, his annoyances aren’t directed at you, so he makes an effort to pull you closer gently, in apologetic fashion. His hands settle on your hips as he sits down on the edge of the tub. You’re standing between his legs, surgical thread and needle in your hand.

“Lift your arms f’me, babe?”

When Dean follows your instructions without a witty remark about how eager you are to get him to strip, you know the self loathing is bad. You help him peel off his shirt, tossing it straight into the laundry basket. Luckily there aren’t any other major injuries, though you suspect a couple of bruises will bloom by tomorrow.

His hands go back to your hips, as if he’s able to steady and ground himself by holding you, to which you have no complaints. As long as he’ll let you stitch him up, you even let his bolder touches slide. You’re so focused on closing up the wound that you barely react to his fingers curling around the back of your thighs.

With this position, Dean’s practically forced to face the mirror again. It’s right behind you and with the way you’re half bent over, leaning down to his arm, the view is without obstruction. But his attention is fixated on the jeans-cladded plush in his palms. His hands wander higher, fingers splaying out over your curves. He gives your ass a gentle squeeze to which your breath hitches.

“Careful, unless you want to end up looking like Frankenstein’s monster,” you chuckle playfully, relieved that he’s in high enough spirits for teasing touches.

“Since when are you not into the scarred badass guys?”

“Touché,” you smile in response, “Although I prefer them in a confident mood.”

He groans, knowing where this is going, but he decides to play along. “What d’ya mean?”

Your smile curls into a smug grin as you shrug. “I mean,” you sigh and finish the last stitch, securing the thread into a knot and setting the needle aside. “Scarred, badass guys are even hotter when they know that they’re strong,” you continue, before you plant a kiss to his forehead, “that they’re brave…” Another kiss, to his nose this time.

A quiet growl escapes him as he instinctively tightens his grip on your ass. You know he doesn’t fully believe your words, but you’re adamant about convincing him, so you continue with your list: “…heroic.” More kisses, this time a chaste one directly to his lips, though Dean scoffs and pulls away almost immediately.

“Yeah, right,” he scowls. “Nothing screams hero more than murdering someone.”

“You saved me tonight,” you argue back, whilst gently cupping his face. “You’re definitely my hero.”

His gaze wanders from your lips up to your eyes, seeing nothing but gratitude and adoration in them. Both of which he feels undeserving of. Dean Winchester isn’t half the hero you think he is, he’s all kinds of screwed and his fucked up life consists of violence and regret most of the time. Yet you always look at him as if there’s something worth looking at. Even when he can’t see it himself.

“Just doing my job,” he replies and his voice feels thick and wrong on his own tongue.

“No,” you huff, your thumbs tracing the sharp edge of his jaw, the scruff grazing against the pads of your fingers. “It’s not your job to look after me, or to fight evil. But you’re damn good at it and you do it to make the world a better place. Just like you did today.”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow at your words, since he’s not exactly sure how shortening the lifespan of a young man can possibly add any plus points to his karma. But he understands where you’re coming from, even if he can’t accept it fully just yet. He doesn’t regret pulling the trigger either, he’d do it again – in a heartbeat – if it meant keeping you alive. In that regard, what he did was the right thing, but that didn’t mean it was an easy thing.

“You did what you had to do, babe,” you sigh, tilting his face up a little again before he could avert his gaze once more.

You’d tell him that he shouldn’t beat himself up over it, but that would be like talking to a wall. Your reasoning tends to reach him better than the loving reassurances, even though you both know you’re right. Maybe that boy didn’t deserve to die, werewolf or not, but in that moment it was either him or you.

Your lips land on him once more, this time on his jaw, before they wander down the hollow of his throat. Dean welcomes the sensation of your mouth on his neck, your teeth against his collarbones. Your hands on his chest, warm and soft and eager. So eager to make him feel good, to prove to him his own worth.

Your fingers are always enough to make his walls crumble. The sweet nothings you whisper to his ear always suffice. It might not heal him entirely, but his doubts are soothed for the moment whenever you need him. Whenever you give him what he needs. Whenever you love him.

Your hands reach the waistband of his denim pants, against which his cock is already beginning to strain. Once your touch ghosts over the prominent bulge, he snaps and indulges. In one swift movement, he stands up, his hands still tight on your hips as he picks you up and carries you to the sink. Within a second you find yourself positioned on the bathroom counter, your back nearly bumping against the mirror behind you and your legs draped around Dean’s waist. You’d complain about how he should be careful, lest he wants the fresh stitches to rip open, but your protest dies on Dean’s tongue, which he has already slipped past your lips.

Dean kisses you hard and with purpose, as if wanting to repay your praises. Where your mouth works its magic through words, he has always known different ways to use his. Always a man of actions, your boyfriend. His lips wander down your neck, making you gasp in delight.

He grunts, dizzy with the taste of you, your scent, your voice. You’re so soft under his calloused hands that he’s reminded once more of how close he was to losing you tonight. His impatient hands pull your shirt up over your chest, where his lips latch onto. He doesn’t even bother pulling it over your head fully, eager to search your heartbeat with his tongue, as if he’s able to taste that you’re still alive that way.

While you’re busy discarding your shirt properly, Dean’s mouth finds your nipple through the lace of your bra. You arch your back into his touch further, his name falling from your lips in a whimper that almost has his brain short-circuit.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he gruffs and pulls you off the counter, turning you in his arms so you’d face the mirror. His low voice is gravelly and half muffled by the column of your neck, which he still works some hickeys into. “Always treating me like some kind of hero when you’re the one keeping me alive and sane.”

His bare chest is pressed flush against your back and your hips are lodged against the edge of the sink, to which your shaky fingers grip so tightly that your knuckles turn white. You whimper again, softly, as you feel him rock his hips against your ass. Were it not for his large hands around you, one on your waist, the other cupping your breast, your knees would give out and you’d topple over.

Dean shoves a little harsher, his chest still flat against your back as he pushes you closer to the mirror. It’s fogging up slightly with how heavily you’re panting against the glass. Your eyes meet through the reflection and he finds himself not minding the mirror so long as you’re in the picture as well.

The bandaid that used to roughly match your skin color earlier now sticks out against your flushed face, red and warm all the way down to your neck and even your chest. Your lips are kiss-bitten, puffy and slightly parted as your ragged breath is interrupted by little mewls and whines.

Most days Dean’s looks in the mirror and hates what he sees. But he could get used to this view. At least he can appreciate the sight of his own hands on you, one around your throat, the other between your thighs, making you unravel, being held by yours as you reach for his wrists.

“Maybe scratch the sane part, you know you’re driving me crazy,” he revises his earlier statement as his deft fingers make quick work of your jean’s button and fly. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear and you shudder as he watches every small reaction of yours closely, like a hawk.

He shoves his hand straight into your underwear, satisfied when his fingers find your slick and his ears pick up on the meek moan. He’s barely even touched you yet, but you’re already soaking. You’re so damn responsive it almost makes him want to rip both your pants off and just take you until you’ll see stars. While patience is a virtue, it’s not Dean’s strong suit – yet he wants to take his time with you.

“Always taking such good care of me,” he whispers roughly, gently pinching your clit between his middle and ring finger. “My turn making my girl feel good.”

Using your previous methods on you now, he presses a soft kiss to your temple. His lips brush right against the edge of your bandaid. “My pretty girl,” he breathes, before his mouth wanders to your cheek, where he places another kiss.

“My smart girl, always using her pretty head to keep us alive.” God knows his words are true – your quick thinking and ability to stay level headed has saved the both of you out of dangerous situations more times than he can count.

One of his fingertips slips past your entrance, causing you to overhear whatever he adds to the list of compliments. You’re too distracted by the digit sinking deeper into your cunt with little resistance.

Your blush deepens further, fingers curling around the sink’s ceramic. Your eyelashes flutter and your eyes threaten to close, but Dean prevents your head from dropping low with a gentle nudge of his hand. His fingers tighten around your throat, firm enough to make you redirect your focus, but not enough to squeeze your windpipes, let alone hurt you in any way.

“Eyes on the mirror, doll,” he hums against your jaw. “Would be a shame if you were t’miss out on the show, huh? Look how pretty you are f’me, princess, all sensitive and needy.”

You squirm and whimper, struggling to follow his order with how he’s making your head spin. He’s not playing fair. How’re you supposed to focus on anything except him adding another finger to pump in and out of your cunt?

“Dean, please,” you moan, desperately trying to wiggle your hips. You aren’t even sure what it is you’re begging for, exactly. More of him. All of him. Not like you can’t already feel him throb against the curve of your ass.

“Wanna see you cum on my fingers first, baby,” he mumbles, nearly slurring over his own words. But the hand around your throat loosens its grip and he already moves it down to pull your pants lower. “Know you’re almost there, can feel you squeezing the shit out of my fingers.”

You half groan half sob, beyond flustered, but too far gone to argue back. Your legs are already shaking thanks to his fingers thrusting in and out of you and your breathing becomes more ragged with each intake of oxygen. You attempt to throw him a pleading glance through the mirror, but all you can see is your own messy state. Your gaze briefly flickers down, watching his thumb circle your clit in the reflection. However, your eyes are forced back up as Dean’s free hand winds up in your hair and pulls your head back until it’s settled against his uninjured shoulder.

“Eyes up here,” he quips and you’d want to wipe that smug smirk off his lips, were it not for his fingers curling inside of you and pushing you over the edge at last. Your mouth falls open and you cry out as liquid heat rushes through every fiber of your body. You see your own reflection, expression twisted into pleasure and bliss as your orgasm washes over you and you clamp down on Dean’s fingers. Your grip tightens around his wrist, which doesn’t stop him from guiding you through the ecstasy.

“So good for me,” Dean praises, or you think that’s what you hear in your hazy state. You’re still trying to catch your breath as he withdraws his hands from between your now sticky thighs. He brings it up to his mouth, giving his fingers a brief lick. You shudder in awe watching him. His pupils are blown wide, glistening tongue peeking out from those plump lips of his.

But he changes his mind at the last second.

“Not done with you yet, sweetheart,” he whispers and presses his fingers against your lips. You obediently open your mouth for him, welcoming his fingers in, though you flush more as you taste yourself on his skin.

Your walls flutter and clench around nothing just at that, but you have a feeling he’s about to do something about the empty feeling. He smirks knowingly, his cheek pressed against yours, your faces in the mirror side by side.

“Think I should show you how pretty you look taking my cock? I swear, it feels unfair that I’m always the only one who gets to enjoy the show.”

credit & links: ao3 ──〃★ dividers ──〃★ request here taglist: comment a green heart 💚 to be added to the dean x reader taglist (please note: ageless blogs will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts)

@winchester-whiskey @whormotional @spacecowgirl126 @zepskies @hot-and-confused

@spookyfunhottub @calibootsgirl

adding to my favorites for sure ♥️

I. "Do You Trust Me?"

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

A slight against one of your dearest friends causes you to act wildly out of character, and Bucky finds himself stepping up to save you as he realizes just what you mean to him after months of seemingly innocuous encounters.

Warnings: Language, Period Typical Sexism, References to Cheating, Reader Knees a Man in the Groin, Perceived Threats of Violence, Plenty of Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - T.

Author’s Note: Well here we are, watching me write for this show before it's fully aired. Blame/credit to @precious-little-scoundrel and her anon for infecting my brain. Reader has an unnamed brother for sake of plot, no descriptions or y/n used. Events of this fic take place a few days before the horrific Regensburg mission. Also I recognize that WACs did not arrive in the ETO until July of 1943, this fact does not seem to have influenced Hanks/Spielberg so I shan't let it influence me either. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 4217

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The pub was crowded, as usual, and Bucky leaned back in his chair as Curt regaled their table with another one of his stories from Walla Walla. The press of uniform clad bodies, damp from the summer rain outside, created a humid atmosphere. But as he tipped the last few drops of Scotch whisky from his glass into his mouth, he was certain there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Buck had decided to sit this one out, wanting to catch up on his latest letter to Marge. His mouth ticked up at the corners as he reflected once again on how different he and his friend were from one another. Glancing at the bar while he contemplated fetching the next round, Bucky’s eyes widened as they fell on the last person he would ever expect to see in a pub. It took him a moment to recognize you in such an unusual environment, hair perfectly styled. He noted that you were even wearing makeup as your teeth sank into your brightly painted lower lip, wending your way through the crowd, clearly on a mission.

“Bucky are you even listening?” Curt chided with a sharp jab of his elbow into his upper arm.

“Yeah absolutely,” He nodded firmly, unable to take his eyes off you, “every word.” He tacked on as his gaze followed you across the room on your approach to the notorious flirt from 349th squadron, Arthur “Red” Jameson.

He was vaguely aware of the doubtful scoff his reply had earned as his eyes narrowed. Wasn’t your friend Mary rather serious about Red? Not that Red bothered limiting himself to any one woman, local or American – there were few limits that smug redhead put on his relations with the fairer sex. Perhaps that was why Bucky was feeling particularly annoyed with how close you had come to stand next to him at the bar. With the way you were smiling at him. You hardly ever smiled, had to be one of the most serious, reserved women he had ever encountered here in England or back home.

It was when you ducked your head to peer up at Red through your lashes that the realization hit him – you were fucking flirting with him. His fingers clenched tightly on his empty glass, fingertips blanched white as the strength of his grip drove the blood from the flesh there. A slow, knowing smile unfurled across Red’s face as he leaned in, his hand landing on your shoulder making Bucky’s teeth grind together almost painfully as he was flooded with proprietary rage.

The intensity of it startled him, made him take a sharp breath and relax his grip on the glass. Where in the hell had that come from?! The pair of you had spoken no more than a handful of times, simple interactions in the Operations Room of the Control Tower back when he was Air Exec, around the base, or most recently, that afternoon when you had lent him a copy of one of his favorite books, but it wasn’t like you were close. You were quiet, overshadowed by your boisterous friends Mary, Ruth, and that brunette whose name escaped him just then. They were always outgoing at dances while you did an excellent job of decorating the wall. It certainly was not like you were anything more than colleagues. Objectively that was the truth, however, as Bucky sat there watching you grin at that man…

The final straw came as your lips nearly brushed against Red’s ear, making that bastard’s eyes shoot wide, sending Bucky surging to his feet. He narrowly missed one of the low beams overhead as he glared across the crowded room at the cozy pair you and Red presented at the bar.

“Jesus Christ Bucky, did something jump up and bite your ass?!” Curt barked in surprise, the rest of the table laughing loudly in response.

Bucky barely heard them as his new vantage point allowed him a clear view of your knee colliding painfully with the apex of Red’s thighs, causing him to crumple against the bar as you bolted out the back door. Bucky stared after you, just as bewildered as Red’s friends, before they charged out the door in your wake.

“God dammit.” He muttered under his breath before climbing over his friends to make a dash for the front entrance of the pub, his cap clutched in his hand.

------------

Your Women’s Auxiliary Army Corp unit had arrived at Thorpe Abbots in late May, part of the first battalion of WAACs sent overseas. Assigned to the Eight Air Force, you had spent roughly a week with your British counterparts of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force observing missions on other bases before it had come time to establish the base for the 100th.

Fast, accurate typing skills and a calm, quiet temperament had seen you promptly assigned as a clerk in the Operations Room, one of the tensest and most chaotic places on the entire base. Upon your arrival at training camp in Fort Des Moines, you had been adopted by a trio of far more outgoing women – Mary from Miami, a sun-kissed blonde who managed to look that way no matter what the weather; Ruth from Pittsburgh, a black-haired beauty who was manufactured from the steel her hometown was known for; and Violet from Savannah, a brunette who elongated every vowel like the southern belle she was.

Why they chose to waste any of their precious time on you was as much as mystery to you in England as it had been in Iowa, and yet any time you tried to convince them you would be perfectly happy sitting out a dance in your barracks with a book instead, they were adamant you attend. Bodily removed you from your cot to join them – not that you were one for dancing, even with the most handsome of airmen. And that title would most certainly have to be bestowed upon Major John Egan. Perhaps a bit of a rogue and more-often-than-not a little too deep into his cups, there was something undeniably charming about him. A magnetism that drew every woman on the base, and from across all of East Anglia, to him. The handsome devil knew it, too. Of course he did, that was, alas, also part of his charm.

Your trio of outgoing friends had gravitated toward him immediately, traded their fair share of coy looks and dances with him while you looked on quietly from the sidelines. He never really seemed to form that deep a connection with any of them, with any woman for that matter, but that did not deter the female population from trying to be the one to catch his eye for a bit of fun. It was during the long hours of the 100th’s first mission, while he was still serving as Air Exec, that you’d had your first occasion to speak to the man directly.

In the middle of one of the tense periods of waiting for news, he had poked his head into the office to see if anything had come across the teletype or wireless and you had looked up, meeting his eye. He was wearing his sheepskin coat, a striking combination of ivory and cognac colored leather that would have honestly looked absurd on anyone else, yet on him just seemed to belong over his dress uniform.

“Can I help you, Major Egan?” You had asked, fingers poised above your typewriter as you paused your progress in typing up a report for Colonel Huglin.

He had looked at you, startled a moment. “I was convinced you might actually be unable to speak. Glad to know I was wrong. It’s Bucky by the way. Just checking if there were any updates?”

“We’ll be sure to get them to you as soon as we have them, sir.” You had replied professionally, trying to ignore the warmth unfurling beneath your breastbone at having his attention directly solely upon you.

“That’s all I can ask then, thank you.” He had winked before slipping out of the room and heading back towards the plotting map.

It had not taken long for a series of updates to arrive, both by radio and over the teletype and being the highest-ranking clerk in the office, third officer, it was your duty to run them out to him. Grabbing both sheets of paper, you had quickly made your way across the room, startled to find him striding towards you, meeting you halfway. “Here you are Major Egan.”

“Touchdown.” He had grinned and taken them over to review with the others as you had hurried back to your office, gnawing on the inside of your cheek to hide your smile.

You had been admittedly saddened when he had been demoted to squadron commander of the 418th after Colonel Harding assumed command of 100th. For selfish reasons, certainly – your interactions had become increasingly limited after this point – but also because it meant he was more frequently put into harm’s way. Every time he went up in a fort, you found focusing on the job at hand more and more difficult. Unlike the ground crews or the brass, it was not looked upon kindly for the WACs to go running outside to see which forts had come back. Which airmen were injured. Sometimes it would take hours for you to confirm that he was all right, and only then by way of hearsay.

You had still run into Major Egan from time to time, while walking with your group of friends to the WAC mess for dinner – by mid-July you were now serving in the Women’s Army Corp as a 2nd Lieutenant, or after meetings in the Operations Room when he was not flying missions. But the longest conversation you ever had was during one of your breaks earlier that very afternoon. It was an uncharacteristically sunny day, and with no mission in progress you had decided to take your coffee break outside, behind the control tower, sitting on one of the benches the ground crew had built out of scrap wood.

Before you had enlisted, your brother had bought you a copy of his favorite book, one he had never let you read before because you were ‘just a kid’ but now that you were old enough to sign up for the service yourself, he had decided you could have your own copy. With just two pages left, it seemed the perfect way to break up the morbid tallies you had been typing up in the grim office upstairs, and you had just finished the final sentence when a shadow fell over you.

“Now how did you get a copy of my favorite book?”

You had lifted your eyes quickly, squinting slightly into the bright sun that shone from behind him, to see Major Egan standing there.

“Major Egan. You like Guys and Dolls, sir?” You had asked, startled.

“How many times do I gotta tell you it’s Bucky.” He had stepped out of the sunlight to sit beside you carefully. “I love everything by Damon Runyon. Which story did you like the best?” He had leaned in curiously.

Pursing your lips to think over the collection of stories you had just finished, you smiled briefly as the answer came to you. “’Madame La Gimp.’ Where they pass off the bag lady –”

“As a society matron! Yes!” Major Egan chimed in, laughing as he nodded in agreement.

“What…about yours?” You had swallowed, unable to stop yourself.

“God, I haven’t read this book in forever…” he had reached out for it, and you had set it in his hands easily.

He had sucked his teeth in thought as he turned it over in his broad hands. “It’s gotta be a tie between ‘Blood Pressure’ and ‘Hold ‘Em Yale’…ah but ‘Lemon Drop Kid’ is excellent, too.” As he had spoken, he had begun to gesture with the book to emphasize his words, making you press your lips together fondly.

“You can borrow it if you’d like.” You had blurted out before you could stop yourself. “Give me a definitive answer once you’ve read it again.”

Major Egan had looked to you quickly. “Really? But what if…how will I know to get it back to you?” He had raised an eyebrow.

“My name’s on the front page.” You had nodded reassuringly but swallowed tightly as he opened the cover as if to confirm it for himself.

“‘Hey Sis,’” He had begun to read the inscription he found there, bringing your brother’s words to life, “‘lighten up, would you? You don’t have to be so damned serious all the time. See you on the other side.’” He had paused a moment before his eyes had met yours, caught you watching him, before you quickly looked down at the grass at your feet. “Where is he?” he had asked quietly.

“On a ship in the Pacific, somewhere.” You had replied softly, finding each blade of grass infinitely fascinating.

“Are you sure–” He had begun to ask before the sound of your name being called by your very impatient Captain, a woman even Major Egan knew not to waylay, interrupted the peaceful afternoon.

You had leapt to your feet. “You’ll get it back to me.” You had nodded and rushed back inside, believing every word of it.

You had seriously contemplated sharing your encounter with at least Ruth, the more level-headed of your friends, knowing she was the least likely to conflate the exchange with a marriage proposal. But as you returned to your barracks that night, you frowned deeply to find Mary in tears on her cot. After much soothing and rocking in your arms, she finally managed to open up, sharing what had gotten her so upset.

“It’s Red…I caught him out back necking with one of those doughnut truck girls…” She hiccupped and dabbed at her nose with her hanky.

“Oh Mary, I’m so sorry.” You frowned, smoothing her hair back from her forehead.

“Oh god, I can’t believe I let that creep talk me into sleeping with him!” She wailed, fresh tears boiling over onto her cheeks as she sagged onto your shoulder, sobbing anew.

Every muscle in your body tensed as her outburst sunk in, the depth of his betrayal fully registering as Vi and Ruth returned from the end of their shifts in the weather office and Mary launched herself into their arms to fill them in as well. The level of pure fury that seized your body was utterly foreign to you and, unlike the descriptions you had encountered in literature to date, felt utterly icy in your veins. As your friends gently coaxed Mary to the latrines to get herself cleaned up, you hung back, a plan formulating quickly in your mind. Your life without these women would have been lonely, all but intolerable, and this transgression against one of them could not go unanswered. You could not look at yourself in the mirror if you did nothing.

Digging quickly through Mary’s belongings, you found her most alluring shade of lipstick, carefully but efficiently applying it to your lips before unpinning and redoing your hair into a more fashionable shape rather than the more utilitarian style you normally wore. Lastly you added a flick of mascara to your eyelashes and rouge to your cheeks. All this was accomplished using the tiny mirror Vi had set up on the shelf beside her bed. Nodding once in satisfaction, for it was truly the best you could do in a solo effort, you darted out the door, lipstick tube in your pocket for reapplications, if necessary. The cad would never see it coming from you, you just needed to figure out a way to get close enough.

Fortunately, the years you had spent on the sidelines watching the three masters of feminine wiles at work had afforded you quite the education. It was only a matter of finding the perpetrator to enact your revenge. You located him in the second pub you visited, taking a slow breath as your eyes sought him out in the crowded, humid space. The rain had thankfully stopped before your foray out into the night, though the streets remained wet, and you had taken the time to refresh your lipstick and tidy your hair before stepping inside. Your heart began to race as your veins flooded with adrenaline.

‘Easy now. Slow and smooth like Mary, give him that flirty smile she’s famous for.’ You thought to yourself.

As his eyes met yours it was all you could do not to wince back in disgust – you were going to need to hide your dislike better.

‘Pretend he’s someone else. Who would you like him to be?’

You gulped shyly, teeth sinking into your lip at the thought of applying these skills to Major Egan, noting that Red seemed immediately more receptive as you slid up beside him where he stood at the bar.

“Evening, Red.” You smiled at him broadly, swallowing nervously as he echoed the expression warmly.

“Well good evening to you too. You escaped the base.” Red teased you.

You faked a giggle and tilted your head down before flicking your eyes to look up at him through your lashes, something Vi had weaponised to great effect on many an occasion. You tried not to shout in triumph as Red’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, leaning in closer.

“Can I buy you a drink, sugar?”

“Actually…” You smiled coyly before leaning in close to his ear, taking a slow breath before dropping all pretense from your tone. “Mess around with one of my friends again and I’ll cut it off.” You snarled into his ear before driving your knee into his groin as sharply as the straight lines of your uniform skirt would allow, slipping out of his grip as he slouched over the bar with a cry of pain.

You longed to bask in his suffering, in your triumph, but you also recognized you had to get out of there before the consequences of your actions found you. Spying a door propped open to a back alley over Red’s crumpled torso, you made a dash through the stunned corner of the pub and out into the night, pausing a moment before turning to the left, hoping it was the correct direction. You certainly wished you knew your way around town a little better.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were worried it might burst through the front of your WAC jacket as you neared the main street but there was an increasing ruckus behind you – surely Red’s friends in hot pursuit. Suddenly Major Egan appeared in front of you, seemingly out of nowhere, and grabbed your arm, pulling you around a corner and down a smaller alleyway.

“Do you trust me?” He asked quickly, glancing back towards the approaching sound of voices as he shuffled you backward, closer to the brick wall of the building behind you.

You nodded at him, speechless, breathing heavily from your flight. Your uniform cap felt precarious where it was perched on your rapidly falling hairstyle. Major Egan’s aftershave was flooding your senses due to his sheer proximity.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” He whispered as his eyes met yours, his own cap at a dangerous angle atop his dark curls, defying gravity.

He shifted forward to crowd your space, your eyes shooting wide as his forearms lifted to press against the wall on either side of your face, body shielding you from view. He bowed his head to press his lips against yours softly, making your eyelids flutter closed, doing nothing to slow the erratic beating of your heart. He tasted a little bit like whiskey, which had reminded you of gasoline the few times you’d had the misfortune of sipping it, but on his plush lips, it was not so bad.

Your hands balled into fists in the olive drab fabric of your skirt, heat painting its way across your cheeks and down your neck as the coarse hair that decorated his upper lip brushed against your skin. It was all too tempting to lose yourself in the feeling of him surrounding you, protecting you, kissing you. Reality reared its ugly head, making you inhale sharply through your nose as you heard the crowd of men stampede right past you muttering angrily.

“That damn cold fish from operations…”

“Who the fuck does she think she is?!”

“No wonder she ain’t got nobody.”

Pulling back from his lips, you frowned down at your brown uniform shoes, still hidden within the cage of his arms.

“Hey…” He murmured, bowing his head to nudge your nose with his, drawing your gaze back up as you swallowed shyly at the tender gesture. “Don’t listen to ‘em.” He urged you, his blue eyes so very dazzling and disarming at this range, even in the dim light of black-out conditions.

“I…It’s ok,” you breathed as you shook your head. “I know I’ll never be…” you furrowed your brow, not even sure what word you were searching for.

“Anything other than perfect, doll?” His lopsided grin was devastating, made it hard to breathe, though that may have also been his continued proximity. He leaned in for another kiss, but you lifted a shaky hand to press against his shoulder.

“Th…they’re gone you don’t have to pretend…” You murmured sadly, shifting to stand, but he did not move an inch, his breath brushing against your cheeks.

“I’m going to kiss you now because I want to, doll.” He murmured, eyes tracing over your face while giving you a moment to respond.

You were, however, frozen, staring at him again and so he pressed his lips firmly to yours, making your fingers curl slightly around the lapel of his uniform jacket. He hummed softly in response, pressing you back against the wall as he slanted his mouth tighter to yours, his hands moving to cup your cheeks. Shivering at the heat of his palms against your skin, you slowly lifted your other hand from your skirt, stretching it towards him, letting it hover between you tentatively.

He dropped his right hand from your cheek to guide your arm around his waist before sliding his own hand to splay against your lower back, drawing a whimper from your throat as you arched slightly.

He pulled back from your lips, chest heaving. “Christ, doll, you have no idea what you do to me.”

“Bucky?” You whispered, confused by his statement, finding it difficult to think clearly.

Bucky groaned and kissed you fiercely, licking at the seam of your lips, sliding his tongue to yours the instant you parted your lips for him. Toes curling in your shoes, you found yourself mewling into his mouth wantonly until he wrenched back suddenly, hand cupping the back of your head as he hugged you tightly into his chest. The sound of voices eventually registered in your addled brain – Red’s friends returning from their failed attempt to find you.

“If I had known all I had to do was kiss you senseless to get you to use my name…” Bucky teased once the coast was clear, panting into your hair.

You giggled against his throat, your own chest heaving as he loosened his hold on you. Your cap tumbled to the ground, fully dislodged by his attentions.

“It’s a burden I’m willing to bear.” He smirked, pressing his lips to your exposed forehead. “Let’s get you back to your barracks. What are you doing out here all dolled up kneeing idiots like Red in the goods anyway?” He asked as he bent to retrieve your cap, dusting it off and placing it in your outstretched hand before turning to slide his arm around your shoulders, leading you toward the main road.

You huffed with a frown as you walked with him, putting your cover back into place snuggly, crushing your once-stylish hair. “I didn’t appreciate the way he treated Mary.”

Bucky smirked at you “Your brother is right you know, you really do need to lighten up…you can just call him a good-for-nothing and be done with it. No need to write a formal treatise on his behavior.”

His lips stretched into a grin as that pulled another laugh from you. You turned to look at him properly and gasped.

“Bucky you have lipstick all over –”

“Perfect” He nodded proudly, cocky grin on his lips, and made no move to clean up his face, while you quickly wiped at yours, knowing you would have to face your barrack-mates. “Next time you go on an attack mission you let me know, alright, doll? I’ll fly on your wing anytime.” He winked at you, and you bit your lip shyly.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You swallowed and stopped walking, leaning in to press your lips to his cheek softly.

As you pulled back, Bucky flexed the arm he still had slung about your shoulders, hauling you in for another heart-stopping kiss, your hands coming to rest against his chest. You had a feeling that the rather lengthy walk back to base was only going to become exponentially longer and found you really did not mind at all.

-------------------------

Read Part Two - "Just Had To Trust You."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

good lORD I —

SEBASTIAN STAN ENDINGS, BEGINNINGS

this makes me feel so warm and cozy

my wishes to you

• pairing: draco malfoy x slytherin!reader

• summary: you’re eager to celebrate your boyfriend’s birthday, but things don’t go as planned.

• request: here (it’s a bit long)

• warning tags: arguing,✨drama✨ for plot purposes, some angst (but all ends with fluff), briefly gets steamy

• word count: 5k 

a/n: I’ve been excited to write this one, but a mixture of school getting in the way and then me trying to reinvent my writing style made it take longer to finish, so I’m sorry about that :( but I do actually think this came out fairly well? you can be the judge of that ahah so HERE IT IS!! ❤

Keep reading

I am OBSESSED this might seriously be my favorite thing ever

Are You Going My Way? | Collection | John "Bucky" Egan

Lost and found in four parts. John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader Warnings: 18+ smut, mentions of blood, wounds, operations, hospitals, war -> Taglist open! ***

Hitchin' a Ride Part 1

Or two times you told John Egan no, and the one time you said yes. Words: 7k | Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, hospitals

***

Follow Me Where I Go Part 2

Or how you stopped worrying and learned to love trouble.

Words: 8.5k | Warnings: smut, 18+

***

As I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow of Death Part 3

***

Lights Will Guide You Home Part 4

slightly mean eddie if you feel so inclined 🥹🫶 like stern kinda like how you do “mean sirius”. i just think him slightly bossing r around or being stern with her is 😍🫶

SMUT 18+ ONLY MDNI (cw: p in v, hard/mean dom!eddie, mostly just rough touches and bossing r around, some degradation, stoplight, all consensual) | fem!reader | 1.2k words

Eddie leans back, looking a tenuous mixture of unimpressed and sympathetic. "Baby, stop hiding." 

You sit with your legs spread over his legs, face pointed resolutely at the happy trail that climbs clumsily up the centre of his abdomen. "I'm not," you say, though you can't lift your gaze to prove him wrong. 

"How are you feeling?" he asks, bringing a hand to your cheek to force your head up. You smile weakly.

"Good." 

"Yeah? You know all your alerts still? What colour is this?" 

"I don't forget them." You let your legs spread wider, hissing as you sink down further on the splitting girth of his cock. "Green." 

As soon as he knows you're okay he gets mean, a subtle cruelty, squeezing your cheek in a too-tight grip. "What did I say before? Stop hiding." 

You straighten your back, hips moving in messy, slow circles and hands braced against his trim waist. You lift your head and try your best to stay up, even when the head of his cock taps into your spongy soft spot and sends a round of pleasure-shocked chills through your abdomen. 

You quiver happily. 

"You liked that?" he pulls his arms down from behind his head to grab your waist, pushing you down hard into his thighs. 

His cock kisses your soft spot again and you feel yourself tipping forward. "Sit up, doll. Up. Wanna see you, wanna see that face you make when I stretch you out." 

He lifts his hips and you gasp. "That's the one," he says, grinning. 

"Too big," you whisper, so full you can't breathe right. You're sensitive to every shift, every drag of his cock, the curve of his shaft as he digs into the pulp of your walls. 

"Say again," he says, pulling your hips into him. 

"It's too big, Eds. I don't think I can take it."  

He stares up at you assessingly. You wilt slightly under his gaze, your eyes half-lidded and lashes heavy with unshed tears. 

His pinky finger is cool as he strokes down the hill of your soft cheek. "Baby, I know how much you can take." He drops his hand abruptly. "So take it." 

He fucks up into you until you're panting, clinging to his waist and wanting desperately to bury yourself in his chest. Every time you try he pushes you back, his annoyed gaze lighting a fire in the pit of your stomach. You try to fuck him how he likes it with your hips rolling, almost bouncing over his length, but the stimulation is overwhelming. 

"Please," you say, hands sliding behind his naked back. "Please, please, Eddie." 

He tilts his head to one side. "You're so fucking clingy. Come here," he says, opening his arms with a well-acted reluctance.

You melt into him, always so relieved to garner his affection. His hands are sweet, roving up and down the length of your back in sweeping lines that soothe you like you'd wanted. "Green," you whisper before he can ask. 

He stifles a chuckle, nuzzling his face into the side of yours. "You're really fucking tight. Do you need something?" he asks. 

You think about it. "Can you touch me?" 

"Try and relax for me, okay?" he asks, hand already moving to the place where your bodies meet, thick fingers searching for the little bead of your clit. He pushes the pad of his thumb into it and draws slow circles. "If you want to take a break, we can do that." 

"I'm okay. Do you-" You gasp as he hits the right spot. "Do you want a break, baby?" 

"No. A break from moulding this sweet cunt? As if." He rolls his eyes, a burning amusement slowly changing to smugness, to mocking. "Why, do you think I need one?" 

You swallow dryly at the character he's become and shake your head. "No, I just-" 

"Just what? Think you know better than me?" 

"I just thought-" 

He laughs darkly. "Ah, and that's where you're going wrong, sweet thing. I don't need you to think about anything besides this," he gives you two sharp thrusts. You wrap your arms tight around his neck, crushing dark curls to your nose. He smells like he always does; cedarwood, a heady cologne sticks to his skin.

You clamp down around him without thinking and listen to him hiss. "That's it, that's it. Fuck. Guess there's some sense in here after all," he says, lips to your forehead.   

Your thighs tighten around him and he's more than perceptive, focusing his efforts on your clit, chasing your climax with tight circles. 

"You gonna ask me?" 

You take a big breath. "Can I cum?" 

He squeezes you tight to his chest and his skin is everywhere, touching you all over, his hands and his arms and his chest, his thighs and his cock rocking into you, as close as he can be. You gasp for air as your high approaches. 

"Be polite." 

"Please," you say quickly, quiet but forceful as you remember yourself. "Eddie, please can I? Please, please-" You squeeze your eyes shut and shy away from his touch, worried you'll cum before he says you can. 

He takes pity. "Go on, sweetheart." 

Everything dissolves. The coil snaps and you really can't breath, biting down on your index finger to stop from squealing in his ear. He pushes you through it, doesn't stop touching until you're over the crest of it and panting again. 

"Good job," he says, and you know he's done playing mean before he says, "Blue. Very blue. How are you feeling?" Blue – I want to keep fucking you, but I don't want to play mean anymore. 

You pull back and feel weak, slouched in his lap, his cock still hard as stone inside you. You do an experimental little bounce. "Blue." 

He beams and you do too, laughing under your breath as you lean down for a kiss. His lips are inviting: so soft, sweet, a short fall from tentative. You brush the hair away from his face as you pull back and take in his cheeks, pink with blush and damp with a sheen of sweat. 

"You're blushing!" you say, ecstatic. 

He groans, covering his face with both hands as he says, "Fuck off, you tease. This is all your fault. You don't know how fucking cute you look trying to climb all over me. How hard it is to push you away." 

You curl your fingers around his wrist and pull them away, pressing a kiss to the back of his hands before letting them drop. "Thanks, Eddie. For playing games with me." 

He blinks. "I like them just as much as you do." 

"I like you." 

"Wait, do you have a crush on me?" he asks suspiciously. 

You burst into laughter. Eddie joins in, though it's strangled as he shifts beneath you. You realise then how close he is to his own release, his chest rising fast. 

"Got more than a crush on you, Munson. I'll show you, if you like?" you ask, working your hips. 

His eyes close as his head drops back into the couch cushion. Neck bared, you watch his throat bob. He moans and it's haunting, you'll be thinking about it all day, a wicked exhale coloured by the deep rasp of his voice. 

"Want me to show you, baby?" 

"Please," he says.