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Do better. There’s victims of the acts that you’re romanticising. If you’re a victim yourself, that’s still not an excuse.
Stop writing rape.
okay… no one owes you a confession to justify writing anything.
no one is required to disclose their trauma, victimhood, personal history, or life story in order to write dark fiction. no one has to ‘prove’ they’re allowed to explore certain subjects in fiction, and spreading the idea that people need to publicly identify themselves as victims before they’re ‘allowed’ to write about certain topics is invasive, harmful, and extremely weird and entitled.
my work is tagged and my warnings are there. AGAIN, you’re responsible for curating your own space. block me, mute me, unfollow me, filter the tags, or stop reading. those are literally your options. i’m not going to argue about that with ppl who purposely ignore warnings and then act shocked by the content they chose to read.
Track Ten: Do You Want To Know A Secret - The Beatles
this fourth of july, the only thing to celebrate is a made up little 60s popstar, her fiancé bodyguard, and their little british rockstar. i had a lot of fun working on this one, so i hope you enjoy! grma abhi @scannainscanrula ad infinitum of course.
part of the BE MY BABY! au
bodyguard!jack solomon x reader
wc: 4.9k
warnings: bdsm dynamics, polyamory, fingering, voyeurism, spitting, substance use (weed)
your fourth of july show reunites you with eric & the strangers.
When your opener had to cancel on you for your San Francisco show, you really couldn’t blame him. He was a young singer, modeling his image and sound on the crooner styles of the last decade. When his label suddenly booked him a bigger, solo gig in Pasadena, he was apologetic to you, but of course couldn’t decline the offer.
The frustrating thing was that your show was in two days, which left you almost no time to book anyone else.
“I mean, we could just push back the start time, no opener,” Martin suggests.
“Ugh, I hate that,” you mumble. “It’s hard without an opener.”
Jack watches you from his perch by the window, sticking his cigarette out of it between puffs. You’re in Martin’s office, discussing the game plan for the show before you leave tomorrow.
“And it’s the Fourth of July show,” you reason. “People will be getting there early. There’s no one we know that can take it?”
“The label keeps them booked!” Martin sighs. “We’ll figure something out, kid, I just–”
“Wait a minute,” you say, sitting up suddenly in your chair. “What about Eric?”
“Eric?” Martin repeats dumbly.
“Eric and The Strangers,” you clarify. “They’re playing a show in San Francisco that weekend, if the label could offer to put them up for the extra two days, I bet they’d be willing to come up early.”
Jack takes another drag off his cigarette and ducks down towards the open window to exhale.
“At a moment’s notice?” Martin asks skeptically. “I mean, we can try–”
“Please,” you insist. “Can we just call their manager?”
San Francisco is hot but breezy, allowing just the perfect amount of slightly sweaty summer heat to sit in the air.
You’re due to go on in about six hours, at eight o’clock. You’re nervously wandering around backstage when the sound of four British accents chattering and arguing back and forth catches your attention. You turn around the corner to see them holding their bags and guitars, awkwardly elbowing each other as they bound down the hallway.
“Eric!” you shout, your face illuminating at the sight of the shaggy haired rockstar.
“Hey, love!” he chirps. You rush over to him and he folds you into a hug, dropping his things to the ground. He smells like cigarettes and something you can’t place. You can feel your feet lift off the floor slightly as he pulls you tight.
“Ugh, get a room,” Teddy teases.
Eric gently sets you back down and you pull away from him slightly.
“Thank you again for agreeing to do this,” you gush.
“F’course, love,” he replies. “I mean, I don’t know how much these American girls are gonna wanna see a couple of British blokes at their lit’le ‘breaking-free-of-England’ party but–”
You giggle.
“Truly,” you repeat. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he assures you, all the boisterous humor in his voice replaced with sincerity.
“Honey, have you– oh. Hi,” Jack says, rounding the corner. You catch the way the boys just slightly snicker at Jack’s little pet name for you and your cheeks flush.
Eric holds up a hand in greeting.
“Hey, mate,” he says.
“You, um,” Jack stammers. “It’s time for your soundcheck.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in a minute,” you reply. This venue is huge; you’re even a little nervous to take the stage while the seats are still empty.
“They need you now,” Jack insists with a huff. His tone sends a pang of guilt through you, and the guilt slowly smolders into anger.
“I said I’ll be there in a minute,” you retort.
“Sounds like you need t’go,” Eric offers gently, trying to give you an out. “I’ll come find you before our half-hour, yeah?”
“Yeah, sure,” you reply, irritated at how you’ve been cut short. You spin on your heel and walk quickly past Jack towards the stage. He follows behind you, trying to keep up.
After your soundcheck, you again stomp into your dressing room, not slamming, but quickly closing the door behind you. Jack pushes the door open seconds later.
“Knock!” you scream, recoiling from the door. Almost on instinct, he retreats into the hallway and knocks on the door.
“Come in,” you relent. He steps through the door and shuts it behind him. For a second, he stares at you.
“What’s going on?” he asks evenly.
“What?” you counter hotly.
“Stop,” he says firmly. “Honey, I’m not playing right now. Why does it feel like you’re actually mad at me?”
“You know, Jack, maybe if you’re going to be so jealous about me just thanking Eric for agreeing to such a last minute show, maybe this little arrangement is a bad idea,” you snip, trying not to betray how hurt you are. The idea that Jack wouldn’t trust you alone with Eric, that he had to separate you as soon as you started speaking to him…it stings. You sit down at your vanity and pretend to busy yourself with organizing your make up brushes.
“What?” he asks gently.
“You can’t say it’s okay to play with him and then get mad at me the second I talk to him,” you respond, barely disguising the quiver in your voice. “That’s not fair.”
“Honey, I wasn’t mad at you,” he explains. “They just…they actually needed you for the sound check,” he chuckles softly. He comes up behind you and rests his hands on your shoulders. He sighs.. “I’m sorry…it’s still a little…new to me, to have to think about you with someone else. But I’m really not trying to be jealous, honest.”
You bring your hand to rest over his and meet his eye in the mirror. Jack leans down to your ear.
“Let me make it up to you?” he whispers playfully.
You sigh in bliss as he massages your shoulders and nips at your ear.
After Jack gives you two orgasms on his fingers, you go to find Eric again.
You find the door to the band’s dressing room and knock politely. Eric opens the door, and a haze of smoke lingers in the room behind him.
“Oh, hey love,” he coughs. “I was jus’ gonna come find you.”
“Oh, I hope I’m not bothering you,” you falter.
“No, no, come on in,” he says, stepping to the side. You enter their dressing room. It’s a decent size. Teddy and Wes sit on a small couch while Donovan has one long leg thrown over the side of the armchair he’s occupying. Donovan’s sipping some kind of dark liquor out of a rocks glass. Wes and Teddy are smoking, and this time, you know it’s not a cigarette.
Another couch sits adjacent to the one Teddy and Wes are on, and you wander over to it. Your body still feels electrified from Jack’s touch, and you hope none of the boys notice the way your legs shake slightly as you sit down.
“Y’nervous?” Eric asks as he perches on the arm of the couch next to you. His gaze at this angle makes you blush; you’re not sure how much of your chest he can see from above you.
“A little,” you admit.
“Ah, you’ll be fuckin’ incredible,” he assures you. Wes passes him the joint and he takes a drag. He coughs on the smoke slightly as he exhales. “You smoke ‘fore a show?” he asks you, offering it.
“N-no, thanks,” you reply. “But, um…actually, I was wondering…”
“Yeah?” he nods.
“Do you– I’m not trying to like, mooch off you guys or anything, but–”
Teddy leans forward towards you, holding out a perfectly rolled joint.
“Here, on the house,” he grins. You blush. You take it from him and hold it delicately.
“Have you…smoked before?” Eric asks, studying you now with a quizzical eye.
“Um, no…but I was wondering if…maybe after the show…?” you lilt.
Eric chokes on the inhale this time, pulling the joint from his lips. The boys snicker.
“Y-yeah, f’sure,” he mumbles. “Y’got a hotel room or somethin’?” he asks, leaning into you in an attempt at privacy. The others pretend not to be watching the two of you.
“Yeah,” you breathe quietly. “Can you, um…there’s just…there’s something I want to…ask you,” you insist.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, f’sure.”
“Thirty minute call!” the third stage manager barks, knocking on the boys’ door and startling all of you.
“Yeah, thanks,” Eric pipes up. You stand up from the couch.
“I’ll let you guys get ready,” you say coyly. Eric’s eyes wander up your legs until he hits the hem of your skirt, then snaps his attention back to your face.
“Sure,” he says in a daze.
“Come find me after the show?” you offer, drifting towards the door.
“Sure,” he repeats, still in a dreamy stupor, that’s really only partially due to the pot.
You smile and excuse yourself, heading back to your own dressing room to finish getting ready.
The boys all burst into laughter a few moments after you leave the room.
“What?!” Eric demands, blushing.
“Ooooh, Eric’s got a crush on a pop star,” Teddy taunts him.
“American girl, that could be good for your image,” Donovan smirks.
“I can’t believe you’re gonna do weird sex stuff with her and the bodyguard,” Wes laughs.
“Wh-fuck off,” Eric spits. “She’s just invited me over, she’s not shaggin’ the bodyguard.”
“Mate…” Donovan says solemnly.
“She is not!” he protests again.
“You saw ‘er stomp off after the soundcheck,” Wes reasons. “Then she’s with ‘im in the dressin’ room for an hour, she comes back, grinnin’ like she’s in a cigarette commercial, and invites’ you ‘round after the show? C’mon.”
The room laughs at him one more time. Eric just takes another hit from the joint.
“Fuck off,” he chuckles finally.
You were a little nervous about the boys opening for you. Their sound was admittedly not quite the thing your typical audience would be into.
Their performance quickly assuaged any fears you’d had.
You watch them from a screen in your dressing room, not unlike the first time you’d met.
“Thank you!” Eric shouts into his microphone. Your fans, mostly young women, are going nuts for them. “We really appreciate you ‘aving us, on today of all days,” he jokes.
“We’ve got one more song f’ya,” he shouts over the applause. As the cheering settles down, he drops his voice. “This next one is new. It’s about a girl…it’s called Honeybee.”
The boys launch into a boppy, bouncy song you’ve never heard before. Their guitars sound bright and bubbly, but Teddy’s drums still add their signature bold sound.
“Honeybee, feels like you were made for me,” Eric sings. You watch them dance and stomp around the stage, riling up the crowd.
“She’s drinkin’ sweet nectar from my flower,” he continues. Your cheeks feel hot at the suggestive lyrics of the song– and at the thinly veiled allusion to your nickname from Jack. “Can’t keep my hands off her, not for an hour.”
The song continues, and you and Jack watch the band on your small television. Wes and Eric start their usual routine of stage nonsense, circling and getting too close to each other.
“Honeybee, flyin’ free in my sunshine,” Eric continues, sweat dripping down his temple as he strums his guitar. “Please, baby, just say you wanna be mine.”
When the song concludes, the crowd erupts in cheers. The boys smile and wave to the audience, Teddy playfully jumping on Eric’s back. They stumble off stage, the crowd still cheering for them.
Something inside of you does like performing after them; they bring a certain energy to the stage that you love chasing after. They push you to be the best performer you can be in those moments.
You have about 15 minutes before your set, as the roadies quickly break down the band’s instruments and set up for you. You can hear the boys whooping and laughing down the hall as they pass by your room. Your eyes dart over to Jack, whose cheeks are the faintest shade of pink.
“Well, they are good, I will admit,” he says quietly.
Back in your hotel room, you and Jack sit on the bed while Eric sits in an armchair across from you.
“Well I, um,” you start, unsure of what exactly to say. “I do like you. But this wouldn’t be romantic, it’s not really…um…”
“It would be purely sexual,” Jack clarifies, his tone completely neutral. Eric sits, stunned, eyes darting between the two of you.
“It’s just that, you. You know, you…” You can’t quite put words on it.
“If you agree to it,” Jack clarifies, “It would be very controlled. Very clear, firm boundaries, to keep things comfortable for everyone.”
“What…what exactly does that mean?” Eric asks.
“It means the two of you could have a sexual relationship without it bleeding over into our romantic and sexual relationship,” Jack tries to explain.
“A ‘sexual relationship’…?”
“There’s only a few things we feel okay with, between the two of you,” Jack clarifies. “You can kiss her. You can touch her.”
“Touch her?”
“Where would you want him to touch you, honey?” Jack asks you, gently rubbing his thumb in circles over your shoulder. His gentle, grounding touch makes your brain feel functional again.
“You can touch my chest,” you squeak. “And…and you can touch me…down there, too.”
Eric’s cheeks turn bright red.
“Outside or inside, baby?” Jack muses.
“Both,” you reply, your own cheeks getting hot. Eric’s mouth feels dry hearing your request.
“How rough do you want him to be?” Jack prompts you again.
Rough? Eric thinks, his brows shooting up.
“Not too rough…” you start. “You can move me around, though.”
You’re having a hard time keeping your eyes on Eric. It’s so hard to ask for what you want.
Jack makes you go down your usual list with Eric, clarifying what’s allowed and what’s not: slapping, no, pinching, no, spitting, yes, restraint, only if we’ve already talked about it.
After a few more minutes of negotiation, Jack feels better about the proposal. Eric’s jaw is still hanging slack with shock. Jack explains his conditions, too: right now, he wants to be present whenever you play with Eric– but he only wants to watch.
“I don’t want to touch you while he’s touching you, okay?” Jack says softly. You crinkle your brows in confusion– and hurt. It stings a little bit. Jack doesn’t want to touch you? “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Jack coos. “I just– it’s just a boundary for me right now.”
He rolls his thumb over the skin on your knee. You nod.
“Tell him your codeword,” Jack whispers to you.
“We use, um. Codewords. For if we want the other person to stop,” you explain. “Mine is Romeo.”
Eric chuckles, the tension in the room finally getting to him.
“And what, yours is Juliet?” he asks Jack. Your eyes quickly dart over to Jack, who says nothing. Eric looks between the two of you.
“Well, call me Mercutio, fuck,” he says through nervous laughter.
“Well it’s actually not from–”
“Sure,” Jack replies. “That works.” He’s a little impressed that the young rockstar has enough knowledge of Shakespeare to make the reference. Jack clears his throat. “Are you interested?”
“Am I interested in shaggin’ your girlfriend–”
“Fiancée,” you correct.
Eric sits in stunned silence.
“Again,” Jack repeats, trying his best to stay level-headed and professional in the absurdity of the situation. “It wouldn’t really be romantic so much as it would be just…physical. I get that that’s…unconventional,” he continues. “But…you know. If you two like each other…I really don’t see any reason why we can’t…make something work.”
Eric’s eyes dart between the two of you: Jack, his hand resting gently on your knee, his thumb pressing soft circles into your skin, and you, with your huge, pleading eyes, looking so devoutly at Jack…and then turning your gaze on Eric.
His heart melts.
“Yeah…yeah, I mean…I could try it,” he says softly. “If y’think it won’t…y’know…be weird f’you.”
Jack glances at you. You look happy.
“No,” Jack insists. “We want this.”
You look at him. He’s doing this for you.
You lean up, wrap your arms around his neck, and kiss him sweetly.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“Love you,” he whispers back. He leans back– as far as he can to put a little space between the two of you while your arms are still gently crossed behind his shoulders, tying him to you. “You want me to get her started?” Jack asks Eric. Eric blinks.
“Can I, uh…can I smoke in ‘ere?” he stammers. His accent is especially cute when he’s flustered.
“I don’t mind,” you pipe up. Jack raises his eyebrows as he glances at you. You watch as Eric’s trembling fingers dig out the crumpled carton of cigarettes from his pocket, taking one between his teeth and lighting up quickly.
“Oh?” Jack counters lightly, in a tone that tells you he’s playing. “Did you know my dolly smokes cigarettes too?” he muses, rising to his feet. He reaches into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out his silver cigarette case. He removes one and flips it between his fingers, offering it to you. You take it between your lips while Jack puts his case away and takes out his lighter. Eric takes a long drag of his own cigarette as he watches Jack light yours.
Jack takes his time putting his lighter away, making you hold the cigarette for a just slightly uncomfortable amount of time. You stifle a cough before he reaches down and takes the cigarette from you, your lipstick painted in a bright red ring around the orange filter. Eric exhales a pointed stream of smoke at the sight of Jack taking the cigarette between his own teeth. Jack’s eyes land briefly on Eric and he grins before inhaling deeply.
“Thank you baby,” Jack coos, running a hand from the top of your head down the side of your face and cupping your chin gently. “You wanna see another trick she knows?” he asks Eric.
Eric sits in silence, his breath coming and going quickly in the quiet room. He nervously ashes his cigarette in the ashtray on the small dresser next to him.
You sit on the edge of the bed, gently digging your toe into the carpet underneath your feet, eagerly awaiting Jack to give you a command. He smiles at you.
“Open,” he says plainly. You obey, dropping your jaw and sticking your tongue out, your eyes fixed on him. Eric inhales sharply.
Jack grips your chin then leans forward and spits on your tongue. He doesn’t have to tell you to swallow.
“Fuck…” Eric mumbles. He heaves a breath and looks away, afraid he’ll go insane if he keeps staring at you. He ashes his cigarette again to have something to do.
“She’ll do anything you tell her to…isn’t that right, baby?” Jack teases you.
“Mm-hmm,” you hum, nodding.
“Are you ready to play with Eric?” Jack asks gently. Eric swallows. You nod. Jack turns his attention back to the rockstar. “Do you feel okay taking over?” he asks him. Eric nods this time and stands. Jack turns back to you.
“I’ll be right here the whole time, honey,” he tells you sweetly. He pats your knee gently, then steps back, looking at Eric. You turn your attention to him as he stands over you at the foot of the bed.
“You’re sure you want this?” he asks you in a hushed tone. You nod again, your cheeks warming slightly. He takes another drag off his cigarette as you bat your eyelashes at him.
“Yes, please,” you say in a tone so docile it almost makes him faint.
“Honey…” he breathes, thick smoke floating out between his lips.
“Eric,” you sigh, your breath lighter than a feather. You sit up on your knees and connect your lips, reaching up for him. You rest your hand against his hip to support yourself, and feel the vibration of him groaning against you.
“Baby,” he gasps when he finally pulls back. “You always this needy?”
“Tell me what to do,” you beg him gently. His gaze is hazy as he looks at you.
“Do?” he questions, stepping back to put out his cigarette in the ashtray.
“Tell me what you want,” you press him. He still looks confused as he steps back to the bed, but he chuckles when you bring your hand back to his belt buckle.
“God damn,” he grins. “How does your lit'le soldier boy keep you busy?”
You kiss him again, electrified from finally tasting him and from knowing that Jack is watching you.
“God, feels so good jus’ kissin’ you,” he breathes, an earnestness in his voice straddling the line between affectionate and pathetic. He leans forward and kisses you again. You love how soft and warm he feels.
“What should I do?” you whisper between the kisses he’s still showering you with.
“Just lie back f’me, yeah?” he muses. He kneels on the bed as you lie down, then throws one knee over your midsection so he’s straddling you. “Good job.”
You blush. Eric leans down and kisses you again before bringing his hands to your chest and squeezing. You gasp against his mouth. He slowly strips you, unbuttoning your blouse and then your skirt. You shimmy it down your legs as Jack watches, still smoking his cigarette. The smoke feels good burning his lungs. He watches you blush and turn away as Eric presses a soft kiss to your tummy.
“Y’so sexy, love,” Eric mutters, discarding his own shirt. You roll your hips up towards him. “Y’want me t’touch you?” he whispers. You nod.
“Y-yes, please,” you beg. He brings one hand to your cunt and rubs you over your panties. You whine at the feeling of someone else, of Eric, touching you. It makes your heart flutter, especially knowing that Jack is standing just steps away from you, watching you squirm for him.
“Y’sound so pretty when y’make those lit’le noises,” he pants. “God, how are you so perfect?”
Eric dips his fingers below your panties and finally, finally makes contact with you. He chuckles.
“Damn, y’always get wet this fast?” he teases gently. You can’t say anything as his touch catches your breath in your throat. He rubs torturously slow circles over your clit, already slick with your need.
“Er-Eric,” you pant. “C-can-mmph-can you–inside…” you beg.
A mischievous grin lights up Eric’s face as he helps you shimmy your panties down your legs. Jack watches, his whole body electrified from the look on your face as you choke on a moan while Eric pushes two fingers into you at once.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Eric huffs.
“D-don’t stop,” you cry. Eric brings his other hand back to continue playing with your clit.
“This whole time, this is what gets you off, love?” he chuckles. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment– but it feels good coming from Eric. “This is what you wanted, my fingers inside’a you while he watches?” he grins, nodding towards Jack.
You can feel your walls clenching around his fingers in desperation.
“How many can y’take?” he asks you breathlessly.
“Y-you-ah-you can p-put one m-ore,” you stutter.
Eric adds a third finger to your cunt and the sound that fills the room makes you turn your head away from him.
“Oh, look’a that,” he beams. “Good job, honeybee,” he purrs.
You cry out as Eric taps that spot inside of you over and over that has your head going fuzzy.
“You’re right on the fuckin’ edge, babe, ‘member?” he says, his voice syrupy sweet as he plants a kiss on your mouth. You whimper, your hips desperately chasing his touch. “Say it.”
“I’m-agh! I’m right on the fucking edge,” you whine.
“Can I make you cum?” he whispers to you.
“Puh-please!” you sob. Eric turns over his shoulder, tossing his sweaty hair from his eyes, looking at Jack.
“Can I make her cum?” he asks breathlessly. Jack takes a long drag on his cigarette and nods silently as he exhales.
Eric continues his movements, pumping his fingers in and out of you with that same wet noise that makes your cheeks burn. You can’t believe it. You met him about a month ago, and now he’s making you cum on his fingers.
“Betcha sound pretty when you cum, honey,” he encourages you. “That gorgeous voice sounds just as good when you’re screamin’, huh?”
You’re breathless and panting when he kisses you again. You grab onto his shoulders as you cry out, your legs shaking as Eric continues the relentless pace of his fingers. Jack can feel himself getting hard as he watches you cum.
Eric slowly pulls his fingers out of you and brings them to his mouth, licking them clean. He hums, satisfied.
“Taste so good, too, baby,” he smiles at you before bringing his hand back down to your folds.
Jack watches your face contort in overwhelming pleasure as Eric continues to rub you. He loves seeing you all squirmy and bothered, and the sensation is somehow elevated by being a third party observer to your pleasure.
A moan gets caught in your throat and dissolves into a gasp.
“Ja-aaaack,” you whine.
“What is it, honey?” Jack muses, taking a step closer to you. You reach out for him.
“C-can, can I have a kiss?” you whimper.
“Not while you’re playing with Eric, sweetheart,” he says in a level tone. Eric slows his motions, watching Jack carefully.
“Why not?” you pout.
“Yellow, honey,” he whispers to you, crouching down by your face so he’s eye level with you. He can see the transfixed, far off look in your eye. “Come back to me now…”
You blink yourself out of the deep haze that’s settled over your mind just enough to feel present again. Jack sees your attention shift, sharpen.
“Don’t fight me on a boundary…okay?” he asks you quietly. There’s not a touch of anger in his voice; just clarity. You nod.
“You, then…can I have you?” you pant. You know it’s not the full thought. He’s still going to make you clarify that you want him to hold you and kiss you and call you a good girl. But for now, those are the only words you can get out.
Eric started to back off the second Jack knelt down, removing his hand from your center and instead just running his hands along your inner thighs soothingly.
“You can have me, baby,” he tells you gently. “But you have to tell Eric what you want, too.”
You nod and turn back to the sweaty, shirtless rockstar standing between your legs. His hair, damp with sweat, is partially covering his eyes.
“Can we…take a break?” you ask, still breathless. He grins and nods at you.
“Course, love,” he says gently. “Everythin’ alright?”
“Mmhm,” you nod. “I’m just– it’s a lot,” you pant.
“I know it is, love, I know,” he says soothingly. “Did so good, darling.”
He gently cups his hands around your knees and supports your legs as you weakly bring your knees back together. Being stretched for so long has made your thighs feel like jelly, and you’re grateful that he helps you close yourself off a bit, offering a type of ending to the scene, before he steps back from the bed.
You turn back to Jack and he leans in and gently kisses you.
“What is it, honey?” he coos.
“Can you hold me?” you whisper. Jack chuckles and stands, walking around the bed to get in with you. He wraps his arms around your waist as you wiggle closer to him. He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head.
“What is it, baby?” he asks you. “Everything okay?”
Your heart flutters hearing Jack’s voice so soft in your ear. You nod.
“Mmhm,” you mumble. “Just wanted you for this part.”
He laughs again and rubs a hand down your back. Eric has stepped out onto the fire escape, and the faintest hint of his cigarette drifts back into the room. It feels good to hold onto Jack, to feel grounded by him.
“You ready to be done?” he dotes, his hand still stroking your back with a soothing repetitiveness.
“Mmhm,” you nod again.
“Okay, baby, we can be done,” he comforts you. “You did so good, honey.”
You smile contentedly.
“How did you like playing with Eric?” he asks you softly.
“I liked it,” you admit quietly. “But I…I really liked knowing that you were here, too.”
Jack hums.
“Did you like…watching?” you whisper.
“I did,” he says in a low voice. You sigh as he holds you a little tighter. It feels so good to be close to Jack, folded in his arms, feeling the warmth of his body.
“Do you think…we could keep doing this?” you ask in a small voice.
“I think we could make this work, honey,” Jack muses. You smile and lean up to press a kiss to his lips. “I think we could make this work,” he repeats.
You drift off to hazy memories of Jack’s arms and Eric’s lips. One of them gets you a glass of water. You’re not sure who it is. Your body is still exhausted from the show, not to mention the activities of the last hour.
At some point, you stir, rolling over towards the hotel window. Jack and Eric are out on the fire escape, talking quietly and smoking. Jack looks over his shoulder at you, and you pretend to still be asleep. His words echo in your mind.
We could make this work.
thank you for reading! read the full be my baby series here. please reblog if you like what you read; it keeps writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!
Track Nine: I Only Want To Be With You - Dusty Springfield
hi tumblrinas! it's been a minute. i've been busy with life...and with writing this! and for once, i can tell you to expect another installment posthaste because this was actually too long to post as one chapter hahaha. endless thanks to abhi @scannainscanrula for creating such fun barbie dolls and for letting me bring my own into the sandbox. grma mo phéist.
part of the BE MY BABY! au
bodyguard!jack solomon x reader
wc: 9.1k
warnings: bdsm dynamics, piv sex, breeding kink, fingering, creampie, talk of polyamory, substance use (weed)
the british invasion shakes up your world....and gives jack an idea.
They’re so cute in their matching suits.
You watch the young men on stage from one of the audience seats that will soon be occupied by fans. They’re running their soundcheck before you, letting the camera operators determine their angles and the lighting guys adjust theirs. You’re both appearing on a variety performance this evening that will be broadcast live in front of a live studio audience. This type of gig is always a little nerve-wracking for you; trying to play to the live audience and the camera is hard, and you often feel overwhelmed trying to give a good show to everyone, including the millions of people you can’t see, watching you on television screens around the country.
But they make it look so easy. And sure, the cameras aren’t live, and there’s no one in the seats except for you. But you can’t stop watching them as they bounce and bop around the stage, their haircuts just slightly too long to be the boy-next-door type.
Eric, the lead guitarist and vocalist, sings with such passion and electricity, even in the empty studio. Teddy, the drummer, also stands out; usually bass and drums have a tendency to fade into the background of a group, overshadowed by guitarists and singers and their egos. But you love the way Teddy drives the song, firmly setting the rhythm of the song, guiding the others through it and showing off his technical prowess with perfectly timed moments of flourish. Wes, the rhythm guitarist, dances around Eric with a flamboyant pomp. Donovan, the bassist, seems the most reserved of the group, but still stamps and tosses his head around in time with the music.
When the boys are done with their soundcheck, they set down their instruments so the crew can turn over the stage for yours. During the show, they’ll be interviewed as the stage is reset, then you’ll perform and join them on the couch with the host for your own interview.
You watch as they head backstage, nudging each other, chatting. You stand up out of the cushioned seat and glance at the stage. The roadies are still packing up. You decide to follow them backstage. A quick hello couldn’t hurt; you didn’t like the idea of meeting them for the first time on that interview couch, and you figure you have a few more minutes before you’re due for your soundcheck.
You turn down the narrow backstage hallways, quickly trying to find their dressing room. You turn down a hallway away from your own dressing room and find the boys, their backs to you as they continue their jaunt.
“Hey!” you call out.
They stop and turn to face you. They’re all so much more handsome up close. You can feel yourself blush a little under their gaze. Eric smiles.
They all look fairly similar– four British boys in matching black suits with shaggy haircuts. A few noticeable differences set them apart. Donovan is the tallest. Teddy’s hair is a sandy brunette, lighter than the rest of the boys’ dark color. Wes’s hair is the shortest, more of an overgrown crew cut than a true moptop. And Eric has the faintest dusting of freckles on the tops of his cheeks.
“Oh, hey,” he says casually. His British accent nearly makes your knees buckle. “You’re on next, yeah?”
“Y-yeah, I just wanted to say–”
You’re cut off by Jack coming up behind you.
“There you are, they’re–”
And he’s cut off when he turns the corner and sees the way Eric is looking at you. He clears his throat.
“They’re looking for you,” he says in a low voice. It’s his bodyguard voice, the one he uses when he can’t trust himself to be impersonal about you. The one he uses when he can feel the line of protective bodyguard and protective fiancé becoming incredibly thin.
“Okay,” you reply quietly, quickly glancing at him. You take a deep breath, then shift your attention back to Eric and the others. “I just wanted to say, you guys sounded really good out there,” you finish with a smile.
“Thanks, love,” Eric replies with a grin.
You don’t let them see your reaction to the pet name as you quickly turn and walk with Jack towards the stage. Jack studies your face, your flushed cheeks and the ghost of a smile across your lips, as you wind down the hallways. When you land back in the studio, you take the stage and Jack takes his place against the wall, between the stage and where the audience will be. It was his usual post for your television appearances, giving him the best view of the room without the risk of being noticed too much.
The soundcheck goes fine. You feel fine. You think again about the cute British boys backstage. You can do this.
It’ll be fine.
“Eric and The Strangers, everybody!” the host croons, motioning to his left. The camera quickly cuts to the boys on stage, who jump immediately into their first song. You watch them on the small television in your dressing room as Jack absentmindedly flips through the newspaper on the couch next to you. You can tell he’s itching for a cigarette, and will probably step out at some point to sneak a quick smoke break. As much as you hated his cigarettes, there was something irresistible about the way Jack would come back smelling faintly of smoke when you had finished changing after a show.
You watch as the camera catches every vibrant movement of the boys on stage. They’re less stationary than a traditional boy group. They don’t stand still at their microphones– they stomp and swing and feel the music in their bodies. And Eric? Eric commands the stage, even more alive than when you’d seen him before. His voice rasps just the right amount, hitting high notes with the slightest bit of an edgy, scratchy tone. Teddy’s grin lights up his face as his sticks dance along the cymbals. Donovan, the bassist, sways in rhythm with the deep bassline he plucks and the rhythm guitarist, Wes, falls into a playful game of cat-and-mouse on stage with Eric that only makes you more hyperfocused on their energy.
When they finish, the crowd erupts into cheers. The boys play another song to more thunderous applause.
“Somethin’s wrong with my head, feels so dizzy,” Eric sings into his mic. Teddy leans up to the microphone positioned over his drum kit to support him on the backing vocals. “Got girls all around, but just too busy.”
You watch as Wes joins Eric at his mic, leaning in to share it.
“I just need a darlin’ to call my own,” they harmonize. “Little sugar waitin’ for me at home…”
As they wind down, Jack folds up the paper and finally looks at you.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah…” you trail off.
“You’ll be fine,” he assures you, resting one hand on your knee. He draws his thumb in circles on your knee. “You’ll be great, baby.”
You look up at him and smile. He stands and holds out his hand to help you off the couch. You take his hand and he gently pulls you up. You watch his brows draw together subtly as he looks at your hand.
“What?” you ask him, suddenly worried.
“Your ring, baby…” he says softly. “You didn’t leave it at home?”
You lift your hand out of his and hold it up. Your engagement ring glitters on your finger. You must’ve forgotten to leave it in your jewelry box before you went out for the day. Suddenly, you’re extremely grateful that the only people who saw your soundcheck were Jack, the technicians, and one of the show’s producers who seemed more occupied with whatever papers he had in his briefcase than he was with your performance.
“Oh,” you breathe. “I forgot.”
It drives a tiny splinter through your heart as you wiggle it off your finger in front of Jack. He holds out his hand.
“Want me to keep it safe for you?” he offers gently.
“Are you sure it won’t get lost?” you ask fretfully.
Jack holds open the left breast of his jacket, showing you the tiny pocket in the lining.
“I’ll keep it right by my heart,” he says with a sweet smile. “It’ll never get lost.”
You smile and drop the ring into his hand. He quickly tucks it into his pocket and you hear a soft clink. Jack leans in and plants a swift kiss on your cheek, then whispers in your ear:
“It’s where I keep mine.”
You could pass out from the idea of your ring in his pocket, above his beating heart, next to the gold band you had insisted on buying for him. The heat of your secret burning just underneath the fabric of Jack’s suit jacket.
He takes your hand and leads you to the door of your dressing room. When you step out into the hallway, your fiancé is gone, and Jack, your bodyguard, leads you to your place for the top of your performance.
“Break a leg,” he says in a professional tone. But what he means is I love you. You can hear it in between his words. You can see it in his eyes.
He takes his place in the studio, quickly scanning the audience. Eric and the rest of the band move from the small interview couch on the adjacent studio stage so they can watch you perform, clustering behind one of the cameras.
You take the stage.
You know you need to give a good show to follow Eric and the boys; you can feel the energy they injected into the crowd. You want to deliver, and something about your usual act feels…underwhelming now. Sure, you could deliver your usual cutesy, catchy performance. But you know it would only be met with polite applause, anemic cheers in contrast with the raucous uproar left in the wake of your inadvertent openers.
You toss your hair with a flourish as your band starts to play. You and your background singers bop and sway in time with the music, but you add a little more swish to the swing of your hips, flaring your skirt up a little more than normal. Jack notices.
The crowd does, too.
“That boy, he’s my baby, my everything,” you sing. “Swear one day he’s gonna give me his ring!”
You shoot a sultry look at the camera. Eric grins from behind the camera as you glance his way, dancing and singing, your hair bouncing with every pop of your hips.
“I want everything, anything he’s got,” you continue with newfound confidence. “Lying in the sun, he makes me so hot!”
Suddenly, your songs about true love feel like they could be about more. Jack grinds his teeth together.
After your second song, you take your bow to the uproarious audience. Eric and the boys bound back up on the interview stage, taking their places again on the couch, leaving the spot closest to the host open for you. They’re applauding and smiling, sharing knowing glances between one another. Jack looks on with a stoic face as you wave to the audience, brush your hair out of your face, and step down from the performance stage,crossing the studio floor to the steps of the interview stage. You meet the host at the bottom of the tiny two steps, and he holds out his arm to guide you up. You wave at the audience again as you take your seat. You have to walk in front of Eric and the others, in the narrow space between where their legs are hanging off the edge of the couch and the small coffee table in front of you. A glass of water is waiting for you on the table; the producers always offered guests a drink of their choosing, and all you ever wanted after a performance was to rehydrate. You step around Wes, Donovan, Teddy, and Eric, and Jack catches the way Eric can’t keep his eyes off you as you pass.
Even when you finally sit down, the applause continues. The host takes his seat in the armchair across from you and finally has to motion for the crowd to quiet down.
“Alright, alright, I know you’re all excited, but the network will only let us keep her for her contracted time,” he quips. You laugh politely and take a quick sip of your water. Eric is sitting on your left, and he sets down a pint glass of still-foamy beer at the same moment you return your own glass to the table. You share a quick glance and he offers you a small smile before you return your attention to the host.
“Well, I must admit,” he begins, flipping through a stack of white notecards in his hands, “I did have plenty of questions for you, but right now, the biggest one on my mind is: how does America’s Sweetheart put on a show like that?”
The audience laughs, and you laugh with them.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” you tease back.
“Come on, you looked like a million bucks up there!” the host protests.
“Well, when you’re following such a great act, you’ve really got to bring it,” you smile, turning over your shoulder to give a look to Eric and the others. Eric catches your eye and nods gratefully.
“You were fantastic, really,” he says solemnly. You feel your cheeks heat as you turn back to the host. He asks you a few more questions about your upcoming series of shows along the west coast, starting in San Diego in just a few weeks, and snaking along the ocean through Los Angeles and San Francisco, then up to Portland and ending in Seattle. Finally, after a commercial break, he moves on to the final segment of the interview, where he interviews both parties together. It’s meant to feel more like a casual conversation between artists, and thanks to the eclectic nature of the show’s musical acts, had historically resulted in some pretty compelling television: young pop stars in the throes of stardom in conversation with old jazz icons whose careers had survived the shifting genres of the decades, Motown artists on the rise connecting with rock stars over their shared influence from the same blues music in their youth.
You turn towards the boys on the couch next to you as the host opens up the conversation.
“Now, boys…don’t lie to me,” he teases with a grin. “I watched all of you dash off this stage to go watch her with your mouths hanging open.”
The boys laugh, and you notice Teddy give Eric’s shoulder a light shove, but they don’t deny it.
“What was going through your heads, watching her? Have you seen her perform before?”
Eric clears his throat.
“No, I’m afraid we’ve not ‘ad the pleasure,” he says politely, in that charming accent. “She’s got a great sound, though.”
“Yeah, what’d’you say earlier, Eric?” Teddy teases him. “Voice like an angel, some’fin’ like that?”
Eric's cheeks burn bright red as he punches Teddy in the shoulder. Teddy throws his head back laughing as the audience joins him. You blush, too. Jack’s cheeks heat for entirely different reasons from where he stands in the shadows, watching the whole thing.
The interview continues, and you compliment the boys on their performance.
“You guys are so…alive out there,” you gush. “I love the way you perform.”
“Thank you,” Eric says, taking the lead. “That means a lot, comin’ from you, truly.”
“The name, I have to ask,” the host interjects. “Eric and The Strangers? Where did that come from?”
“Well, we started out as ‘The Glass Houses,’ if y’can believe it,” Donovan quips.
“What happened?” the host presses.
Eric takes another sip of his beer before replying. “This reviewer in the paper, he came to one of our shows, right, and he’s talking to one of our fans. This was maybe, two ‘n a half years ago now? When did we change it?”
“Be three years in August,” Teddy pipes up.
“Right,” Eric replies. “So this review fellow, right, he’s talking to one of our fans–”
“I think it was that first gig we did in London,” Wes adds.
“So he’s talkin’ to this girl, and she compares us to some other group–” Eric continues. He’s cut off again by Teddy.
“The Rooftops!” he barks. “Can y’believe that?”
They way they all talk on top of each other is so cute. On the outside, it looks like chaotic jabbering, but there’s a charm in the practiced way they do it. You can tell this is just who they are– comfortable with each other, ribbing back and forth, each of them sharing one fourth of the same thought at all times.
“But then the repor’er,” Wes pipes up, laughing, “he says, we’re a lit’le diff’rent from those other boy bands. We’re a lit’le stranger.”
The audience laughs.
“But Eric, what, you’re the normal one, we can still use your name?” the host quips back. The audience chuckles again.
“Ah, I try not t’make it a habit to be a stranger to anybody,” he says through a smirk, tossing you a quick wink. You turn away from him, blushing again. You angle your knees in the other direction, pressing them close together to keep yourself decent in front of the cameras. The rest of the interview flies by in a haze, with a few more gentle jokes and comments all around. When the studio band starts to play out the end of the show, Eric stands and holds out a hand to guide you up off the couch.
Jack watches as you take Eric’s hand and smile at him as he helps you stand. Eric brings a hand to your waist and leans in to your ear.
“You’re a fucking star,” he whispers to you, cutting through the noise of the cheering crowd and the band. He leans back and offers you another quick wink and a smile before turning to join his band in waving and walking off stage. You stand there dazed for a second before the host offers you his arm again and prompts you to take your final moment. You wave to the crowd and let him lead you down the stairs to where Jack is waiting for you.
Jack quickly takes his place between you and the crowd, guiding you towards the backstage hallways. He walks with you back to your dressing room, trying to convince himself that your little show for the cameras was just that: a show. When you reach the dressing room, Jack watches as you take your seat at the makeup chair as usual, wetting a cotton pad to begin your usual routine. He sighs.
You meet his eyes in the mirror.
“What’s wrong?” you ask him. You tone is sincere; he looks worn out, unusual for him this early in the evening.
“Nothing,” he lies. “I’m gonna go check on the car, okay?” he asks in a tired voice. Check on the car meant have a cigarette. You knew that much. You nod.
“I’ll get ready,” you reply. You can’t wait to go home and be alone with Jack. He steps out of the room, leaving the door cracked open in his haste. He needs some air and he needs a smoke– the paradoxical manifestation of his frustration amplified by the way those boys were flirting with you. When Jack finally gets to the small loading dock outside of the studio that overlooks the alley, he digs his cigarettes and lighter out of his pants pocket. He puts one of the orange filters between his teeth and returns his silver cigarette case to his pocket, then flicks open his Zippo and lights up, inhaling deeply. He goes to put the lighter into the inside breast pocket of his jacket for easier access, then hears it clink softly against something.
Shit. Jack thinks. He forgot to give you back your ring.
He pulls the cigarette from his lips and shakily exhales a stream of smoke.
He makes a mental note to do it as soon as he gets back inside.
Back in your dressing room, you gently scrub at your eyes with a cotton pad until you’ve removed your mascara, then swipe to remove the rest of your eye makeup. You usually leave venues in oversized sunglasses anyway, hiding your sensitive eyes from the camera flashes sure to blind you on your way out.
You’re just about finished taking off your makeup when you notice a blur quickly pass by your open door.
“Eric!” you call, turning in your chair. The blur returns to your doorway.
“Sorry,” Teddy says with a smile. “Hate t’disappoint.”
“No, no…I just wanted to say it was nice to meet you,” you tell him, rising from your vanity and holding out your hand.
“Teddy, what th’fuck is–oh,” Eric chastises him, barging into your room. “Sorry,” he adds sheepishly.
“Did you find–” Wes is similarly cut off as he realizes he and Donovan are also stepping into your dressing room unannounced. You’ve not even started to undress, but the intimacy of the space and seeing you with your makeup off and your hair down stuns the boys into silence.
“I um, I was just telling Teddy that it was nice to meet you all,” you say quietly. “I don’t really get to do a lot of gigs with other artists. And you guys sounded really great.”
“Thank you,” Teddy smirks. He nudges Eric, who is still silently staring at you. His hair hangs down just barely covering his eyes. You recall the way his hair looked slicked to his temples with sweat after their performance.
“Thank you,” Eric echoes. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offering you one.
“Oh, no thanks,” you politely decline. But you don’t object when he brings the carton up to his mouth, taking one with his teeth and lighting up. Teddy swats at Eric’s shoulder with the back of his hand and Eric passes him the pack without taking his eyes off you. He looks you up and down as Teddy lights his own cigarette.
“You were amazin’,” he says finally.
“Thanks,” you blush again.
“For real, you…y’really got somethin’,” he continues.
“Like what?” you tease, feeling bold. Something about the way all four of them are staring at you, like you’re commanding the whole room, goes straight to your head.
“Like…” Eric exhales smoke, sending a thick cloud through your dressing room. “Like you’re right on the edge. Know wha’ I mean?”
“Alright, honey, you ready–what the fuck?” Jack halts in his tracks when he steps into your room to see the band. Jack’s eyes dart between you and Eric. Teddy chuckles, enjoying the show a little too much.
“Sorry, mate,” Donovan says, landing a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Didn’t mean t’intrude.” He looks around at his bandmates with a silent look that says let’s go. The energy in the room shifts in a way that feels charged. Wes steps out first, for once quiet and compliant, past Jack and into the hallway. Teddy turns towards the door, grabbing Eric by the arm as he does. Donovan steps out, followed by Teddy, until Eric is left facing Jack, his smoldering cigarette between his teeth. He plucks it from his mouth and exhales another stream of smoke, leaning away from Jack as he does. His eyes land on you once more.
“Sorry, again,” he says to Jack. “See y’la’er…honey,” he smirks at you before turning to leave your room at last. Jack watches him strut down the hallway, then swiftly closes the door behind him.
“What was that about?” Jack asks defensively.
“Nothing, I just wanted to say bye to them,” you reply. “Are you ready?”
Your nonchalance catches Jack by surprise.
“You’re not even changed,” he protests. You begin unbuttoning your skirt.
“Well, I’ll be quick,” you grin, letting it drop around your ankles. You step, still in your chunky heels, out of the skirt and towards Jack, now only wearing the top that hugs your cleavage just right and your panties. You lean up and press a quick kiss to his lips before turning and actually beginning to change.
He notices that you don’t ask for your ring back. He has to remind you once you get in the car.
A few weeks go by before you bump into Eric and The Strangers again. This time, you’re at a house in the hills, at a label party hosted by some producer. This label has been eyeing you for some time, and this producer specifically has been reaching out to try and meet up for “just one drink.” You knew he had ambitions of convincing you to sign with him, and you didn’t think it would ever happen, but you didn’t want to miss an opportunity to mingle with fellow musicians. It was the thing you missed most after going solo: the sense of community.
You’re standing on the concrete pool deck in the backyard, holding your empty champagne glass. You wanted a minute away from the chaos of the party, and the quiet of the backyard was perfect. You can’t see any stars with all of the city lights, but you like to look up and imagine them there.
“Hiya, honey,” purrs a British accent behind you. You whirl around, grin plastered across your face.
“Eric!” you light up.
“Oy, izzat our favorite girl?” Wes laughs, bounding up to you.
“You look like y’could use another drink,” Eric offers, nodding to your empty glass. He extends a hand to you and you take it, letting him tug you towards him and back into the house as you laugh. Inside, Eric gets you a fresh glass of champagne then leads you towards a hallway off the kitchen of the house.
“Come on,” he laughs, “you gotta see this.”
He drags you into a bedroom at the top of a flight of stairs and your heart races for a moment. He slides open the glass door to the balcony and extends his arm again to usher you through. You step out onto the balcony, joining the other members of the band, and your breath leaves your lungs as you take in the view. You can see all of Hollywood, including the Hollywood sign, illuminated in the distance. Eric joins you at the railing, leaning on his elbows next to you. The boys are all in their usual suits, though they’re missing their ties, and Eric’s got the top few buttons of his shirt undone. You can see the sweat leaving a shine on his collarbone.
“S’pretty fucking cool, huh?” he quips.
“Yeah…it is.”
Eric stands and Donovan holds his hand out to him. He passes him something that looks like a cigarette but smells worse. Eric takes a drag and then goes to pass it to you.
“Oh– no, thanks,” you say timidly. Eric smiles, then passes it over your shoulder to Wes. You stifle a small cough as he exhales the smoke a little too close to your face.
“How’ve y’been, honey?” Eric asks you, teasing you just a little.
“I’m good…busy. I’m doing my west coast shows,” you try to explain.
“Oh yeah?” he chirps. “That’s right, I ‘member you mentionin’ that. Hey, when are you up in San Francisco?”
Wes hands Eric the cigarette again and he takes another drag as you answer.
“Two weeks. It’s supposed to be a cute little Fourth of July thing,” you explain. He chuckles.
“Cute…” he repeats, eyeing you. You can just barely smell the musk of his cologne under the smoke. “We’re actually playin’ a gig up there on the sixth, you should come ‘round…if you’re plannin’ on stayin’ in town.”
He reaches up to Wes and passes the cigarette back.
Eric is staring at you. His eyes look glassy. There’s something that’s been bothering you since you last ran into the guys.
“Hey. Um. Can I ask you something?” you finally muster.
Wes hands the foul smelling cigarette back to Eric, who takes another puff. Donovan swirls a drink whose ice is barely solid anymore. Teddy sets down a beer bottle and you can tell by its soft clinking sound that it’s empty. You can feel their eyes on you, though your attention is fixed on Eric. The freckles across the tops of his cheeks sit in the same patterns that your imaginary stars do.
“Anythin’,” he says sweetly.
“When we met…you said I was…well, you said I was…right on the edge,” you say, awkwardly repeating his phrase from weeks ago. “What…what does that mean?”
Eric laughs, and the other boys join in. The feeling of all of them laughing at you makes your heart skip a beat and your cheeks warm.
“You’re right on the fuckin’ edge, that’s wha’ that means!” he croons. The others laugh again. “You’re right fuckin’ there, babe, you can do anythin’.”
“You’ve got that sound,” Teddy adds.
“What sound?”
“That million-fuckin’-bucks sound!” Eric exclaims. “Seriously. You’re doin’ that sweet little girl-next-door thing now, but this, rock and roll…that’s the future. And on that TV show, that’s what you’ve got. I saw a girl everyone calls cute and she didn’t look cute, she looked hot, she looked…”
His eyes land on you.
“...sexy.”
The word makes you twist away from him, your cheeks burning as you press your back against the railing of the balcony. Again, Eric offers you the cigarette and again you decline. The boys are laughing loudly now, teasing Eric.
“C’mon mate, we get it,” Wes smirks.
“Look, I’m just bein’ honest!” Eric protests. “Fucking angel, i’n’t she?”
He takes your hand and lifts it, gently prompting you to spin. You’re wearing a very short black skirt with a fringe made to look like piano keys. As Eric swiftly twirls you, he watches the keys flare out and expose more of your thighs. He whistles.
“Gorgeous,” he mutters when he has you standing in place again. The boys laugh once more.
“C’mon, Eric,” Donovan chides him playfully.
“Yeah, ‘sides… and don’t take this the wrong way, mate,” Teddy smirks. “But let’s jus’ say I’m not puttin’ any money on you in a fight wi’that soldier boy of hers.”
Your eyes go wide as the boys laugh once more. You wonder how they could possibly know. The TV show, your soundcheck– maybe they had seen your ring? Your heart races as you try to put together who else might know. Your thoughts are cut off sharply as the boys laugh.
“That boy scout!” Wes howls, taking another drag off the cigarette. It’s really starting to smell now, and you feel a little lightheaded. “You jokin’?! Eric would clobber ‘im!”
“You lot, tryin’ t’get me in trouble,” Eric tsks. He takes the cigarette from Wes without asking and takes another long, deep drag as Wes protests. His eyes stay locked on yours as the lights of Hollywood glitter over his shoulder and the end of the cigarette glows in the darkness. He exhales out the side of his mouth, sending his plume of smoke dancing away into the night sky.
He reaches out and hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your head up slightly.
“Tell your daddy I promise to have you home by ten, princess,” he muses, a mischievous playfulness in his tone.
He quickly thumbs your chin before withdrawing his hand. Your head is spinning. Eric looks you up and down and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You can read the desire in his gaze. The hunger.
It makes you feel so alive. To be so wanted. When he looks at you, he doesn’t see the cute young girl who got her start in a picturesque girl group wearing matching outfits. He doesn’t see America’s Sweetheart. The way he’s looking at you should make you feel objectified. But it just makes you feel…sexy.
You want him to kiss you.
To lean forward and feel his lips on yours, taste the smoke on his tongue. You ball your left hand into a fist, absentmindedly searching for your engagement ring with your thumb. You feel only skin.
Industry party. You left it at home.
You’re saved by the laughter of the boys as they one again rib Eric. He blushes, finally tearing his gaze away from you. You exchange a few more laughs before you excuse yourself, lying about needing to find a bathroom. You know Jack will be looking for you soon, if he isn’t already.
In the car on the way home, Jack is quiet. Your head is starting to clear up, that light, airy feeling dissipating. You get inside and head straight for your jewelry box to replace your engagement ring on your finger. Jack comes up behind you, nearly startling you as you glance up at him in the mirror. You smile sweetly at him.
“Hey,” you whisper. He doesn’t respond. “Everything okay?” you ask in a gentler tone.
“Why do you smell like pot?” he challenges you in a level tone.
“What?” you ask, horrified as you spin on your heel to face him now.
“You reek. I can smell it all over your clothes, your hair…” he continues. “Who were you hanging out with when you snuck off?” he accuses you.
“I did not ‘sneak off!’” you reply hotly.
“Then where were you?!” he snips. “Honey, do you even know what kinda shit happens at these parties? People out here, they’re–”
He draws in a deep breath, cutting himself off. He rubs a hand down his face, then balls it into a tight fist.
“I need a minute,” he mutters.
And without another word, Jack leaves the bedroom. You feel hurt at his accusation, that you would intentionally sneak away from him. The truth was that you needed some air, and Jack had already left you to get himself another drink. You weren’t out in the backyard long before Eric found you.
And you feel dirty at his comments about the drugs. That must’ve been what the boys were passing back and forth. You don’t know what to do. You quickly shed your clothes, angrily tossing them in the hamper, but you don’t feel any cleaner. You flop on the bed, hot tears starting to sting your eyes. You press the heels of your hands into them, blinking away the salty water.
But what feels worse, what feels like the ultimate betrayal, is knowing how close you were to Eric. Knowing that he was flirting with you. Knowing that you liked it. It makes your chest ache. You love Jack. You love Jack. More than anything in the world. So why did you want to kiss Eric? It makes you feel confused and angry at yourself. Your shoulders shake with each quiet sob that escapes you.
Jack takes a few moments to himself in the kitchen. He’s not being fair. He knows that. He’s jealous and he’s taking it out on you. He plants his hands firmly against the stone counter underneath him, the gold band on his left finger glinting in the light. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to slow his heart down and bring rational thought back into his mind. He finally returns to the bedroom to see you, in only your bra and panties, stretched out on the bed, body convulsing gently with the force of your soft sobs. Jack feels an ache in his heart and a deep hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He sits down on the bed next to you and reaches over, trying to stroke your hair. You turn your head away from him before he can make contact.
“Honey…” he coos.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice tiny in the room.
Jack scoots back on the bed so he’s sitting up against the headboard as you shift to your knees, sniffling.
“I’m sorry Jackie, please don’t be mad at me…” you sob, launching yourself into his arms.
“Woah, hey, hey, honey…” he mutters against you. You’re flush to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck. He pulls your behind up into his lap.
“I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry,” you hiccup. “I didn’t mean to sneak off…”
Jack gently holds you, an arm securely around your shoulders drawing you closer to his chest, and the other tucked under your knees, hand resting on your hip, supporting the weight of your legs. He smells like his cologne and sweat and cigarettes. You wonder if you still smell like pot.
“I’m sorry, honey…I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Jack says gently as he rocks you lightly back and forth. Your cries still shake through your body. This is the first real fight you’ve had in a long time…the first one since you’ve been engaged, you’re almost certain of it.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he continues. “It’s not your fault.”
“I just,” you manage to get out in between gasping breaths, “I needed some air and then Eric found me and then I was with them on the balcony and they were smoking and they asked me if I wanted any and I said no but–”
“Shhh, sh, it’s okay,” Jack shushes you. “I was being too harsh on you. I’m sorry,” he says again. The gentle rhythm of his rocking and the soothing sound of his voice finally starts to bring you back down.
“I didn’t mean to sneak off,” you repeat with a sniffle. “Honest.”
“I know you didn’t, baby, I know.”
It feels good when Jack soothes you like this. You don’t know why. But something about the firm gentleness of his voice, the soft touch of his hands…it makes you feel so warm and cradled in his arms.
“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” he murmurs in your ear. “I just get nervous when I don’t know where you are, baby.”
“I was with Eric and the band,” you sniffle pitifully, still clinging to Jack tightly.
“Did they give you anything?” Jack muses, stroking your hair.
“N-no,” you hiccup again. “They offered me something, but I said no.”
“Okay…okay, baby, shhh, shh…”
You can’t hold it back any longer.
“A-and, Eric, he…” You’re gasping for breath around the words.
“Take a deep breath, honey, relax,” Jack coaxes you, rocking you gently in his arms. His soft and loving touch only makes your heart heavier with guilt.
“Eric, he was…he was flirting with me,” you finally sob. “He, he– he was calling me pretty and…and sexy, and…and…and I almost…I’m sorry, Jackie.”
Jack rocks you until your breath evens out, quietly thinking. When you can finally breathe normally, you sit back a bit. Jack looks at you, tears staining your cheeks, makeup a mess. He gently wipes some of the mascara from under your eyes with his thumb.
“What happened, baby?” he asks gently. “Did he touch you?”
“N-no,” you manage to get out. “No. But he was…he was really close to me, and I could tell he wanted to kiss me…”
Jack watches you trail off, hesitant to finish the thought.
“Did you want him to kiss you?” he offers, his voice soft. You squeeze your eyes shut, more tears running down your cheeks as you nod. Jack wipes your face again and holds you to his chest again as you get out a few more sniffles.
“I’m sorry, Jackie…I still love you...promise…” you whimper. “I don’t know what…why…”
Jack smiles to himself.
“Honey…” he begins, leaning back from you again. “Do you still wanna marry me?”
“Yes,” you cry. “Yes, I do!”
Jack chuckles.
“Honey, you wanting Eric to kiss you doesn’t mean you don’t love me,” he says in a clear voice.
“But it felt so…scary,” you admit. “To want someone…someone else.”
Jack considers you for a second.
“Baby, when we play,” he starts. “And I’m pretending to be someone else…does it mean you really wish I was someone else?”
You think about it for a second.
“N-no…” you admit.
“Sweetheart,” Jack chuckles. “He’s a rockstar. Of course you like him.” You blush.
“I don’t–”
“It’s okay,” Jack cuts you off. “I love you, honey.”
He leans in and peppers gentle, feather-light kisses to your cheeks, your eyes, your neck. You lean back and let him press his lips to the skin of your throat, sighing softly under his touch.
“I- I love you, too,” you whimper.
“I’m sorry for yelling,” he repeats, pressing another soft kiss to your collarbone. “I’m not mad at you, honey.”
He dances his fingertips across your skin, skimming your thighs, your hips, your stomach. You squirm at the teasing touch of his fingers.
“Jaaaack,” you whine. “Do you wanna play?” you whisper.
Jack brushes a bit of hair from your eyes. His expression is soft.
“I wanna be with you, honey,” he says gently. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips. Your eyes flutter closed as you kiss him, tasting and smelling and feeling him. He rubs his hands over your shoulders and down your arms, gently resting his fingertips on your back. When he finally leans back again, his eyes are pleading.
“I just wanna be with you,” he repeats. “Yeah? Can you do that?”
You can feel your cheeks get warm and you nod, blinking away the last of your tears. Jack shifts and gently lays you back on the bed, one of his big hands guiding your shoulder down. The way he’s looking at you makes you fold your arms over your midsection and turn to the side.
“No, honey…please,” he whispers, gently pulling you back into place underneath him. Hearing Jack use the word please makes your heart flutter. “Please, sweetheart…let me see you…”
He’s so sweet it makes your chest feel like it might explode.
“Tell me what to do,” you say in a quiet voice, almost out of habit.
Jack presses a kiss on your sternum.
“We’re not playing, honey,” he reminds you before moving on to your navel. “You don’t have to do anything.”
He kisses the skin just above the lacy hem of your panties before hooking his thumbs into the leg holes and rolling them down your thighs. Jack removes them and sets them aside. It’s odd not to see him shove them down his pants, put them in a pocket, sniff them, stuff them in your mouth.
You try to keep your knees together, but Jack brings his palms back to your inner thighs, spreading you open. You wiggle and squirm, flexing your hips as you feel the pressure of Jack stretching you out. It feels deep and almost painful in your hips. You whine softly.
“Shhh, shh, I got you, sweetheart,” Jack muses, massaging your flesh gently.
“Jack…” you whimper. It feels so good to use his real name. It’s been a little while since you had sex without playing.
“You’re so beautiful, baby,” Jack mumbles, moving over you. He reaches around behind you and unhooks your bra, helping you shed that as well. “God, there’s my pretty girl.”
You squirm a little against the mattress. You love when Jack calls you beautiful and pretty. But there’s some nagging part of you that wants…more.
“Am- am I sexy, Jack?” you whisper. He stares down at you, his eyes half-lidded.
“You’re so gorgeous, honey, love you so much…” he breathes in your ear, leaning over you.
It still doesn’t feel like enough. But you can’t protest when Jack brings his hand down to rub against you.
“What do you want, baby?” he asks you breathlessly.
“You, I want you,” you beg. Jack chuckles.
“You want me, sweetheart?” he smiles. You nod. “Well, I’m right here, honey.” He leans down and kisses you again.
You bring your fingers to rest on his belt buckle.
“Can you…ugh, you’re teasing,” you accuse him. He laughs.
“Sorry, honey, not trying to tease you,” he says gently, starting to undo his belt. He presses soft little kisses to your cheeks as he removes his belt and tugs off his shirt. He kisses you again and you whine. He finally strips down to his boxers and rubs his clothed bulge against your thigh.
“You want me?” he repeats, breathless.
“You, Jack, I want you,” you sigh. He finally obliges, freeing his cock and rubbing himself in your slick.
“I want you, too, honey,” he purrs. “I love you.”
“I lo-oove you,” you whine as Jack slowly pushes in. The stretch feels incredible. He knows you like the abrupt, full feeling of him inside of you, so recently, Jack has been slowly working you up to a certain level of tolerance, gradually reducing the number of times he would make you take his fingers before filling you up. And it was so worth it.
His breath is hot against your neck as he pants against your skin, already dotted with sweat. He notices that your hair still smells like pot, but it somehow feels comforting to him, knowing that you’re so close that your presence is flooding his senses.
“God, you feel so good,” Jack moans. You’re digging your nails into his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto. Your cheeks burn as you squirm underneath Jack. It’s so hard to feel him looking at you. You turn your face to the side, squeaking.
“Shhhh, shhh, I know, honey, I know it’s hard, hey,” he says gently before grabbing your chin with his fingers. He delicately turns your head so you’re facing him again. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just breathe.”
You inhale deeply, your breath just slightly hitching as Jack readjusts his hips against you.
“I- I love you,” you whisper to him. He rolls his hips against you and you whimper, but do your best to stay focused on him.
“I love you too, honey bunny,” he says softly.
You don’t think you’ll last long. The feeling of Jack’s length dragging against your walls combined with the overwhelming eye contact already has you weak.
“J-j…Jack…” you whine. “Ca-can you touch me? Please?”
Jack grins and brings his fingers to your lips.
“Help me out, baby,” he tells you. You open your mouth and let him wet his fingertips on your tongue before he brings them down to rub your clit. You buck your hips at the extra stimulation, and feel Jack hit a spot even deeper inside of you.
“Ah- ah, Jack, Jack, pleaseee,” you whimper.
“You still wanna be my girl, right?” he asks, drawing his hips back slowly.
“Y-yes! Yes, God, Jack, yes,” you babble. He snaps his hips up into you again and rolls his thumb against your clit. You cry out at how unbelievably good it feels to give all of your attention to Jack– how he’s touching you, what he feels like inside of you, the idea of being his, only his, forever.
“And you’re gonna let me put a baby in here one day, right?” he breathes, resting one big hand over your tummy. “Gonna let me build us a life together?”
“Y-yes, yes, pleeeaseee, God!” you sob.
“You want all that, honey? House with a white fence,” he pants, picking up his rhythm just a bit. “Backyard…little feet running across the floor…”
“Jack, I want it, I want it…” you cry. “Can you try right now?” you beg him, clawing at his shoulders. He laughs.
“You-mmph-” Jack groans as he readjusts, feeling you squeeze him. “You want me to try right now? Give you a little baby?” he teases you.
“Yesss, yes, please!”
The idea of little boys who look like Jack and little girls who look like you running around a sunlit house in the suburbs on a summer morning makes you feel faint.
“Are you still taking your pill?” he whispers to you. He knows that, even without playing, your mind isn’t being entirely objective in this moment. You nod.
“Y-yes, yes, but try,” you plead with him. “Give it to me, please?”
You whine and paw at his chest. Your eyes are enormous and glassy with desire. Jack loves the needy version of you that emerges when you talk like this.
“God, baby, you’re so cute like this,” Jack huffs.
“N-not cute!” you whine. “Sexy, say I’m sexy, please…”
Jack's heart dissolves.
“Sexy, you’re so sexy, honey,” he breathes. “You’re so fuckin’ hot.”
Hearing Jack finally use that word makes you melt in his hands as he leans down to kiss your neck. He gently nips at your collarbone, making you gasp. You feel him drive his hips up a few more times, bringing you right to the edge.
His soft whines in your ear are what send you over.
You cry out as you cum, digging your nails deeper into Jack’s skin. He winces at the pain.
“God, honey- fuck,” he whimpers. He wraps an arm around your waist and holds you close as you feel his cock twitch inside of you. Jack moans as he cums, and the warm feeling of his release in your womb makes your head feel airy and light.
Jack doesn’t move for a second, just collapses against your sternum as you both breathe heavily. He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone. Your mind is still swirling with images of your little house in the suburbs, sunshine streaming through the window and a record playing as Jack brings you breakfast in bed.
You wince as Jack pulls out, feeling his cum rush out of you and drip down towards the sheets.
Jack quickly returns with a warm washcloth to help you clean up as he peppers more kisses to your cheeks. When you’re both comfortable again, relaxing in bed, his fingers tangled in your hair, your cheek flush to his chest, you remember what started your little argument. That floaty, dizzy feeling you had at the party around Eric wasn’t too far from the feeling you can still feel rippling through your body from being with Jack.
“Jack,” you ask him. “How do you know what pot smells like?”
He chuckles softly at you.
“Honey, you know I worked for the FBI before I met you,” he says.
“Did you arrest bad guys?” you ask him.
“Well, not arrest,” he replies. You twist in the sheets, laying a hand on his bare chest and tracing little heart shapes with one nail against his skin. Jack loves the way the gentle scratching sensation feels on his chest.
“Did you beat them up?” you tease him, a grin creeping across your face.
“Sometimes,” he smiles back. You hum gently, your eyes still locked on his.
“D’you think we could…I mean, I’ve never…” You can’t get the question out. It sounds so silly. Jack studies you, propping himself up on one elbow.
“You’ve never…what, baby?” he teases you, grinning. He loves how cute you are when you get tongue-tied.
“I’ve never…done it before,” you admit quietly. “Have you?”
Jack chuckles.
“Just a handful of times,” he replies. “While I was undercover.”
“Is it…what is it like?” you ask him. Your eyes are enormous; Jack feels his heart pumping in his chest. So cute.
“You wanna try it, baby?” he muses. He didn’t think it was possible, but your eyes seem to go even wider.
“Really?”
“We could smoke…if you want to,” he adds. He almost can’t believe you’re asking. You hate cigarettes, and this is the first time Jack has even heard you mention drugs.
“Only if you think it would be…okay,” you reply, trying not to betray your trepidation. You are curious, but you’re nervous too.
“Of course, baby,” he reassures you. “I’ll be with you.”
You sigh contentedly, snuggling into his chest. Jack studies your features, taking in the glow that seems to illuminate your face in your post-orgasm haze.
“There’s something else, too, honey…if you want to…” Jack cautiously begins.
“Mmm?” you hum sleepily.
“You know,” he continues. “A lot of people who… play like we do…they sometimes invite someone else to play with them.”
You sit up, alert now.
“Huh?” you ask him.
“If you want to,” he says softly, holding your gaze, “we could talk about how you could play with Eric.”
You’re stunned.
“Bu-but…but I love you,” you insist, that confused and angry feeling starting to creep back into your body.
“You do love me,” Jack reassures you, brushing some of your hair out of your eyes. “And I love you, baby. But Eric…Eric gives you some things that I can’t.”
It makes your heart feel like it’s splintering into a thousand pieces.
“No, Jack–”
“Shh. Honey, let me finish,” he says, his voice firm but gentle. “He’s a musician, just like you. He’s in the public eye, just like you. And you said he likes you?”
You nod silently, unable to meet his eye.
“I hate taking my ring off,” Jack says, his voice dropping to an even lower volume. “Every time we leave the house. Do you remember when we went to that awards show a few months ago, baby?” he asks. Again you nod. “Well, I was there with you, but it killed me that I couldn’t be there with you. Do you know what I mean?”
You nod again. It does hurt when you have to put your ring in the jewelry box before you go out. You don’t necessarily need to shout your love from the rooftops, but it does hurt that you can’t even be seen out in a romantic way with Jack. That you can’t even wear your ring to an industry party for fear of raising suspicion.
“And he’s your age,” Jack continues.
“Jack, that doesn’t–” you protest quickly.
“Shh,” he silences you again. “It does matter, baby. How many guys your age have you been with?” he prods gently. You glance away. “And how many have you actually liked? You like him, right?”
You nod. It’s hard to do. It still feels like betrayal.
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, honey,” Jack starts. “But what I am saying is that…if you like him, and he likes you…and you want to play with him…it doesn’t mean you love me any less, okay?”
You can’t contain it anymore. You wrap your arms around Jack’s neck and hide in his chest as tears prick at your eyes. It’s not sadness; you don’t really know what it is. But it’s an enormous feeling. You hear Jack’s heart thumping steadily under his ribcage as he plants a kiss on top of your head.
“Can we…can we talk about it?” you ask in a whisper.
“Yeah…’course we can, honey. Of course we can.”
thank you for reading! read the full be my baby series here. please reblog if you like what you read; it keeps writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!
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patrick sumner x ballerina!reader
wc: 1.2k
warnings: intox, drugging, noncon, fingering, mention of prostitution
author's note: happy birthday to @remmickstalker !!! i know you love patrick as much as the rest of us gooners in the dead dove thread so i hope everyone enjoys this little fic that took me 3 months to get on paper! grma enjoy
Patrick places a cup of tea in your hands. It warms your cold fingers as you hold it.
“That should settle your nerves. We need to gradually warm up your body,” he explains, sitting across from you.
You take a long drink, feeling the warmth rush through your body. He’s placed a blanket around your shoulders.
“Dr. Sumner, I-I apologise-”
“My dear,” he begins softly. “You fainted. It is my duty as a physician.”
He always knows what you need to hear, your gentle doctor. Even so desperate for money as you were, you had your anxieties about living with a man, especially a bachelor with such a shrouded past. But you’ve come to trust Patrick like family, letting him guide you through life with his experienced hand. He had come to your rehearsal this afternoon, providing his much needed medical assistance to your struggling sisters and their aching feet. You had overworked yourself and fainted, and though you wanted to continue dancing that day, Patrick would not let you.
His eyes spy your feet in the oversized boots you so often wear.
“May I help you?” he offers.
“Oh, yes, please.”
He kneels before you and sees your rehearsal shoes are still on, the dainty blush coloured ribbons tied above the top of the boots. His careful fingers untie the laces and gingerly pull each of your feet out. He rotates your ankle and sees a blood stain at the heel.
He looks up at you.
“It is an old stain, sir,” you explain.
“You have no need to call me sir, my girl,” he says softly.
“But Doctor-”
“Patrick,” he repeats.
“Patrick,” you whisper.
He unties the ribbons and watches them flutter down to the floor. He easily slips off your slippers, seeing the unfortunate state of your poor aching feet.
You’ve been drinking your tea like a good patient, and as you take the last sip you blink slowly.
“Doctor- Patrick… I think I should get to sleep,” you mumble.
“Are you feeling faint again?” he feigns concern for you, coming to your side to catch your head before it falls.
“No, I… I am so exhausted…”
“We should get you out of these wet clothes, sweet girl.”
You nod absently, allowing him to peel the blanket away from your shoulders. He is careful and slow, freeing your body from the thin fabric of your leotard. He admires your damp skin, the way the candles make you glow.
Before long your beautiful face is taken by a laudanum sleep. A soft smile dances over his own face at the sight. Peaceful. Graceful, even with no control over yourself.
He peels the fabric further, exposing your chest. Your nipples have hardened to small peaks in the softness of your breasts. Your body reflects the temperature of the cold evening air rushing in through the window. The curtain waves softly with the wind, like your long skirts when you twirl on the stage.
You are like a spinning figurine in a music box to him. Fortified by the wooden walls, but fragile and breakable. He can only clutch the box to his chest for so long.
Patrick can’t keep you from the men who come into the home you share, where you are safe from wickedness. He feels ill as you invite them in, with your doe eyes and sweet voice. You make yourself small and call them sir. That word should be reserved exclusively for him. Even in his anger, Patrick examines them. He is diligent in preventing disease. They hand you dirty coins— wrinkled bills if you are lucky— and take you to your bedroom.
Patrick cleans the mattress as often as he can, and cleans you frequently. You must not catch sickness and you cannot be pregnant. Not with one of these men. The son of a half-witted sailor who cannot even read. Not when he is here.
Patrick has no desire for a family. You are enough to take care of. There is a yearning for companionship he has always had. He knows what he feels for you is not love, but rather that biological imperative, the hand of manhood that guides him toward the roles of father and husband.
He hears you with them. He listens to you from the hall, taking his pipe and biting down on the wood until he can hear it splinter between his molars. A whore would moan falsely, but your noises are painfully real. Your winces of pain and fear leave him stiff in his trousers and shaking with anger.
He would never hurt you. The pain of doing such a thing would be unbearable. The men, however, have gotten precisely what was coming to them.
You’re safe now in his careful embrace. He wipes the sweat and sadness from you with a wet towel, the steam rising from your skin as he swipes it along. At long last the leotard is pulled down your legs and hung over the back of a chair to dry. He returns to you, parts your thighs, and sighs. This is home. The patch of curled hair between your legs that demurely covers your honeypot is where he feels the most safe. His fingers trace the shape of your mound.
Even in that deep laudanum spell you stir, your hips tilting up ever so slightly. Your unconscious mind saying yes, doctor, and more, please.
He spreads your folds cautiously, finding you wet and wanting already. You’re so good to him. He whispers a soft praise and glances up to see no change in your face. He pushes one digit in, pumping it back and forth to collect as much of your slick as he can. Another finger slips in beside the first with a pleasing squelch.
If he was a less composed man he would dive down and indulge, but he remains level-headed. He cannot deny that your feminine musk is tempting. It would be the sweetest distilled spirit straight from the source.
Instead, he opts to rub your glistening pearl with his thumb in leisurely circles. He watches the subtle twitches in your face and pays particular attention to the clenching of your cunt around his two digits. Perfect. Pristine. There is such a grace and precision to your movement that Patrick thinks for a moment that you were born a ballerina.
The added stimulation has sweat beading at your brow and your fingers almost succeeding at grasping the blanket below you. Your back arches slightly. Perhaps his dosage was too low. He’ll dress you and craft a story to make you seem like the lascivious one. That he was helping you to undress when you reached for his touch and begged him to kiss you.
You gasp suddenly— it’s the first noise he’s heard from you since your eyes closed. You whine and twist as much as you can. He watches the rush of slick that follows and internally curses. What a bloody waste. He could have been on his knees to catch it in his mouth and let it soak into his beard.
He slips out his fingers and wipes them on his trousers. Not yet. He needs you to be awake when he tastes you. He crawls up and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.
bodyguard!jack solomon x singer!reader | masterlist
It's 1962, you're the queen of the radio, on the cover of every magazine, and in a new city every night. Men want you and women want to be you, but all you want is your bodyguard, Jack Solomon.
SIDE A
TRACK 1 (FOREVER - THE MARVELETTES)
TRACK 2 (SOLDIER BOY - THE SHIRELLES)
TRACK 3 (BIG GIRLS DON'T CRY - THE FOUR SEASONS)
TRACK 4 (YOU BELONG TO ME - THE DUPREES)
TRACK 5 (MERRY TWISTMAS - THE MARCELS)
TRACK 6 (YOU BEAT ME TO THE PUNCH - MARY WELLS) feat. @roomiesoreo
TRACK 7 (THAT'S AMORE - CONNIE FRANCIS)
TRACK 8 (BABY DON'T GO - THE SUPREMES) feat. @roomiesoreo
SIDE B
TRACK 9 - (I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU - DUSTY SPRINGFIELD) feat. @roomiesoreo
Track Nine: I Only Want To Be With You - Dusty Springfield
hi tumblrinas! it's been a minute. i've been busy with life...and with writing this! and for once, i can tell you to expect another installment posthaste because this was actually too long to post as one chapter hahaha. endless thanks to abhi @scannainscanrula for creating such fun barbie dolls and for letting me bring my own into the sandbox. grma mo phéist.
part of the BE MY BABY! au
bodyguard!jack solomon x reader
wc: 9.1k
warnings: bdsm dynamics, piv sex, breeding kink, fingering, creampie, talk of polyamory, substance use (weed)
the british invasion shakes up your world....and gives jack an idea.
They’re so cute in their matching suits.
You watch the young men on stage from one of the audience seats that will soon be occupied by fans. They’re running their soundcheck before you, letting the camera operators determine their angles and the lighting guys adjust theirs. You’re both appearing on a variety performance this evening that will be broadcast live in front of a live studio audience. This type of gig is always a little nerve-wracking for you; trying to play to the live audience and the camera is hard, and you often feel overwhelmed trying to give a good show to everyone, including the millions of people you can’t see, watching you on television screens around the country.
But they make it look so easy. And sure, the cameras aren’t live, and there’s no one in the seats except for you. But you can’t stop watching them as they bounce and bop around the stage, their haircuts just slightly too long to be the boy-next-door type.
Eric, the lead guitarist and vocalist, sings with such passion and electricity, even in the empty studio. Teddy, the drummer, also stands out; usually bass and drums have a tendency to fade into the background of a group, overshadowed by guitarists and singers and their egos. But you love the way Teddy drives the song, firmly setting the rhythm of the song, guiding the others through it and showing off his technical prowess with perfectly timed moments of flourish. Wes, the rhythm guitarist, dances around Eric with a flamboyant pomp. Donovan, the bassist, seems the most reserved of the group, but still stamps and tosses his head around in time with the music.
When the boys are done with their soundcheck, they set down their instruments so the crew can turn over the stage for yours. During the show, they’ll be interviewed as the stage is reset, then you’ll perform and join them on the couch with the host for your own interview.
You watch as they head backstage, nudging each other, chatting. You stand up out of the cushioned seat and glance at the stage. The roadies are still packing up. You decide to follow them backstage. A quick hello couldn’t hurt; you didn’t like the idea of meeting them for the first time on that interview couch, and you figure you have a few more minutes before you’re due for your soundcheck.
You turn down the narrow backstage hallways, quickly trying to find their dressing room. You turn down a hallway away from your own dressing room and find the boys, their backs to you as they continue their jaunt.
“Hey!” you call out.
They stop and turn to face you. They’re all so much more handsome up close. You can feel yourself blush a little under their gaze. Eric smiles.
They all look fairly similar– four British boys in matching black suits with shaggy haircuts. A few noticeable differences set them apart. Donovan is the tallest. Teddy’s hair is a sandy brunette, lighter than the rest of the boys’ dark color. Wes’s hair is the shortest, more of an overgrown crew cut than a true moptop. And Eric has the faintest dusting of freckles on the tops of his cheeks.
“Oh, hey,” he says casually. His British accent nearly makes your knees buckle. “You’re on next, yeah?”
“Y-yeah, I just wanted to say–”
You’re cut off by Jack coming up behind you.
“There you are, they’re–”
And he’s cut off when he turns the corner and sees the way Eric is looking at you. He clears his throat.
“They’re looking for you,” he says in a low voice. It’s his bodyguard voice, the one he uses when he can’t trust himself to be impersonal about you. The one he uses when he can feel the line of protective bodyguard and protective fiancé becoming incredibly thin.
“Okay,” you reply quietly, quickly glancing at him. You take a deep breath, then shift your attention back to Eric and the others. “I just wanted to say, you guys sounded really good out there,” you finish with a smile.
“Thanks, love,” Eric replies with a grin.
You don’t let them see your reaction to the pet name as you quickly turn and walk with Jack towards the stage. Jack studies your face, your flushed cheeks and the ghost of a smile across your lips, as you wind down the hallways. When you land back in the studio, you take the stage and Jack takes his place against the wall, between the stage and where the audience will be. It was his usual post for your television appearances, giving him the best view of the room without the risk of being noticed too much.
The soundcheck goes fine. You feel fine. You think again about the cute British boys backstage. You can do this.
It’ll be fine.
“Eric and The Strangers, everybody!” the host croons, motioning to his left. The camera quickly cuts to the boys on stage, who jump immediately into their first song. You watch them on the small television in your dressing room as Jack absentmindedly flips through the newspaper on the couch next to you. You can tell he’s itching for a cigarette, and will probably step out at some point to sneak a quick smoke break. As much as you hated his cigarettes, there was something irresistible about the way Jack would come back smelling faintly of smoke when you had finished changing after a show.
You watch as the camera catches every vibrant movement of the boys on stage. They’re less stationary than a traditional boy group. They don’t stand still at their microphones– they stomp and swing and feel the music in their bodies. And Eric? Eric commands the stage, even more alive than when you’d seen him before. His voice rasps just the right amount, hitting high notes with the slightest bit of an edgy, scratchy tone. Teddy’s grin lights up his face as his sticks dance along the cymbals. Donovan, the bassist, sways in rhythm with the deep bassline he plucks and the rhythm guitarist, Wes, falls into a playful game of cat-and-mouse on stage with Eric that only makes you more hyperfocused on their energy.
When they finish, the crowd erupts into cheers. The boys play another song to more thunderous applause.
“Somethin’s wrong with my head, feels so dizzy,” Eric sings into his mic. Teddy leans up to the microphone positioned over his drum kit to support him on the backing vocals. “Got girls all around, but just too busy.”
You watch as Wes joins Eric at his mic, leaning in to share it.
“I just need a darlin’ to call my own,” they harmonize. “Little sugar waitin’ for me at home…”
The crowd
As they wind down, Jack folds up the paper and finally looks at you.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah…” you trail off.
“You’ll be fine,” he assures you, resting one hand on your knee. He draws his thumb in circles on your knee. “You’ll be great, baby.”
You look up at him and smile. He stands and holds out his hand to help you off the couch. You take his hand and he gently pulls you up. You watch his brows draw together subtly as he looks at your hand.
“What?” you ask him, suddenly worried.
“Your ring, baby…” he says softly. “You didn’t leave it at home?”
You lift your hand out of his and hold it up. Your engagement ring glitters on your finger. You must’ve forgotten to leave it in your jewelry box before you went out for the day. Suddenly, you’re extremely grateful that the only people who saw your soundcheck were Jack, the technicians, and one of the show’s producers who seemed more occupied with whatever papers he had in his briefcase than he was with your performance.
“Oh,” you breathe. “I forgot.”
It drives a tiny splinter through your heart as you wiggle it off your finger in front of Jack. He holds out his hand.
“Want me to keep it safe for you?” he offers gently.
“Are you sure it won’t get lost?” you ask fretfully.
Jack holds open the left breast of his jacket, showing you the tiny pocket in the lining.
“I’ll keep it right by my heart,” he says with a sweet smile. “It’ll never get lost.”
You smile and drop the ring into his hand. He quickly tucks it into his pocket and you hear a soft clink. Jack leans in and plants a swift kiss on your cheek, then whispers in your ear:
“It’s where I keep mine.”
You could pass out from the idea of your ring in his pocket, above his beating heart, next to the gold band you had insisted on buying for him. The heat of your secret burning just underneath the fabric of Jack’s suit jacket.
He takes your hand and leads you to the door of your dressing room. When you step out into the hallway, your fiancé is gone, and Jack, your bodyguard, leads you to your place for the top of your performance.
“Break a leg,” he says in a professional tone. But what he means is I love you. You can hear it in between his words. You can see it in his eyes.
He takes his place in the studio, quickly scanning the audience. Eric and the rest of the band move from the small interview couch on the adjacent studio stage so they can watch you perform, clustering behind one of the cameras.
You take the stage.
You know you need to give a good show to follow Eric and the boys; you can feel the energy they injected into the crowd. You want to deliver, and something about your usual act feels…underwhelming now. Sure, you could deliver your usual cutesy, catchy performance. But you know it would only be met with polite applause, anemic cheers in contrast with the raucous uproar left in the wake of your inadvertent openers.
You toss your hair with a flourish as your band starts to play. You and your background singers bop and sway in time with the music, but you add a little more swish to the swing of your hips, flaring your skirt up a little more than normal. Jack notices.
The crowd does, too.
“That boy, he’s my baby, my everything,” you sing. “Swear one day he’s gonna give me his ring!”
You shoot a sultry look at the camera. Eric grins from behind the camera as you glance his way, dancing and singing, your hair bouncing with every pop of your hips.
“I want everything, anything he’s got,” you continue with newfound confidence. “Lying in the sun, he makes me so hot!”
Suddenly, your songs about true love feel like they could be about more. Jack grinds his teeth together.
After your second song, you take your bow to the uproarious audience. Eric and the boys bound back up on the interview stage, taking their places again on the couch, leaving the spot closest to the host open for you. They’re applauding and smiling, sharing knowing glances between one another. Jack looks on with a stoic face as you wave to the audience, brush your hair out of your face, and step down from the performance stage,crossing the studio floor to the steps of the interview stage. You meet the host at the bottom of the tiny two steps, and he holds out his arm to guide you up. You wave at the audience again as you take your seat. You have to walk in front of Eric and the others, in the narrow space between where their legs are hanging off the edge of the couch and the small coffee table in front of you. A glass of water is waiting for you on the table; the producers always offered guests a drink of their choosing, and all you ever wanted after a performance was to rehydrate. You step around Wes, Donovan, Teddy, and Eric, and Jack catches the way Eric can’t keep his eyes off you as you pass.
Even when you finally sit down, the applause continues. The host takes his seat in the armchair across from you and finally has to motion for the crowd to quiet down.
“Alright, alright, I know you’re all excited, but the network will only let us keep her for her contracted time,” he quips. You laugh politely and take a quick sip of your water. Eric is sitting on your left, and he sets down a pint glass of still-foamy beer at the same moment you return your own glass to the table. You share a quick glance and he offers you a small smile before you return your attention to the host.
“Well, I must admit,” he begins, flipping through a stack of white notecards in his hands, “I did have plenty of questions for you, but right now, the biggest one on my mind is: how does America’s Sweetheart put on a show like that?”
The audience laughs, and you laugh with them.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” you tease back.
“Come on, you looked like a million bucks up there!” the host protests.
“Well, when you’re following such a great act, you’ve really got to bring it,” you smile, turning over your shoulder to give a look to Eric and the others. Eric catches your eye and nods gratefully.
“You were fantastic, really,” he says solemnly. You feel your cheeks heat as you turn back to the host. He asks you a few more questions about your upcoming series of shows along the west coast, starting in San Diego in just a few weeks, and snaking along the ocean through Los Angeles and San Francisco, then up to Portland and ending in Seattle. Finally, after a commercial break, he moves on to the final segment of the interview, where he interviews both parties together. It’s meant to feel more like a casual conversation between artists, and thanks to the eclectic nature of the show’s musical acts, had historically resulted in some pretty compelling television: young pop stars in the throes of stardom in conversation with old jazz icons whose careers had survived the shifting genres of the decades, Motown artists on the rise connecting with rock stars over their shared influence from the same blues music in their youth.
You turn towards the boys on the couch next to you as the host opens up the conversation.
“Now, boys…don’t lie to me,” he teases with a grin. “I watched all of you dash off this stage to go watch her with your mouths hanging open.”
The boys laugh, and you notice Teddy give Eric’s shoulder a light shove, but they don’t deny it.
“What was going through your heads, watching her? Have you seen her perform before?”
Eric clears his throat.
“No, I’m afraid we’ve not ‘ad the pleasure,” he says politely, in that charming accent. “She’s got a great sound, though.”
“Yeah, what’d’you say earlier, Eric?” Teddy teases him. “Voice like an angel, some’fin’ like that?”
Eric's cheeks burn bright red as he punches Teddy in the shoulder. Teddy throws his head back laughing as the audience joins him. You blush, too. Jack’s cheeks heat for entirely different reasons from where he stands in the shadows, watching the whole thing.
The interview continues, and you compliment the boys on their performance.
“You guys are so…alive out there,” you gush. “I love the way you perform.”
“Thank you,” Eric says, taking the lead. “That means a lot, comin’ from you, truly.”
“The name, I have to ask,” the host interjects. “Eric and The Strangers? Where did that come from?”
“Well, we started out as ‘The Glass Houses,’ if y’can believe it,” Donovan quips.
“What happened?” the host presses.
Eric takes another sip of his beer before replying. “This reviewer in the paper, he came to one of our shows, right, and he’s talking to one of our fans. This was maybe, two ‘n a half years ago now? When did we change it?”
“Be three years in August,” Teddy pipes up.
“Right,” Eric replies. “So this review fellow, right, he’s talking to one of our fans–”
“I think it was that first gig we did in London,” Wes adds.
“So he’s talkin’ to this girl, and she compares us to some other group–” Eric continues. He’s cut off again by Teddy.
“The Rooftops!” he barks. “Can y’believe that?”
They way they all talk on top of each other is so cute. On the outside, it looks like chaotic jabbering, but there’s a charm in the practiced way they do it. You can tell this is just who they are– comfortable with each other, ribbing back and forth, each of them sharing one fourth of the same thought at all times.
“But then the repor’er,” Wes pipes up, laughing, “he says, we’re a lit’le diff’rent from those other boy bands. We’re a lit’le stranger.”
The audience laughs.
“But Eric, what, you’re the normal one, we can still use your name?” the host quips back. The audience chuckles again.
“Ah, I try not t’make it a habit to be a stranger to anybody,” he says through a smirk, tossing you a quick wink. You turn away from him, blushing again. You angle your knees in the other direction, pressing them close together to keep yourself decent in front of the cameras. The rest of the interview flies by in a haze, with a few more gentle jokes and comments all around. When the studio band starts to play out the end of the show, Eric stands and holds out a hand to guide you up off the couch.
Jack watches as you take Eric’s hand and smile at him as he helps you stand. Eric brings a hand to your waist and leans in to your ear.
“You’re a fucking star,” he whispers to you, cutting through the noise of the cheering crowd and the band. He leans back and offers you another quick wink and a smile before turning to join his band in waving and walking off stage. You stand there dazed for a second before the host offers you his arm again and prompts you to take your final moment. You wave to the crowd and let him lead you down the stairs to where Jack is waiting for you.
Jack quickly takes his place between you and the crowd, guiding you towards the backstage hallways. He walks with you back to your dressing room, trying to convince himself that your little show for the cameras was just that: a show. When you reach the dressing room, Jack watches as you take your seat at the makeup chair as usual, wetting a cotton pad to begin your usual routine. He sighs.
You meet his eyes in the mirror.
“What’s wrong?” you ask him. You tone is sincere; he looks worn out, unusual for him this early in the evening.
“Nothing,” he lies. “I’m gonna go check on the car, okay?” he asks in a tired voice. Check on the car meant have a cigarette. You knew that much. You nod.
“I’ll get ready,” you reply. You can’t wait to go home and be alone with Jack. He steps out of the room, leaving the door cracked open in his haste. He needs some air and he needs a smoke– the paradoxical manifestation of his frustration amplified by the way those boys were flirting with you. When Jack finally gets to the small loading dock outside of the studio that overlooks the alley, he digs his cigarettes and lighter out of his pants pocket. He puts one of the orange filters between his teeth and returns his silver cigarette case to his pocket, then flicks open his Zippo and lights up, inhaling deeply. He goes to put the lighter into the inside breast pocket of his jacket for easier access, then hears it clink softly against something.
Shit. Jack thinks. He forgot to give you back your ring.
He pulls the cigarette from his lips and shakily exhales a stream of smoke.
He makes a mental note to do it as soon as he gets back inside.
Back in your dressing room, you gently scrub at your eyes with a cotton pad until you’ve removed your mascara, then swipe to remove the rest of your eye makeup. You usually leave venues in oversized sunglasses anyway, hiding your sensitive eyes from the camera flashes sure to blind you on your way out.
You’re just about finished taking off your makeup when you notice a blur quickly pass by your open door.
“Eric!” you call, turning in your chair. The blur returns to your doorway.
“Sorry,” Teddy says with a smile. “Hate t’disappoint.”
“No, no…I just wanted to say it was nice to meet you,” you tell him, rising from your vanity and holding out your hand.
“Teddy, what th’fuck is–oh,” Eric chastises him, barging into your room. “Sorry,” he adds sheepishly.
“Did you find–” Wes is similarly cut off as he realizes he and Donovan are also stepping into your dressing room unannounced. You’ve not even started to undress, but the intimacy of the space and seeing you with your makeup off and your hair down stuns the boys into silence.
“I um, I was just telling Teddy that it was nice to meet you all,” you say quietly. “I don’t really get to do a lot of gigs with other artists. And you guys sounded really great.”
“Thank you,” Teddy smirks. He nudges Eric, who is still silently staring at you. His hair hangs down just barely covering his eyes. You recall the way his hair looked slicked to his temples with sweat after their performance.
“Thank you,” Eric echoes. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offering you one.
“Oh, no thanks,” you politely decline. But you don’t object when he brings the carton up to his mouth, taking one with his teeth and lighting up. Teddy swats at Eric’s shoulder with the back of his hand and Eric passes him the pack without taking his eyes off you. He looks you up and down as Teddy lights his own cigarette.
“You were amazin’,” he says finally.
“Thanks,” you blush again.
“For real, you…y’really got somethin’,” he continues.
“Like what?” you tease, feeling bold. Something about the way all four of them are staring at you, like you’re commanding the whole room, goes straight to your head.
“Like…” Eric exhales smoke, sending a thick cloud through your dressing room. “Like you’re right on the edge. Know wha’ I mean?”
“Alright, honey, you ready–what the fuck?” Jack halts in his tracks when he steps into your room to see the band. Jack’s eyes dart between you and Eric. Teddy chuckles, enjoying the show a little too much.
“Sorry, mate,” Donovan says, landing a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Didn’t mean t’intrude.” He looks around at his bandmates with a silent look that says let’s go. The energy in the room shifts in a way that feels charged. Wes steps out first, for once quiet and compliant, past Jack and into the hallway. Teddy turns towards the door, grabbing Eric by the arm as he does. Donovan steps out, followed by Teddy, until Eric is left facing Jack, his smoldering cigarette between his teeth. He plucks it from his mouth and exhales another stream of smoke, leaning away from Jack as he does. His eyes land on you once more.
“Sorry, again,” he says to Jack. “See y’la’er…honey,” he smirks at you before turning to leave your room at last. Jack watches him strut down the hallway, then swiftly closes the door behind him.
“What was that about?” Jack asks defensively.
“Nothing, I just wanted to say bye to them,” you reply. “Are you ready?”
Your nonchalance catches Jack by surprise.
“You’re not even changed,” he protests. You begin unbuttoning your skirt.
“Well, I’ll be quick,” you grin, letting it drop around your ankles. You step, still in your chunky heels, out of the skirt and towards Jack, now only wearing the top that hugs your cleavage just right and your panties. You lean up and press a quick kiss to his lips before turning and actually beginning to change.
He notices that you don’t ask for your ring back. He has to remind you once you get in the car.
A few weeks go by before you bump into Eric and The Strangers again. This time, you’re at a house in the hills, at a label party hosted by some producer. This label has been eyeing you for some time, and this producer specifically has been reaching out to try and meet up for “just one drink.” You knew he had ambitions of convincing you to sign with him, and you didn’t think it would ever happen, but you didn’t want to miss an opportunity to mingle with fellow musicians. It was the thing you missed most after going solo: the sense of community.
You’re standing on the concrete pool deck in the backyard, holding your empty champagne glass. You wanted a minute away from the chaos of the party, and the quiet of the backyard was perfect. You can’t see any stars with all of the city lights, but you like to look up and imagine them there.
“Hiya, honey,” purrs a British accent behind you. You whirl around, grin plastered across your face.
“Eric!” you light up.
“Oy, izzat our favorite girl?” Wes laughs, bounding up to you.
“You look like y’could use another drink,” Eric offers, nodding to your empty glass. He extends a hand to you and you take it, letting him tug you towards him and back into the house as you laugh. Inside, Eric gets you a fresh glass of champagne then leads you towards a hallway off the kitchen of the house.
“Come on,” he laughs, “you gotta see this.”
He drags you into a bedroom at the top of a flight of stairs and your heart races for a moment. He slides open the glass door to the balcony and extends his arm again to usher you through. You step out onto the balcony, joining the other members of the band, and your breath leaves your lungs as you take in the view. You can see all of Hollywood, including the Hollywood sign, illuminated in the distance. Eric joins you at the railing, leaning on his elbows next to you. The boys are all in their usual suits, though they’re missing their ties, and Eric’s got the top few buttons of his shirt undone. You can see the sweat leaving a shine on his collarbone.
“S’pretty fucking cool, huh?” he quips.
“Yeah…it is.”
Eric stands and Donovan holds his hand out to him. He passes him something that looks like a cigarette but smells worse. Eric takes a drag and then goes to pass it to you.
“Oh– no, thanks,” you say timidly. Eric smiles, then passes it over your shoulder to Wes. You stifle a small cough as he exhales the smoke a little too close to your face.
“How’ve y’been, honey?” Eric asks you, teasing you just a little.
“I’m good…busy. I’m doing my west coast shows,” you try to explain.
“Oh yeah?” he chirps. “That’s right, I ‘member you mentionin’ that. Hey, when are you up in San Francisco?”
Wes hands Eric the cigarette again and he takes another drag as you answer.
“Two weeks. It’s supposed to be a cute little Fourth of July thing,” you explain. He chuckles.
“Cute…” he repeats, eyeing you. You can just barely smell the musk of his cologne under the smoke. “We’re actually playin’ a gig up there on the sixth, you should come ‘round…if you’re plannin’ on stayin’ in town.”
He reaches up to Wes and passes the cigarette back.
Eric is staring at you. His eyes look glassy. There’s something that’s been bothering you since you last ran into the guys.
“Hey. Um. Can I ask you something?” you finally muster.
Wes hands the foul smelling cigarette back to Eric, who takes another puff. Donovan swirls a drink whose ice is barely solid anymore. Teddy sets down a beer bottle and you can tell by its soft clinking sound that it’s empty. You can feel their eyes on you, though your attention is fixed on Eric. The freckles across the tops of his cheeks sit in the same patterns that your imaginary stars do.
“Anythin’,” he says sweetly.
“When we met…you said I was…well, you said I was…right on the edge,” you say, awkwardly repeating his phrase from weeks ago. “What…what does that mean?”
Eric laughs, and the other boys join in. The feeling of all of them laughing at you makes your heart skip a beat and your cheeks warm.
“You’re right on the fuckin’ edge, that’s wha’ that means!” he croons. The others laugh again. “You’re right fuckin’ there, babe, you can do anythin’.”
“You’ve got that sound,” Teddy adds.
“What sound?”
“That million-fuckin’-bucks sound!” Eric exclaims. “Seriously. You’re doin’ that sweet little girl-next-door thing now, but this, rock and roll…that’s the future. And on that TV show, that’s what you’ve got. I saw a girl everyone calls cute and she didn’t look cute, she looked hot, she looked…”
His eyes land on you.
“...sexy.”
The word makes you twist away from him, your cheeks burning as you press your back against the railing of the balcony. Again, Eric offers you the cigarette and again you decline. The boys are laughing loudly now, teasing Eric.
“C’mon mate, we get it,” Wes smirks.
“Look, I’m just bein’ honest!” Eric protests. “Fucking angel, i’n’t she?”
He takes your hand and lifts it, gently prompting you to spin. You’re wearing a very short black skirt with a fringe made to look like piano keys. As Eric swiftly twirls you, he watches the keys flare out and expose more of your thighs. He whistles.
“Gorgeous,” he mutters when he has you standing in place again. The boys laugh once more.
“C’mon, Eric,” Donovan chides him playfully.
“Yeah, ‘sides… and don’t take this the wrong way, mate,” Teddy smirks. “But let’s jus’ say I’m not puttin’ any money on you in a fight wi’that soldier boy of hers.”
Your eyes go wide as the boys laugh once more. You wonder how they could possibly know. The TV show, your soundcheck– maybe they had seen your ring? Your heart races as you try to put together who else might know. Your thoughts are cut off sharply as the boys laugh.
“That boy scout!” Wes howls, taking another drag off the cigarette. It’s really starting to smell now, and you feel a little lightheaded. “You jokin’?! Eric would clobber ‘im!”
“You lot, tryin’ t’get me in trouble,” Eric tsks. He takes the cigarette from Wes without asking and takes another long, deep drag as Wes protests. His eyes stay locked on yours as the lights of Hollywood glitter over his shoulder and the end of the cigarette glows in the darkness. He exhales out the side of his mouth, sending his plume of smoke dancing away into the night sky.
He reaches out and hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your head up slightly.
“Tell your daddy I promise to have you home by ten, princess,” he muses, a mischievous playfulness in his tone.
He quickly thumbs your chin before withdrawing his hand. Your head is spinning. Eric looks you up and down and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You can read the desire in his gaze. The hunger.
It makes you feel so alive. To be so wanted. When he looks at you, he doesn’t see the cute young girl who got her start in a picturesque girl group wearing matching outfits. He doesn’t see America’s Sweetheart. The way he’s looking at you should make you feel objectified. But it just makes you feel…sexy.
You want him to kiss you.
To lean forward and feel his lips on yours, taste the smoke on his tongue. You ball your left hand into a fist, absentmindedly searching for your engagement ring with your thumb. You feel only skin.
Industry party. You left it at home.
You’re saved by the laughter of the boys as they one again rib Eric. He blushes, finally tearing his gaze away from you. You exchange a few more laughs before you excuse yourself, lying about needing to find a bathroom. You know Jack will be looking for you soon, if he isn’t already.
In the car on the way home, Jack is quiet. Your head is starting to clear up, that light, airy feeling dissipating. You get inside and head straight for your jewelry box to replace your engagement ring on your finger. Jack comes up behind you, nearly startling you as you glance up at him in the mirror. You smile sweetly at him.
“Hey,” you whisper. He doesn’t respond. “Everything okay?” you ask in a gentler tone.
“Why do you smell like pot?” he challenges you in a level tone.
“What?” you ask, horrified as you spin on your heel to face him now.
“You reek. I can smell it all over your clothes, your hair…” he continues. “Who were you hanging out with when you snuck off?” he accuses you.
“I did not ‘sneak off!’” you reply hotly.
“Then where were you?!” he snips. “Honey, do you even know what kinda shit happens at these parties? People out here, they’re–”
He draws in a deep breath, cutting himself off. He rubs a hand down his face, then balls it into a tight fist.
“I need a minute,” he mutters.
And without another word, Jack leaves the bedroom. You feel hurt at his accusation, that you would intentionally sneak away from him. The truth was that you needed some air, and Jack had already left you to get himself another drink. You weren’t out in the backyard long before Eric found you.
And you feel dirty at his comments about the drugs. That must’ve been what the boys were passing back and forth. You don’t know what to do. You quickly shed your clothes, angrily tossing them in the hamper, but you don’t feel any cleaner. You flop on the bed, hot tears starting to sting your eyes. You press the heels of your hands into them, blinking away the salty water.
But what feels worse, what feels like the ultimate betrayal, is knowing how close you were to Eric. Knowing that he was flirting with you. Knowing that you liked it. It makes your chest ache. You love Jack. You love Jack. More than anything in the world. So why did you want to kiss Eric? It makes you feel confused and angry at yourself. Your shoulders shake with each quiet sob that escapes you.
Jack takes a few moments to himself in the kitchen. He’s not being fair. He knows that. He’s jealous and he’s taking it out on you. He plants his hands firmly against the stone counter underneath him, the gold band on his left finger glinting in the light. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to slow his heart down and bring rational thought back into his mind. He finally returns to the bedroom to see you, in only your bra and panties, stretched out on the bed, body convulsing gently with the force of your soft sobs. Jack feels an ache in his heart and a deep hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He sits down on the bed next to you and reaches over, trying to stroke your hair. You turn your head away from him before he can make contact.
“Honey…” he coos.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice tiny in the room.
Jack scoots back on the bed so he’s sitting up against the headboard as you shift to your knees, sniffling.
“I’m sorry Jackie, please don’t be mad at me…” you sob, launching yourself into his arms.
“Woah, hey, hey, honey…” he mutters against you. You’re flush to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck. He pulls your behind up into his lap.
“I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry,” you hiccup. “I didn’t mean to sneak off…”
Jack gently holds you, an arm securely around your shoulders drawing you closer to his chest, and the other tucked under your knees, hand resting on your hip, supporting the weight of your legs. He smells like his cologne and sweat and cigarettes. You wonder if you still smell like pot.
“I’m sorry, honey…I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Jack says gently as he rocks you lightly back and forth. Your cries still shake through your body. This is the first real fight you’ve had in a long time…the first one since you’ve been engaged, you’re almost certain of it.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he continues. “It’s not your fault.”
“I just,” you manage to get out in between gasping breaths, “I needed some air and then Eric found me and then I was with them on the balcony and they were smoking and they asked me if I wanted any and I said no but–”
“Shhh, sh, it’s okay,” Jack shushes you. “I was being too harsh on you. I’m sorry,” he says again. The gentle rhythm of his rocking and the soothing sound of his voice finally starts to bring you back down.
“I didn’t mean to sneak off,” you repeat with a sniffle. “Honest.”
“I know you didn’t, baby, I know.”
It feels good when Jack soothes you like this. You don’t know why. But something about the firm gentleness of his voice, the soft touch of his hands…it makes you feel so warm and cradled in his arms.
“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” he murmurs in your ear. “I just get nervous when I don’t know where you are, baby.”
“I was with Eric and the band,” you sniffle pitifully, still clinging to Jack tightly.
“Did they give you anything?” Jack muses, stroking your hair.
“N-no,” you hiccup again. “They offered me something, but I said no.”
“Okay…okay, baby, shhh, shh…”
You can’t hold it back any longer.
“A-and, Eric, he…” You’re gasping for breath around the words.
“Take a deep breath, honey, relax,” Jack coaxes you, rocking you gently in his arms. His soft and loving touch only makes your heart heavier with guilt.
“Eric, he was…he was flirting with me,” you finally sob. “He, he– he was calling me pretty and…and sexy, and…and…and I almost…I’m sorry, Jackie.”
Jack rocks you until your breath evens out, quietly thinking. When you can finally breathe normally, you sit back a bit. Jack looks at you, tears staining your cheeks, makeup a mess. He gently wipes some of the mascara from under your eyes with his thumb.
“What happened, baby?” he asks gently. “Did he touch you?”
“N-no,” you manage to get out. “No. But he was…he was really close to me, and I could tell he wanted to kiss me…”
Jack watches you trail off, hesitant to finish the thought.
“Did you want him to kiss you?” he offers, his voice soft. You squeeze your eyes shut, more tears running down your cheeks as you nod. Jack wipes your face again and holds you to his chest again as you get out a few more sniffles.
“I’m sorry, Jackie…I still love you...promise…” you whimper. “I don’t know what…why…”
Jack smiles to himself.
“Honey…” he begins, leaning back from you again. “Do you still wanna marry me?”
“Yes,” you cry. “Yes, I do!”
Jack chuckles.
“Honey, you wanting Eric to kiss you doesn’t mean you don’t love me,” he says in a clear voice.
“But it felt so…scary,” you admit. “To want someone…someone else.”
Jack considers you for a second.
“Baby, when we play,” he starts. “And I’m pretending to be someone else…does it mean you really wish I was someone else?”
You think about it for a second.
“N-no…” you admit.
“Sweetheart,” Jack chuckles. “He’s a rockstar. Of course you like him.” You blush.
“I don’t–”
“It’s okay,” Jack cuts you off. “I love you, honey.”
He leans in and peppers gentle, feather-light kisses to your cheeks, your eyes, your neck. You lean back and let him press his lips to the skin of your throat, sighing softly under his touch.
“I- I love you, too,” you whimper.
“I’m sorry for yelling,” he repeats, pressing another soft kiss to your collarbone. “I’m not mad at you, honey.”
He dances his fingertips across your skin, skimming your thighs, your hips, your stomach. You squirm at the teasing touch of his fingers.
“Jaaaack,” you whine. “Do you wanna play?” you whisper.
Jack brushes a bit of hair from your eyes. His expression is soft.
“I wanna be with you, honey,” he says gently. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips. Your eyes flutter closed as you kiss him, tasting and smelling and feeling him. He rubs his hands over your shoulders and down your arms, gently resting his fingertips on your back. When he finally leans back again, his eyes are pleading.
“I just wanna be with you,” he repeats. “Yeah? Can you do that?”
You can feel your cheeks get warm and you nod, blinking away the last of your tears. Jack shifts and gently lays you back on the bed, one of his big hands guiding your shoulder down. The way he’s looking at you makes you fold your arms over your midsection and turn to the side.
“No, honey…please,” he whispers, gently pulling you back into place underneath him. Hearing Jack use the word please makes your heart flutter. “Please, sweetheart…let me see you…”
He’s so sweet it makes your chest feel like it might explode.
“Tell me what to do,” you say in a quiet voice, almost out of habit.
Jack presses a kiss on your sternum.
“We’re not playing, honey,” he reminds you before moving on to your navel. “You don’t have to do anything.”
He kisses the skin just above the lacy hem of your panties before hooking his thumbs into the leg holes and rolling them down your thighs. Jack removes them and sets them aside. It’s odd not to see him shove them down his pants, put them in a pocket, sniff them, stuff them in your mouth.
You try to keep your knees together, but Jack brings his palms back to your inner thighs, spreading you open. You wiggle and squirm, flexing your hips as you feel the pressure of Jack stretching you out. It feels deep and almost painful in your hips. You whine softly.
“Shhh, shh, I got you, sweetheart,” Jack muses, massaging your flesh gently.
“Jack…” you whimper. It feels so good to use his real name. It’s been a little while since you had sex without playing.
“You’re so beautiful, baby,” Jack mumbles, moving over you. He reaches around behind you and unhooks your bra, helping you shed that as well. “God, there’s my pretty girl.”
You squirm a little against the mattress. You love when Jack calls you beautiful and pretty. But there’s some nagging part of you that wants…more.
“Am- am I sexy, Jack?” you whisper. He stares down at you, his eyes half-lidded.
“You’re so gorgeous, honey, love you so much…” he breathes in your ear, leaning over you.
It still doesn’t feel like enough. But you can’t protest when Jack brings his hand down to rub against you.
“What do you want, baby?” he asks you breathlessly.
“You, I want you,” you beg. Jack chuckles.
“You want me, sweetheart?” he smiles. You nod. “Well, I’m right here, honey.” He leans down and kisses you again.
You bring your fingers to rest on his belt buckle.
“Can you…ugh, you’re teasing,” you accuse him. He laughs.
“Sorry, honey, not trying to tease you,” he says gently, starting to undo his belt. He presses soft little kisses to your cheeks as he removes his belt and tugs off his shirt. He kisses you again and you whine. He finally strips down to his boxers and rubs his clothed bulge against your thigh.
“You want me?” he repeats, breathless.
“You, Jack, I want you,” you sigh. He finally obliges, freeing his cock and rubbing himself in your slick.
“I want you, too, honey,” he purrs. “I love you.”
“I lo-oove you,” you whine as Jack slowly pushes in. The stretch feels incredible. He knows you like the abrupt, full feeling of him inside of you, so recently, Jack has been slowly working you up to a certain level of tolerance, gradually reducing the number of times he would make you take his fingers before filling you up. And it was so worth it.
His breath is hot against your neck as he pants against your skin, already dotted with sweat. He notices that your hair still smells like pot, but it somehow feels comforting to him, knowing that you’re so close that your presence is flooding his senses.
“God, you feel so good,” Jack moans. You’re digging your nails into his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto. Your cheeks burn as you squirm underneath Jack. It’s so hard to feel him looking at you. You turn your face to the side, squeaking.
“Shhhh, shhh, I know, honey, I know it’s hard, hey,” he says gently before grabbing your chin with his fingers. He delicately turns your head so you’re facing him again. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just breathe.”
You inhale deeply, your breath just slightly hitching as Jack readjusts his hips against you.
“I- I love you,” you whisper to him. He rolls his hips against you and you whimper, but do your best to stay focused on him.
“I love you too, honey bunny,” he says softly.
You don’t think you’ll last long. The feeling of Jack’s length dragging against your walls combined with the overwhelming eye contact already has you weak.
“J-j…Jack…” you whine. “Ca-can you touch me? Please?”
Jack grins and brings his fingers to your lips.
“Help me out, baby,” he tells you. You open your mouth and let him wet his fingertips on your tongue before he brings them down to rub your clit. You buck your hips at the extra stimulation, and feel Jack hit a spot even deeper inside of you.
“Ah- ah, Jack, Jack, pleaseee,” you whimper.
“You still wanna be my girl, right?” he asks, drawing his hips back slowly.
“Y-yes! Yes, God, Jack, yes,” you babble. He snaps his hips up into you again and rolls his thumb against your clit. You cry out at how unbelievably good it feels to give all of your attention to Jack– how he’s touching you, what he feels like inside of you, the idea of being his, only his, forever.
“And you’re gonna let me put a baby in here one day, right?” he breathes, resting one big hand over your tummy. “Gonna let me build us a life together?”
“Y-yes, yes, pleeeaseee, God!” you sob.
“You want all that, honey? House with a white fence,” he pants, picking up his rhythm just a bit. “Backyard…little feet running across the floor…”
“Jack, I want it, I want it…” you cry. “Can you try right now?” you beg him, clawing at his shoulders. He laughs.
“You-mmph-” Jack groans as he readjusts, feeling you squeeze him. “You want me to try right now? Give you a little baby?” he teases you.
“Yesss, yes, please!”
The idea of little boys who look like Jack and little girls who look like you running around a sunlit house in the suburbs on a summer morning makes you feel faint.
“Are you still taking your pill?” he whispers to you. He knows that, even without playing, your mind isn’t being entirely objective in this moment. You nod.
“Y-yes, yes, but try,” you plead with him. “Give it to me, please?”
You whine and paw at his chest. Your eyes are enormous and glassy with desire. Jack loves the needy version of you that emerges when you talk like this.
“God, baby, you’re so cute like this,” Jack huffs.
“N-not cute!” you whine. “Sexy, say I’m sexy, please…”
Jack's heart dissolves.
“Sexy, you’re so sexy, honey,” he breathes. “You’re so fuckin’ hot.”
Hearing Jack finally use that word makes you melt in his hands as he leans down to kiss your neck. He gently nips at your collarbone, making you gasp. You feel him drive his hips up a few more times, bringing you right to the edge.
His soft whines in your ear are what send you over.
You cry out as you cum, digging your nails deeper into Jack’s skin. He winces at the pain.
“God, honey- fuck,” he whimpers. He wraps an arm around your waist and holds you close as you feel his cock twitch inside of you. Jack moans as he cums, and the warm feeling of his release in your womb makes your head feel airy and light.
Jack doesn’t move for a second, just collapses against your sternum as you both breathe heavily. He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone. Your mind is still swirling with images of your little house in the suburbs, sunshine streaming through the window and a record playing as Jack brings you breakfast in bed.
You wince as Jack pulls out, feeling his cum rush out of you and drip down towards the sheets.
Jack quickly returns with a warm washcloth to help you clean up as he peppers more kisses to your cheeks. When you’re both comfortable again, relaxing in bed, his fingers tangled in your hair, your cheek flush to his chest, you remember what started your little argument. That floaty, dizzy feeling you had at the party around Eric wasn’t too far from the feeling you can still feel rippling through your body from being with Jack.
“Jack,” you ask him. “How do you know what pot smells like?”
He chuckles softly at you.
“Honey, you know I worked for the FBI before I met you,” he says.
“Did you arrest bad guys?” you ask him.
“Well, not arrest,” he replies. You twist in the sheets, laying a hand on his bare chest and tracing little heart shapes with one nail against his skin. Jack loves the way the gentle scratching sensation feels on his chest.
“Did you beat them up?” you tease him, a grin creeping across your face.
“Sometimes,” he smiles back. You hum gently, your eyes still locked on his.
“D’you think we could…I mean, I’ve never…” You can’t get the question out. It sounds so silly. Jack studies you, propping himself up on one elbow.
“You’ve never…what, baby?” he teases you, grinning. He loves how cute you are when you get tongue-tied.
“I’ve never…done it before,” you admit quietly. “Have you?”
Jack chuckles.
“Just a handful of times,” he replies. “While I was undercover.”
“Is it…what is it like?” you ask him. Your eyes are enormous; Jack feels his heart pumping in his chest. So cute.
“You wanna try it, baby?” he muses. He didn’t think it was possible, but your eyes seem to go even wider.
“Really?”
“We could smoke…if you want to,” he adds. He almost can’t believe you’re asking. You hate cigarettes, and this is the first time Jack has even heard you mention drugs.
“Only if you think it would be…okay,” you reply, trying not to betray your trepidation. You are curious, but you’re nervous too.
“Of course, baby,” he reassures you. “I’ll be with you.”
You sigh contentedly, snuggling into his chest. Jack studies your features, taking in the glow that seems to illuminate your face in your post-orgasm haze.
“There’s something else, too, honey…if you want to…” Jack cautiously begins.
“Mmm?” you hum sleepily.
“You know,” he continues. “A lot of people who… play like we do…they sometimes invite someone else to play with them.”
You sit up, alert now.
“Huh?” you ask him.
“If you want to,” he says softly, holding your gaze, “we could talk about how you could play with Eric.”
You’re stunned.
“Bu-but…but I love you,” you insist, that confused and angry feeling starting to creep back into your body.
“You do love me,” Jack reassures you, brushing some of your hair out of your eyes. “And I love you, baby. But Eric…Eric gives you some things that I can’t.”
It makes your heart feel like it’s splintering into a thousand pieces.
“No, Jack–”
“Shh. Honey, let me finish,” he says, his voice firm but gentle. “He’s a musician, just like you. He’s in the public eye, just like you. And you said he likes you?”
You nod silently, unable to meet his eye.
“I hate taking my ring off,” Jack says, his voice dropping to an even lower volume. “Every time we leave the house. Do you remember when we went to that awards show a few months ago, baby?” he asks. Again you nod. “Well, I was there with you, but it killed me that I couldn’t be there with you. Do you know what I mean?”
You nod again. It does hurt when you have to put your ring in the jewelry box before you go out. You don’t necessarily need to shout your love from the rooftops, but it does hurt that you can’t even be seen out in a romantic way with Jack. That you can’t even wear your ring to an industry party for fear of raising suspicion.
“And he’s your age,” Jack continues.
“Jack, that doesn’t–” you protest quickly.
“Shh,” he silences you again. “It does matter, baby. How many guys your age have you been with?” he prods gently. You glance away. “And how many have you actually liked? You like him, right?”
You nod. It’s hard to do. It still feels like betrayal.
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, honey,” Jack starts. “But what I am saying is that…if you like him, and he likes you…and you want to play with him…it doesn’t mean you love me any less, okay?”
You can’t contain it anymore. You wrap your arms around Jack’s neck and hide in his chest as tears prick at your eyes. It’s not sadness; you don’t really know what it is. But it’s an enormous feeling. You hear Jack’s heart thumping steadily under his ribcage as he plants a kiss on top of your head.
“Can we…can we talk about it?” you ask in a whisper.
“Yeah…’course we can, honey. Of course we can.”
thank you for reading! read the full be my baby series here. please reblog if you like what you read; it keeps writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!
I AM GROSS AND PERVERTED, I AM OBSESSED AND DERANGED. ( Fem! Remmick x Reader )
WARNING! This will contain ( CHOKING, FINGERING, BRAT TAMING, AND MILD MENTION OF BLOOD, BREEDING, BONDAGE. ) DO NOT ENGAGE IF YOU CANNOT HANDLE SMUT / DO NOT LIKE THIS / WILL BE TRIGGERED!
AUTHOR NOTE! credit goes to @butchification-ray ( the og creator / mastermind of Fem! Remmick ) and @scannainscanrula ( who introduced me to this AU & gave me some tips ) .<3
pairing: Fem! Remmick ( Remi ) x Reader
prompt : sometimes you just gotta dom your vampire girlfriend..
word count: 1,000+ words
WARNING! This will contain ( CHOKING, FINGERING, BRAT TAMING, AND MILD MENTION OF BLOOD, BREEDING, BONDAGE. ) DO NOT ENGAGE IF YOU CANNOT HANDLE SMUT / DO NOT LIKE THIS / WILL BE TRIGGERED!
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ NEW YORK, 1999.
Resisting the urge to gag as your friend rambles on about her latest date, you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to keep your cocktail down. You couldn't understand the thought process of a man. Just..why? Why the fuck did they have be so god damn gross? Seriously. Never in your life have you looked at a man suggestively licking ice cream and want to throw your panties at him in lust. It was just cringeworthy and disgusting and made you grateful for having Remi. Shaking your head the more that describes the way that he was licking his ice cream, you take a sip of your cocktail, swishing it around in your mouth. The burn was far far more pleasant than her story.
“That is disgusting.” Remmi nods, her nose wrinkling up in disgust.
“Agreed.” You smack your lips together at the lingering burn of liquor in your mouth, “I just don’t get how anyone can do that and think that they look sexy.”
“I can’t believe a man would do that.”
“I can, it’s a man.” You scoff, biting back a giggle at your own joke.
“Not as bad as doing that.” Remi argues, pointing to a couple on the other end of the bar.
Following her hand, you raise a brow up at the clearly drunk couple, sprinkling a line of salt on each other's arms. Grabbing a lime from the bartender's hand, the couple proceed to lick each other's arms, downing the shot then sucking on the lime slice. Oh fucking please, that was tame compared to the man from your friends date. They were licking each other's arms to take a shot, they probably knew each other and were totally fine with it. They weren’t licking an ice cream cone to try to seduce someone who they had just met on a first date. Two totally different things. Rolling your eyes hard at the sight, you shake your head firmly, pushing hair over your shoulder.
"Oh, shut it, tampon sucker.” You scoff, “You eat pussy, licking someone's arm to do a line of salt for a shot is nothing compared to what Jessie is talking about."
"Tampon sucker?" Remi scoffs, placing a hand onto her chest.
"You heard me, Remi." You argue back, "Don’t act like you totally wouldn’t do it if I let you."
It was a low blow and just an overall shitty insult, but too late to take it back now. You had said it and she had heard you. Narrowing her eyes hard at your words, she grit her teeth tightly, sucking in a breath through her teeth. Opening her mouth up to argue, she stops herself at the last second, tightly shutting her lips. Diverting your gaze back onto your friend, she’s continuing to ramble on about her date, not noticing you and Remi’s bickering. Good. She clearly needed to get all of this out of her system, and you weren’t going to tell her to shut up any time soon.
Feeling Remi’s glare still on you, you turn your head, raising a brow up at the look on her face. It was a mix of anger, hurt, and brattiness. Wrinkling her nose up as she festers in her feelings, she pushes back strands of hair from her face, leaning forward on the bartop. You barely resist the urge to glance down as she pushes up her chest, clearly attempting to rile you up. She had worn that skimpy little band shirt, one that you had cut up for her for the summer time. She knew just how much you enjoyed it, how you liked how it hugged her curves. Evil little bitch.
“I have standards.” She argues, making your scoff.
“I’ve seen the people you eat, you do not have standards, Remi.” You roll your eyes hard, “Blood is blood to you.”
“Nuh-huh! Blood is not just blood. I have very high standards for the things I eat.” She pushes back tousled curls over her shoulder, acting like she was above your claims.
“Bullshit, Remi.” You scoff hard, shaking your head in firm disagreement.
“Bullshit? I do!” She argues, her voice raising up in offense.
“You don’t!” You argue back, “I saw you eat a literal rat out of a dumpster.”
“I had drunk the blood of someone with drugs in their system, that was not on purpose.” She argues back, lowering her voice to not be overheard. “I just had the munchies!”
As if that was a good enough reason to justify eating a literal rat. Sure, you had gotten the munchies before after smoking a blunt with her before. But, there was always other options to get a snack⎯grocery stores, convenience stores, the chinese place next door or the pizza place down the block from the apartment. Surely, she couldn’t just find someone randomly on the street and just steal a quick bite? Instead of just eating a rat. Pointing at your tongue to pretend like you were sticking a finger down your throat, you let out a dramatic fake gag, mocking her shitty reasoning. Nothing could justify it. Nothing.
“You still did it.” You bicker back, leaning in closer to her. “That is far more gross than licking salt off someone’s arm.”
“Gross enough for you to not want to fuck me?” She pouts, pathetically giving you puppy eyes.
“If you eat another rat, I will never touch you again.” You argue firmly, “Let alone let that tongue of yours near me.”
“It was one time.” She huffs, dropping her facade instantly.
“One time too many!” You scoff, shaking your head.
Pushing open the door to the apartment, you kick off your shoes, watching Remi lingering in the doorway. Her lips curled down into a big and pathetic pout. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes hard at the sight, you don’t bother to invite her in just yet, throwing your jacket on the couch. She grumbles loudly, her face darkening as you deny her entry into the apartment. Taking an annoyed breath in through your nose at her grumbling, you walk away, continuing to deny her entry.
She was being too much of a brat for you right now. She could sulk a little longer outside, maybe that would snap her out of it. Letting out another loud grumble, you don’t give her the attention that she was clearly demanding, unbuttoning your jeans. Pressing your back against the wall for support, you shimmy yourself out of them, kicking them down the floor in front of the laundry machine. Kicking the wall beside the doorway, she lets out another pestering huff, glaring at you.
“I can’t believe you seriously brought up the rat at the bar.” She huffs, tapping her foot on the floor.
“Remi, you started it.” You argue, shooting her a look.
“Did not.” She argues back, her tone ridiculously petulant.
“Did so, you little brat.” You threaten, “Keep it up and I won’t let you in.”
“You’d do that to me?” She gasps, acting like she was in some kind of crappy soap opera.
“Remi..”
Slapping your forehead with your hand, you let out a defeated sigh as she keeps on going, patience drying up quickly. Tapping her foot annoyingly, you let out a grumble, eye twitching at just how annoying she was acting. God, you just wanted to strangle and fuck this brattiness out of her at the same time. For someone who liked to brag about being a dominant top, she was sure acting like a bratty pillow princess. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you try to focus on removing your socks, trying to show some self restraint. She was just trying to piss you off on purpose. She was tipsy and just pestering you like how she always did when she drank blood laced with liquor.
“Stop it.” You scold, “You’re tipsy, Remi.”
“You’re tipsy…bottom bitch.”
“Remi, stop it.” You shake your head, “I’m serious. You’re being ridiculous and you didn’t even really drink that much blood tonight.”
“You’re not letting me in because you know the moment you let me inside I’d have you bent over the bed and moaning my name.” She taunts, letting out a soft giggle.
Letting out another pestering clearing of her throat, you lose all self control, sharply turning on your heels to face her fully. Oh, this little bitch. Now she was going too far. Smugly smirking at your reaction, you narrow your eyes hard at her, hands trembling at your side. You wouldn’t hit her. You wouldn’t hit her. Sticking her tongue out childishly, she flips you off, swaying slightly from side to side. Ugh, she didn’t even drink that much. It was one fucking slurp from your neck while the two of you were in the bathroom. It was literally nothing compared to
“Suck it..” She taunts, “Or else I’ll find some other chick who will.”
“You’re making a fucking fool of yourself, Remi. Get your ass inside now. I invite you or what the fuck that I need to say.” You snap, shooting her a firm glare.
“Oooh, I’m so scared!” She mocks, holding her hands up in mock surrender.
Narrowing your eyes hard at her antics, she takes it a step further, mimicking jerking off her imaginary cock. It was ridiculously childish. Throwing her head back in a loud cackle, you lose what little of your patience that held you back, cheeks flushing hot from burning anger. God, why the hell were you with her again? She was such a fucking brat. Wrapping your hand around her throat, you spin her against the wall, kicking the door with your shoe. Choking on her laughter at your seriousness, she stares at you with wide eyes, her cheeks flushing a bright pink. From embarrassment? Lust? Shock? Anger? You couldn't really tell nor did you really care.
“Say one more thing, I fucking dare you, Remi.” You sneer, “I’ve been letting a lot slide, more than I should. And now you wanna talk about fucking others? Act like pretending to be tipsy is gonna save your ass, huh?”
She doesn’t respond, and you let out a sigh of relief.
“We both know that you’re not really tipsy, you’re just acting like a brat for fun.” You press, trying to get her to finally act maturely about all of this. “So drop the act, I’m not having it tonight.”
“Suck my dick.”
That fucking does it. Giving her throat a firm warning squeeze, she lets out a pathetic whimper, squirming in your grip to break free. Not a fucking chance. She started this shit and she was gonna endure until you felt like it was enough. Opening her mouth to protest, you don't give her the chance, smashing your lips against hers to swallow the sound. Letting out a strangled noise against your lips, you could feel her hands everywhere, unable to linger in a spot for more than a second. One second they were in your hair, tugging hard at the strands until your scalp ached. The next they were groping at your waist, as if trying to rip apart your underwear like a rapid little beast.
Dragging your tongue over the seam of her mouth, you force her to let you in, dragging your tongue slowly over her fangs. All slimy from all the drool in her mouth. Humming in delight at the taste, you nudge her trembling thighs apart, forcing your knee in between them. Jolting at the pressure of your knee against her crotch, you swear that you could already feel how wet she was, practically dripping like there was a waterfall between her legs. Pathetic slut. She may pretend to be a domiant top who never faltered to your friends, but at heart she was still a pathetic bottom in need of getting fucked right by you. Breaking the kiss, a string of saliva connects from your lips.
“I can feel how wet you are already, haven’t even touched you.”
“Am not.” She argues, her face flushing brighter from embarrassment.
“No?” You mock, tilting your head to the side. “No, Remi? So if I stick my hand in your panties they’ll be all dry? That pretty little pussy of yours isn’t gonna be drooling for me?”
“No.” She lies, her voice trailing off at the end.
“Liar. I should stop right here and leave you in a puddle of your own wetness, slut.” You scoff, putting more pressure on her crotch. “But, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re a little fucking sadist, like torturing yourself.”
Letting out a shuddered breath at the increase of pressure, she bucks her hips involuntarily, seeking out some friction. You could see that familiar glimmer in her eyes, the one that always came whenever you topped her⎯that craving for you to breed her, even though it was biologically impossible. Clicking your tongue scoldingly at her, you slowly pull your knee away, earning a high-pitched protest. It wasn’t quite words, but it wasn’t quite a noise either. It was something desperate and inbetween. God, it was beautiful. Smirking at her reaction, you give her throat a punishing squeeze, holding it for a second until you were sure that her lungs would burn from the lack of air.
“Keep it up and I’ll tie your ass up.” You warn, releasing your grip just enough to let her breathe again. “Put you right in front of the window.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You think I won’t after how much of a brat you’ve been acting since we got back from the bar, sweetheart?" You press harder, “Fucking mocking me. Fucking taunting me. Fucking acting like you’re drunk. You’re just an attention seeking whore.”
"You're being mean.” She whines, pouting deeply.
“You’re being a brat.” You argue, “Brats don’t get treated nicely.”
Letting out another whimper at your words, she squirms around, clawing at your hips with her nails. Perhaps, you were being a little too mean to her. But, she deserved it after how she was acting. Brat’s don’t get to act that way and go unpunished for it. Besides, if you really wanted to be mean, you’d just walk away and go to bed. You could. You could leave her here, in a puddle of her own arousal. You probably should. But, you wouldn’t. Looking over her face slowly, you linger on the blush on her cheeks, on the way her eyes keep on growing heavier and heavier from lust. She was so pretty like this, all needy. But you liked seeing her moaning more.
“( Y/n )..”
“Begging won’t help you, Remi.” You scold, “You’d do a hell of a lot worse to me if I was acting the way that you are.”
“But, this is different⎯” She argues in a whiny voice, but you cut her off.
“Is it?” You raise a brow, “Don’t act like you wouldn’t already have me bent over the couch and ass all raw from slapping me.”
Opening her mouth up to argue again, you raise your brow higher, letting her dig a deeper hole for herself. She knew that it was the truth, deep down. If you acted even a fragment like how she had been, your ass would’ve been raw by the time the sun rose up. Stopping herself at the last second, you chuckle at the look on her face, begrudging defeat. Tightening your grip on her throat again, you slip your other hand down her stomach, feeling it trembling under your touch. Stopping at the button of her jeans, you fumble to remove it by yourself, roughly yanking the button free.
Jolting as you unbutton her jeans, you press your thigh against her crotch, keeping her from moving anymore. It was a lot harder doing this with one hand, but you weren’t about to let go of her throat. Clumsily unzipping them, you take your time pulling them down, leaving them pooled half way down her thighs. The sight of her underwear bringing a smile to your face. The once pretty scarlet red now a dark maroon from how wet she was. God, you wished that you had a camera to take a picture of this. Remi this wet just from a little choking and kissing.
“Look at all this.” You mock, “Talking a big old game, acting like a total brat and you’re fucking ruining those panties of yours. You like when I slap you around, huh? Like when I remind you that I can just as easily top you, turn you into a whiny little bitch.”
“Stop.” She argues, tightly closing her legs to keep you out.
“Open those legs for me, princess. Or else, I’m gonna walk.” You threaten, pulling your hand away abruptly.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” She glares, her embarrassment melting away as desperation takes over.
“Open them.” You order, voice a little more stern than before.
Flushing an even brighter pink at your stern order, she surprisingly complies without complaint, spreading her thighs for you. Smugly smirking at her obedience, you slip your hand in her panties, still not removing them completely. You wanted her to sit in her wetness a little longer, feel humiliated just a little longer. Peeling the damp fabric off her folds, you swear that you could hear a low squelching sound from it, lewd and embarrassing. Biting back a whimper, you drag a finger through her folds, playing with the wetness that oozed out of her like a waterfall.
Biting hard on her bottom lip, you smirk deeply at the sight, you could feel her body vibrating underneath you. Adjusting your other hand on her throat, you flick her clit, earning a strangled noise from her. Rubbing your thumb over her swollen clit, you trail your fingers further, the further you reach the wetter it gets. You barely resist the urge to mock her. Slowly pressing in your pointer and middle finger in, she tenses up instantly at the girthy stretch of your fingers, clenching hard around them. You could barely curl them, trying to find her g-spot.
“Please..” She whines, her hips bucking for more.
“You gonna cum already?” You mock, “Just barely put my fingers in, haven’t even moved yet.”
“You’re so fucking evil!”
“Evil enough for you to want me to stop?” You snort, watching her face shift instantly.
“Don’t you fucking dare, I swear I’ll rip out your fucking throat⎯”
Narrowing your eyes hard at her threat, she tries to get in your face, her fangs bared like a wild dog. Pushing her back against the wall by the throat, you sharply curl your fingers upwards, thrusting your fingers roughly. Moaning loudly at the rough pace you set, you chest your chest against hers, giving her throat occasional punishing squeezes. Not enough to make her lose her breath, but enough to make her uncomfortable. Thrusting your fingers in and out fast, you watch smugly as she blinks back hot tears of pleasure, your hand already beginning to ache. But, you push yourself through the minor discomfort. It would be worth it in the end.
Bucking her hips with each cruel thrust of your fingers upwards, you want to mock her, to mock how desperate she was to finish as quickly as possible. But, you refrain. Instead, you just take in every moan, every buck of her hips, every fluttering of her lashes as she barely manages to keep her eyes open. Shifting your hand between her thighs, you clumsily rub your thumb over her clit, ruthless circles that you know would push her closer to an orgasm. Digging her nails hard into your shoulders for support to keep standing upright, you hiss as she manages to break the skin, bloody crescent moon shapes appearing.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” You purr, “Can feel that little tremble in your breathing.”
“So close.” She nods, face heating up the closer she gets.
“Not even been doing this for five minutes, think that’s the quickest I’ve ever gotten you to cum.”
“Please, just stop torturing me!” She wails, “I’m sorry! I’ll fucking behave, just please!”
Tilting your head down, you nip at the side of her neck with your teeth, trying to leave some marks behind. But, the skin keeps healing before you could even get close to it. Stupid vampire fast healing bullshit. Grumbling under your breath, you curl your fingers one last time, earning a high-pitched wail from her. Your ears ring from the sound. Gushing all over your fingers, you coax her through her orgasms, her hips jerking and twitching involuntarily. Gradually slowing down your pace, you give her swollen clit one last rub, watching her shudder violently from the overstimulation. Slowly pulling your fingers out, she winces at the sudden empty feeling, pouting.
“There we go..” You coo, “So pretty when you cum, aren’t you?”
“Fuck off.” She huffs, her voice shaky.
“Aww, don’t be like that, Remi.” You chuckle, licking your fingers clean.
The familiar un-naturally sweet taste of her on your tongue. Licking some sweat off her top lip, you chuckle at the sight, enjoying that post-orgasm glimmer in her. Pressing a teasing kiss onto her lips, she huffs against your lips, lightly pushing you away. Rolling your eyes hard at her reaction, you sharply walk away, deciding to deny her any more attention for the rest of the night. If she wanted to continue to be a brat, you’d just let her sulk. Your hand was aching and the temptation of your bed was more pleasing than trying to finger the brattiness out of her…again.
“Goodnight.”
“What the fuck?!” She shrieks, “That’s it?! You’re not going to even top me properly?!”
“Nope, brats don’t get those kinds of privileges. Be grateful that I even let you cum.” You argue, shaking your head. “Besides, I’m sleepy and wanna go to bed.”
“What the fuck?! No! You get your ass back here and top me properly! You haven’t even used the strap yet!” She complains, hot on your trail. “( Y/n )!”
-----
don't matter what the AU is or the trope or plot, i'm gonna bully the fuck out of remmick before fucking the hell out remmick..
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Remmick being the host of your favourite late night radio show on some obscure station you stumbled across by accident. He sounds good, he's funny enough if a little pathetic. He makes references that he doesn't sound even remotely old enough to make with startling accuracy - he knows exactly who was touring where and when and who opened for who. The more you listen the less it makes sense. He's got to be faking somehow. He must research all this stuff obsessively before talking about it on air. Surely, if he's so happy to accept callers, he won't mind a few questions
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rockstar!femmick x reader
wc: 1.4k (just a little taste)
warnings: so this goes back to that hatefucking/pre-vamp dynamic from the early r!r days. switchy femmick, oral sex, fingering, strap sex, top femmick, nipple play
author's note: enjoy gays. this has been in the docs since october
“What do you have to say about your feud with Remmick?”
You shake your head, earrings jingling as you do.
“I think she’s just being really nasty and unladylike. Girls have to look out for each other, right?”
Remmick huffs, taking another hit off of the joint between her fingers. You grimace at the chipped black polish and the way her hair sticks to her forehead.
“You sound nasty and unladylike when you beg me to fuck you,” she grumbles.
“Jealous,” you tease, snatching the joint from her and taking a long hit, blowing the smoke in her face.
“You wanna fuck or what?”
You scoff.
“Y’know, a little romance might get you pretty far.”
“Yeah?”
She leans in, taking back the joint. She kisses you messily, smearing your lipgloss.
“Remmick, my makeup,” you whine.
You put the joint out on the ashtray, pushing her back with your other hand.
“You are such a little rat,” you tell her, watching her bite her lip as you sit on her hips. You lean down and hover there, holding her back by the shoulders.
“Yeah? What else am I?”
“Stop flirting! You called me a slut!”
“You are a slut,” she snickers, smacking your ass.
You huff and sit up, shoving her down.
“You’re such a dick.”
“Need that pussy bad, sugar… I know she wants it.”
Her teasing tone has you squirming on top of her.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” she sings.
She squeezes your thigh. You roll your eyes and push her head down.
“Y’gonna sit on my face? Yeah? Gonna feed me that pussy, baby doll-”
“Oh my God,” you whine. “Stop teasing!”
She grabs your thighs, yanking you down to rest your weight on her face. Her nose rubs against your clit and you gasp, grabbing the arm of the sofa.
“Remmi,” you sigh.
You feel so floaty from the weed she brought, your brain empty and your cunt extra wet. She had her hand on your thigh from the moment you came in, and she’s been trying to get up your skirt all night.
“Tastes’o good, baby,” she moans, her hips bucking up behind you.
“Do you have a toy here?” you whine.
“A toy,” she mocks you as she pushes a finger inside of you. “I got a dick for you, sugar. What, you wanna ride me?”
“That sounds nice,” you whimper, lip between your teeth.
“Yeah? You wanna ride me, pretty girl? Fill you up with my dick, get all up in that tummy.”
“Yes, Rem-”
“Cum on my tongue and I’ll fuck you good, princess.”
Her tongue slips inside of you, licking into you slow and rough. You squirm– not just because it feels good but from how dirty it is.
“I know you wanna give it to me. I know, you’re such a good girl.”
You whine at her words.
“Aw,” she teases. “Oh, my poor baby. Poor baby. She needs’ta cum so bad… just cum, baby. Just cum on this tongue, give it to me.”
“Shut up, Rem, just eat it!”
You huff and grab her hair, tugging her closer. She squeaks but quickly readjusts. She always eats you like you’re nourishing, drinking down as much as she can get like she’s starved.
A quick swirl of her tongue around your clit and a graze of her teeth has you screaming. You pull her hair and arch back.
“Ow,” she winces. She cleans you up with her tongue.
She drools so much that it doesn’t really leave you clean– it leaves your thighs wet and has you shaking again.
“Still wanna ride me?”
“Maybe I wanna top you,” you pant.
“Aw, that’s cute. I don’t think so,” she scoffs.
You huff and narrow your eyes. You back up, crawling down her body and straddling her thighs.
“Are you all wet, Remmi?” you tease, your fingers playing with the waistband of her men’s boxers.
You rub her over the fabric, making her squirm below you.
“Quit- ngh- quit that!”
You reach up and shove your fingers in her mouth. You feel her jaw move to bite you.
“Don’t bite me, Rem, just get my fingers wet…”
She watches as you dip down, ass in the air. You rest your head on her tummy, kissing and nipping her cross tattoo. She swallows and sucks your fingers, licking between them and slicking them up with her drool.
“Too bad I can’t finger you because of my nails,” you pretend to lament, pouting at her.
“Too bad,” she echoes, eyes wide and locked on you.
You squeeze one of her breasts under her white tank top.
“You wanna fuck me, poser?”
“I ain’t a fuckin’ poser-”
“Do you ever stop talking?”
You hook your fingers in her jaw, pulling it down.
“So much cuter when you talk sweet to me.”
You help her get the strap on, yanking down her boxers like it’s a prank. You giggle.
“Rem, you’re totally soaked!”
You pull on a strap, checking if it’s securely on her hips. She wobbles when you push her back, sitting her on the couch.
“You’re gonna make a mess when I make you cum,” you sneer.
She whines and you giggle again.
“Aw… you’re drooling almost as much as your pussy, Remmi.”
You sink down onto the silicone cock. She chose a good one, nice and thick, with a stretch that feels so good. It’s not too big– it fits snugly in your cunt. But it does bump your cervix when you fully settle.
“Th-this one is so good, damn…”
You circle your hips, grinding down and making the leather rub her clit, making her grab at your hips.
With your hands braced on her shoulders, you raise up and sit back down, bumping her again. You start a bouncy rhythm that has her squirming. She just makes it worse for herself, backing up and making the dildo hit you at a different angle, stroking your spot just right.
“Remmi!” the way you moan it out makes her red in the face.
She growls and pushes you back on the sofa, pushing your legs open wider. She ruts into you like she’s trying to prove a point.
Or get you pregnant.
You twist below her, digging your long nails into her strong arms.
“Quit that shit,” she growls. “I’ll put you in a fuckin’ headlock.”
“I’d like to see you try,” you egg her on, squeezing her breasts.
You pinch her nipple, making her wince and try to wriggle away. You lock your ankles behind her back, leaving her trapped in you.
“St-stop,” she winces.
You tug her down by the shoulder, pressing your lips to her ear.
“Are they so sensitive?” you ask with a breathy whine. “You drooled all over mine, but I haven’t even touched yours.”
You tweak the other nipple and giggle at the way she flinches. Your rough touches are making her thrusts sloppy.
“Ugh, Remmick is so hardcore,” you sneer. “You can’t even fuck me right.”
She snarls and grabs your hands, pinning them next to your head.
“Open your mouth.”
You shake your head.
“Mm-mm!”
“Open your fucking mouth!” she barks.
She bites your lip, which makes you gasp. With your lips parted, she spits in your mouth.
“You’re mine,” she whimpers.
“You’re such a loser, Remmick-”
Her thumb rubs on your clit, making you twitch beneath her.
“Your tight fuckin’ pussy. Stupid fuckin’ slut, you’re so fuckin’ dirty, baby, all filled up with this fat cock, cum on it. Cum on this cock, show me who you belong to.”
“You belong to me, you little creep!”
“I do, baby,” she moans, grinding the silicone cock into you, rubbing her clit and yours with the rough straps.
“It’s too- o-oh my God!”
“Please, please, please,” she chants, chasing her own orgasm.
You rake your nails down her back as you cum, clamping around the silicone with its almost-human squish. You’re only missing the satisfaction of taking a load inside.
“Y-you’re so good, you’re so good,” she mutters as she jolts forward, thighs clenched together and jerking around above you. She collapses on your chest and you laugh softly.
“Good?” she asks.
“Mhm… I missed you,” you admit in a sleepy haze.
“Missed you too… a lot.”
She listens to your steadying heartbeat. The strap shifts inside of you and she groans.
