#U FINE LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT

[thatfaerieprincess]

.

[britneyshakespeare]

i love bratz as dolls but i fuckin hate mga as a brand. fuckin idiots

[muttsona]

i hope i die, you broke my heart

[dmumt]

genuine question is having a flatmate ever a pleasant experience

[ssa-dado]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[missdynamighttt]

feining for frat boy katsuki…

it was hot. loud. half the girls were already screaming over shirtless frat boys grinding against windshields. your friend dragged you out with a “come on, it’s for charity!” and now you’re standing in the corner with a lukewarm lemonade and zero expectations.

you didn’t even want to come to this stupid fraternity fundraiser.

your roommate dragged you out with the promise of half-naked frat boys, but all you’ve seen so far are drenched freshmen trying to flex their way into a hernia.

but then you see him.

he’s got his back turned at first—lean muscle, golden skin, red swim trunks slung way too low on his hips. sunlight catches the water dripping down his back like it’s staged. and when he turns around?

game over. he’s gorgeous.

sharp jaw, wild blonde hair flattened from water, a cocky little smirk on his face as he wrings a sponge out over his head, totally aware of the stares.

and he sees you. right away. ruby eyes locked with yours and gives the most arrogant little up-nod like, yeah. you’re next.

you try to act unaffected. fail immediately.

he saunters over, sudsy bucket in one hand, water dripping down his abs like it’s a fucking calvin klein ad. stops right in front of you, eyeing your car, then you, then your car again. “you the one drivin’ this piece of shit?”

you blink. “excuse me?!”

he shrugs but you can see a little grin tugging on the corner of his mouth, smug and unbothered. “relax. i’ll make it look brand new.”

he puts the bucket down, saunters over, and damn—he’s even hotter up close. tall. muscles for days. and that little scar on his cheek? unfair.

then, leaning closer, voice low: “the name's katsuki bakugo. what’s yours, sweet girl?”

you tell him. maybe a little breathless.

he repeats it once—slow, like he’s trying it out on his tongue. “hm. yeah. i like that.”

and then he goes to work. but not just on the car.

katsuki bakugo washes that car like he’s auditioning for the dirtiest boy band you’ve ever seen. dropping the sponge just to bend over in front of you, ass on full display. making eye contact when he slides his hand over the hood like he’s caressing it. watering himself down with a hose and shaking his hair out like he’s in a shampoo commercial from hell.

by the time he’s done, your car is sparkling. and so are you—flushed, flustered.

he tosses the sponge into the bucket, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and smirks. “lemme know if you need a private wash sometime.”

and then he walks away, with you watching the water dripping down the curve of his spine, no better than a teenage boy ogling the back of a girl's bikini. you swear you black out for a second too.

it’s only a few hours after the car wash before he slides in your dms, smooth but dirty. you’re in your room, still reeling from whatever the hell that was, when your phone buzzes.

king.explosionmurder has sent you a message.

(yeah. that’s his actual handle. because of course it is.) then, you open it.

king.explosionmurder:

can't stop thinking about the girl with the shittiest car and the cutest fuckin’ face.

you stare. then another message pops up.

king.explosionmurder:

u free tonight?

or maybe you're too busy being adorable somewhere else?

your heart does a thing. you type out a reply—something just barely cocky enough to match him:

you:

depends

you always this forward?

king.explosionmurder:

only for girls with shitty taste in cars

so, only you

let me buy you a drink, sweet girl?

you:

fine

you can buy me a drink, frat boy

but for the record?

my taste in cars is not that shitty

king.explosionmurder:

whatever you say beautiful

8 pm, sunset bar down 5th ave

don't be late

katsuki shows up five minutes early, in a black tee that clings to his chest and jeans that should be illegal. hair still messy from his post-car-wash shower. when you walk in, his eyes track you like you’re the only person in the room.

“tch. thought you were gonna flake.”

you roll your eyes. “you’d cry if i did.”

his mouth twitches. “like a damn baby.”

then the date just... hits different. it wasn't what you expected. sure, it’s packed with college students and frat bros, but in the back corner booth? with him?

it’s quiet. comfortable. almost… intimate.

he’s not much of a talker, but with you? he tries. you ask about his major—he’s an aspiring pro-hero, of course—and he asks about yours, grumbling when you light up talking about it, because “fuck, that smile’s gonna kill me.”

and even though he’d die before saying it out loud, the minute you take a sip of your drink and laugh at something dumb he says? he’s gone. head over heels.

he walks you back to your dorm with his hand on the small of your back, even though it’s barely a ten-minute walk. says “text me when you’re in” even though he literally watched you unlock your door. stands there, gruff and gorgeous, waiting.

“gonna invite me?” he asks, tone teasing.

you shake your head, grinning. “not on the first date, i'm not.”

he groans dramatically. “damn. fuckin’ killin’ me here.”

you grin. “goodnight, frat boy.”

but he doesn’t move right away.

just stands there under the warm porch light, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to work off the ache of not touching you again. his shirt clings to him in the summer heat, his jaw sharp in the glow, but it’s his eyes that freeze you in place.

not hard. not sharp. not the glare he usually levels at the world.

but soft. heavy. like you’ve stolen the breath from his lungs and he doesn’t even want it back.

he looks at you like you hung the damn moon.

he takes one small step closer, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his chest, close enough that if either of you moved just an inch, you’d be kissing.

“goodnight, sweet girl,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel laced with honey.

it hits you somewhere deep. like he’s branding the words into you.

and then—he actually smiles. a real one. lopsided, shy, the kind of smile you’d never expect from someone who threatens to body slam people over couch cushions.

then he turns and walks away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head down, like if he looks back even once, he’ll do something stupid like run back and kiss you senseless.

you close the door behind you, heart thudding so hard you swear your roommate can hear it.

you’re screwed. so screwed.

because things after that? they move fast.

to everyone else, he was the guy who'd scream if you left dishes in the sink, throw a beer can at you if you sat on his side of the couch, and threaten to body slam you if you so much as breathe near him.

but the entire frat house knew that their loud, grumpy, terrifyingly efficient frat dad—had a soft spot the size of a planet. and that soft spot? was for you.

you’re the only person allowed in his room during his grumpy post-practice naps. the only one who can touch his hair without him flinching. he’d grumble when you flick his forehead when he was being dramatic but he'd let you.

he might curse under his breath, but when you’d slide onto his lap during movie night, he'd wrap an arm around you like it was instinct. like protecting you came as naturally as breathing.

he had snacks stocked in the mini fridge (not for him, you liked them). he hands you your favorite snack and grumbles, “was on sale. don’t get used to it,” even though it’s never on sale but he bought six of them anyway.

and when finals week hits? he’s a damn soldier for you.

caffeine runs. your favorite takeout. quiet growls at anyone who tries to talk to you in the library. he reads your flashcards like they’re enemy coordinates and quizzing you becomes his personal mission.

but the best part? the tiny, quiet moments in between.

like when he’s losing at mario kart and you’d sit in his lap while he played, steal his fries, kiss his cheek mid-rant just to shut him up.

or when you were too tired to walk back to your place, you just curl up in his bed. not only does he let you, he tucks the blanket around you and kisses your forehead so soft it makes your chest ache.

and somehow, all of that was like magic.

sure, he might’ve acted like the world’s most chaotic, aggressive frat president, but when it came to you? he was all bark, all bite… and all heart.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

[headkiss]

fall right into me

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when something happens to your apartment and you need a place to stay, steve, your best friend, is quick to provide it for you. your prolonged proximity forces you both to realize some things.

word count: 13.6k

warnings: childhood bffs to lovers, absolute idiots in love, mentions of a negative relationship with parents, probably inaccurate descriptions of some things but it’s (say it with me) for the plot!!!

a/n: i know it’s been a LONG time since i’ve posted a long fic so thank u guys for ur patience <3 i had so much fun getting back to it and writing these two, and i hope it’s at least a little bit worth the wait!!! ily :,)

𝜗𝜚

Your shoes are still wet as you dial the first number that comes to mind: Steve’s.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Steve.”

“Hi,” you can imagine him on the other side of the phone, leaning casually against the wall, an easy smile on his face, “what’s going on?”

You’re not quite sure where to start.

Coming home from work earlier, you’d been excited to shower and change and lay around for the rest of the evening, your book hanging open in your lap and some mindless TV filling the silence.

The day seemed to have other plans for you, though, because as you walked down the stairs to your apartment—one in the basement of a sweet, older couple’s house who just never used the space and converted it—the carpet had made an ugly squelch as soon as you stepped on it.

You looked down at your shoe against the carpet, at the way its color was darker than usual from whatever water had gotten into it. Looking up, you found a complete mess. A piece of the ceiling hanging open right above your bed, water still dripping in steady drops from the gap, your bedding ruined among many other things.

You don’t know how long you stood there, hand over your mouth, eyes flickering over the damage like you were hoping it would vanish, like it was only something you imagined.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

The couple who owns the house came down when they heard you shout for them, unsure of what else to do. They’d both gasped when they came down, and began apologizing for something that really wasn’t their fault before one ran up to call whoever it was they needed to call to fix this and the other comforted you with a gentle “we’ll take care of it, sweetie.”

You nodded, eyes still roaming your space that was now uninhabitable.

It’s an old house, something was bound to happen at some point, you only wished it wasn’t so inconvenient for you. A small leak, you could have handled, but the ceiling practically caving in?

Yeah, it was a complete fucking mess.

Hours later, with the damage assessed and set to take a few weeks to fix up, you’re on the phone with the one person you’d known would pick up.

You fill Steve in on what happened, and his first response is a sigh of, “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” you agree. “And now I’m gonna have to live with my parents for a while and I don’t know how I’m gonna go back into that house, Steve.”

If you’re being honest, the couple you live with now was kinder to you than your parents were. You suppose that’s one of the many things that you and Steve have bonded over.

“Just come live with me, instead,” he offers without hesitation.

Steve says it like it’s obvious, a no-brainer, and you guess it should be, since you’ve slept over at the Harrington’s house countless times before. Only, this is different because you’d be staying for a while, because you’d be needing his help, which makes you feel all awkward and guilty.

He’s been your absolute best friend for as long as you can remember, and you’re one hundred percent sure you’d offer the same thing if the roles were reversed, but that doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept, not when you’re already frazzled from the events of the day.

“No, Steve, I’m sorry I’m just being dramatic,” you say, twisting the phone’s cord around your finger. “I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a month, or so, and I don’t wanna be in your way or-”

“When have you ever cared about being in my way, angel?” The pet name he’s called you ever since your ninth grade Halloween party slips out naturally, the way it always does. “Besides, this house is too fucking big for me as it is, and you know my parents won’t be around to care, either.”

“I can’t ask you to let me move in, Steve.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering. It’ll be like that one week when we were twelve and you stayed over for spring break, only longer. It’s perfect!”

There’s a small smile ghosting across your face as you recall the memory he’s talking about. A blanket fort in their spacious living room, sleeping bags and pillows piled inside it along with two flashlights.

You can picture the way he looks on the other end of the phone, his hair a bit messy from running his hands through it during the day, one strand rogue against his forehead, his shoulder leaned carelessly against the wall the way it usually is when he stands. Like he can’t be bothered to hold himself up, like there’s constantly a weight on him.

“Are you sure about this, Steve? It’s really okay if you’re not. I swear I’ll be fine.”

“As if I’m letting you spend multiple weeks back in your parent’s house. You’re staying with me, alright?” His voice is insistent, yet kind, letting you know that he’s being honest, that he means it. “We’ll order pizzas and watch shitty romcoms, ‘kay?”

“You can call romcoms shitty all you want, but we both know you get teary at every single one.”

“Don't change the subject, angel. Also, fuck off,” he says, though you can hear the smile in his voice. “So, you’re living with me, yeah?”

You don’t think you could say no to him even if you wanted to.

“Yeah, alright, Steve. Thank you so much.”

“None of that. I know you’d do the same.”

There’s something beautiful about the kind of trust and ease that comes with a friendship as long as yours. One where you’ve watched each other grow up, awkward phases and all, and stuck together the entire way. There’s no questioning whether or not you’d be there for each other if you were in need.

It’s known, felt. Like a fact.

“Now,” he continues, “I’ll pick you up, okay? Ten minutes, tops.”

“Okay.”

“You need me to bring boxes for your stuff?”

“I’m not sure how much is worth keeping. It’s pretty ugly in there.”

Your voice goes small at the end, because the gravity of it all is really sinking in. You’ll have to replace a lot of stuff. Stuff you don’t have money for right now.

But, you haven’t let yourself cry just yet, so you swallow it down.

“I’ll bring some anyway, then. We’ll figure it out, angel, don’t worry.”

“Thanks again, Steve. See you soon.”

“Ten minutes,” he assures you, then the line clicks.

-

True to his word, Steve arrives in under ten minutes, which isn’t surprising considering the size of Hawkins, but feels reassuring all the same.

You’re sitting on the curb in front of the house when Steve’s BMW pulls over on the other side of the road, and you stand just as he climbs out and shuts his door, rounding the car and jogging over to you.

His keys jingle as he tucks them into the pocket of his faded jeans, his opposite hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder, “You okay?”

The warmth of his palm seeps through your work shirt that you’ve yet to change out of, and you let your eyes fall shut just for a second before looking at his face, “Guess so,” you nod. “Maybe ask me again after all of this?”

Steve’s arm winds itself over your shoulders, tugging you into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of your head, simple as an instinct. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, angel.”

We’ll, he says. A team.

You reach up and squeeze his hand and nod, guiding him to the side-entrance leading to your basement apartment.

“I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes for this,” you say.

Steve looks down at his feet and shrugs, “Shoes can be replaced.”

He lets you lead the way down the stairs, his footsteps close behind yours. You wince when you look at the damage again, even though you’d seen it minutes ago. You can't bring yourself to look at Steve, to see the reaction on his face, because you think it’ll just make it all more real.

He mouths the word ‘fuck’ while you aren’t looking, then claps his hands once. “Okay, let’s figure out what we can save, yeah? Where do you want me?”

You’re grateful for his gentle guidance at what to do. “Maybe the bathroom? Everything in there should be fine, so it just needs to be packed.”

“‘Kay. I’ll just go grab some boxes from my car,” Steve says. He squeezes your hand once before heading up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

You decide to tackle the worst spot first. Though the place is more like a studio, the side that houses your bed and your closet is the most affected, so you head over there and try to tune out the squish of the carpet beneath your feet.

You’re opening the sliding doors to your closet when Steve comes back, dropping a stack of boxes by your feet and running his hand down your arm softly before heading over to the bathroom to pack for you.

Even his presence seems to be making things a little bit easier for you, and each time he finds a small way to touch you or speak to you, to remind you that he’s there, you’re glad for it.

Half of your closet is a gross, wet mess, but some things are salvageable, which you take as a win. Things might be damp, but at least it’s only water, you suppose. A cycle in the dryer and most things will be wearable again.

Your dresses that are hung get the worst of it, soaked and smelly, and you decide that it’d be easier to get a couple new ones than to try and save what’s there.

Steve checks in every now and then, poking his head out of the bathroom’s doorway to look at you and make sure you’re doing alright, giving you a thumbs up when you look over to him.

You’re not sure how you’d be managing this if you were alone, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to.

The next time he checks on you, you’re by your nightstand.

Sitting atop of it is a framed picture of you and Steve from summer camp when you were around ten years old, maybe younger. Only now, the picture’s stained with water and the frame you’d decorated all those years ago at camp is a splotchy mess.

Where yours and Steve’s handwriting used to be, is now a blur from the water seeping into the wooden frame, the marker’s colors muddy. You frown, picking it up and running your thumb over the edge.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re tearing up, frustrated and sad and tired. Memories like this one are the most special to you, the ones that have kept you going for so long, and just like that, the picture that’s sat on your nightstand since being taken is gone, and it fucking sucks.

“Hey, angel?” Steve calls.

When all you do is sniffle and mumble an “mhm?” in response, he sets the box he’d been packing on the bathroom counter and walks over to you.

He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your upper-arms and peering over your shoulder at the ruined picture.

“It was my favorite one,” you say, voice breaking a little. You wipe your tear away as it trails down your cheek, your own fingertips too harsh against your skin.

Although it’s soaked and splotchy now, Steve knows which picture it is. The one where you’ve both got your neon summer camp t-shirts on, the one where his cheeks and nose are completely sunburnt and you’re both grinning up at the camera from your seats on the ground.

Steve’s clutching a stick in his hand for some reason, and you’ve got your fist tangled in the sleeve of his shirt.

It feels like no time and forever has passed since then.

Steve grabs the picture and pries it gently from your hands, setting it back onto the table and turning you around in his grip to face him.

“We can fix it,” he tells you, his brown eyes all soft as his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs swiping your tears away.

“But the frame-”

“We’ll fix it, angel. I’ll find a way, okay? We can pack it in one of the boxes and figure it out.”

“Steve-”

“Look at me,” he urges you when your gaze flickers to the ground. You listen. “This fucking sucks, I know it does, but you’re strong and I’m here, and we can handle this.”

His voice is quiet, but sure. You search his face for any trace of a lie and find none. He really believes what he’s saying, and he really believes in you.

“Thank you for being here.” You take a deep breath and drop your forehead against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry for crying. I know it’s kinda stupid. Most of this is replaceable, it’s just-”

“It’s not stupid,” he says, letting his chin rest atop your head. “You’re allowed to cry. Hell, I’d probably be kicking and screaming on the floor like I'm back in the terrible twos.”

You laugh wetly into his shirt.

“Now,” he says, pulling back and putting his hands on his hips, “the quicker we pack, the quicker we go home. I’ll even let you wear a pair of my good fuzzy socks.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. “Deal.”

-

Steve wouldn’t let you do much of the work after that.

Instead, he simply held up items for you to assess from where you’d been leaning against the wall and packed it into a box if it was a ‘yes,’ or tossing it aside dramatically just to try and get you to laugh if it was a ‘no.’

Once things were sorted through and packed, you loaded everything into Steve’s car—which wasn’t a whole bunch, considering how much you had to leave behind.

You’d refused to let Steve carry the boxes all on his own, though he tried, but he still managed to open the doors for you whenever you made it to his car, even when his own hands were full, too.

By the time you were finished, you were drained. It felt like you’d lived multiple days in the one. An eight hour shift opening at the store, then coming home to a wrecked apartment. All you wanted to do was shower and lay down and not get back up.

Steve knows you well enough to be able to tell when it’s time to fill the silence and when it isn’t, and on the drive back to his place, while your head was leaned against his window, he knew to stay quiet and give you a bit of space.

He turned the radio on, but not too loud, letting the songs hum through the speakers. At every stop sign, he reached over and gave your thigh a light squeeze. Reassuring, kind, somehow exactly what you needed at the moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

You were no stranger to the Harrington’s house, having been there countless times since you were little, but it feels more intimidating now, knowing you’ll be staying. You feel silly for being worried, but you are. Asking for help makes you feel like a burden.

Steve, however, doesn’t let you entertain that thought for long, parking in his driveway and jogging around to open the passenger door for you. “Honey, we’re home!”

“Dork,” you say, though you accept his hand and let him tug you up out of the car.

Grabbing the first couple of boxes, Steve leads you inside and upstairs, right to the guest room across the hall from his own bedroom. The closest one to him.

The house has at least two guest rooms, though you suppose with how little Steve's parents are around, you could consider there to be three. Three spare rooms and Steve puts you up in the nearest one possible. It makes your heart squish in your chest, how caring he is. He doesn’t even have to try, really, the goodness in him shows even when he tries to keep it hidden.

It only takes a few trips down to his car and back before all of your boxes are stacked against the wall. You decide you’ll deal with them later.

Steve runs over to his room and grabs a set of pajamas that you’d left there, and hands them to you. “I figured you’d wanna wash up.”

“You calling me smelly, Harrington?”

“Shut up, I think you smell nice. Usually.”

“Hey!”

“I’m teasing, angel.” He ruffles your hair. You swat his hand away. “You know where the bathroom is, and there should be soap and stuff in the shower already. Just yell if you need something, okay?”

You do know where the bathroom is. You have your own toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a set of travel-sized skin care products in the cupboard behind the mirror for whenever you end up staying over.

It’s funny, you’ve always felt more at home here than at your own parents house, and though he hasn’t said it to you, Steve much prefers this house when you’re in it. There’s a warmth that comes with your presence that makes him ache when it’s not around.

You nod, “Thank you again for letting me stay, Steve. I won’t be in the way, promise.”

“I want you in the way. You know you’re always welcome. This is no different.” He shrugs, “Plus, it’ll be nice having you around. Place always feels so empty when it’s just me.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay forever, then,” you say, tone light and joking.

Steve, completely serious, says, “I’d let you.”

There’s a zip that goes through you when he says it, quick as lightning, something you’ve never felt—or noticed, rather—around him. It throws you off just a little.

“Anyways,” Steve cuts your thoughts short, “I’ll let you get settled. Pizza will be waiting for you when you’re done.”

He leaves the room before you can thank him again, his footsteps retreating and heading downstairs.

You’ve been to his house a million times, so you don’t really feel the need to ‘get settled’ but you desperately need a shower so that’s where you go.

You stay in for longer than you need to, letting the too-hot water run down your neck and back.

When you finally do step out of the bathroom, now clad in your pajamas, and head downstairs, Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room, the romcoms he owns sitting out in front of the TV for you to choose from, your favorite blanket resting on your side of the couch, and pizza boxes on the coffee table just as promised.

It’s the best thing in the world, you think, to have a friend like Steve.

-

You’ve been staying at Steve’s for a couple of days already, and time seems to fly by a little quicker when you’re there, especially when you’re around him.

He’s taken it upon himself to have coffee ready in the pot for you every morning, one of your favorite mugs already next to it on the counter. You’ve cooked breakfasts together (pancakes one day, where you’d done most of the work, or something simple as toast when you both have to get to work), ordered dinners, and Steve comes home from his shifts with a new movie to watch almost every day.

It’s been so nice. Almost perfect, actually.

This morning, the first day where your shifts happen to be at the exact same time, he’d even insisted on driving you to work. It was an easy yes, considering it wasn’t out of his way at all.

After a short stint of working together at the grocery store in ninth grade, and your subsequent firing from the job after a month of constantly distracting each other on the clock, Tim, the grocery manager, took it upon himself to warn Hawkins not to hire the both of you together.

Eventually, you’d taken the closest you could get which resulted in you working at the arcade and Steve next door at Family Video.

You share a parking lot. Steve already drives you to work most days. You like to put up a bit of a fight just to annoy him.

Though you haven’t worked together in years, and he isn’t far away by any means, you miss having Steve around on days like this. Where the arcade is quiet save for the sounds of the games in the background, where you’re simply babysitting the desk and cleaning things multiple times to try and make the hours pass by.

If Steve were with you, he’d make stupid jokes that you don’t wanna laugh at but do, or coerce you into playing the games while on the clock with the change you find whenever you’re cleaning.

He’d probably trash talk you, and bump your hip with his while playing pinball, and be a sore loser, and for some reason you want him around so bad.

You chalk it up to getting used to spending hours and hours with him, every single day, these past couple of days. Staying with him has made you miss him more, you think.

That’s it.

Meanwhile, over at Family Video, Steve isn’t feeling too different from you.

He’s spent the morning stocking shelves, memories popping into his head whenever he’d come across a movie you loved or watched together, while Robin’s been manning the desk.

Then, when his cart was empty and put back into the back room, he sat on the chair behind the front desk, spinning around until Robin stopped him with her foot and asked what he was thinking so hard about.

Steve caught her up on what had happened with your apartment (you’d told him he could tell her, because she’s your friend too and would find out sooner or later) and how you’d ended up staying with him in his house.

She raised her eyebrows and hummed in a way that was automatically suspicious, because Robin isn’t very good at hiding things.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Nothing.” When Steve only gives her a pointed look, Robin continues, “Well… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Now, Robin is one of Steve’s closest friends, and him one of hers, and she supports him in pretty much everything that he does even when she teases him relentlessly along the way, but she cares about both of you and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.

She can read Steve better than he can read himself, probably, because to Robin, it’s clear that he feels more than friendly towards you. And he doesn’t even know it.

When they became closer, it was clear to Robin, even before meeting you, just from the way Steve spoke of you, that there was a spot reserved for you in his life that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.

He would say it’s that of ‘best friend’ but Robin would call it something even bigger than that. Still, even though she thinks he’s an absolute dingus, she’s trying to let Steve figure it out for himself.

Clearly, it’s taking fucking forever.

He looks confused at her question, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”

Robin sighs and resists the urge to drop her forehead against the desk and decides on, “You know what they say: become friends with your roommates, don’t become roommates with your friends.”

“Whoever they are, they’re dumb as shit,” Steve says. “She’s been over, slept over, hundreds of times. It’s not any different, just longer.”

“I guess so,” she settles on. “The rules of the world never really seem to apply to you two.”

“That’s because the rules of the world are also dumb as shit.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever tried following them.”

“‘Cause I’m a rule breaker, Robs.”

Steve wiggles his eyebrows. Robin shoves the rolling chair he’s sitting on with her foot, sending it into the other side of the desk with a thud.

“Don’t think that smoking weed in your backyard is enough to call yourself a rule breaker, dingus.”

-

That night, your routine was pretty much the same.

Steve was already waiting for you in his car when you left the arcade, a smile spreading onto his face when he saw you making your way across the parking lot to him, your skirt swishing a little with the breeze.

Rather than go straight home, you made a stop at your apartment to talk things over with the couple who owned the home. They’d met with a builder and plumber about getting everything fixed and wanted to walk you through it all.

Steve came with you and held your hand, and both of them cooed at him and pinched his cheeks and called him a cutie before getting to the important stuff.

After going over what had to be done (rip out the carpet, replace it, fix the pipes and make sure no others were at risk, replace the ceiling, and more you couldn’t even remember already), they’d assured you that they would be taking care of it all. Covering the entire cost.

You probably would’ve argued if not for how little money was in your bank account, and how stubborn you knew these people to be. Instead, you’d squeezed them both and thanked them while your eyes grew misty with tears.

Steve’s hand stayed in yours and squeezed when you sniffled.

He knew, because he knew pretty much everything about you, that these people were kinder to you than even your own parents. That, if this had happened at their house, they would’ve found a way to blame you for it.

You feel lucky to have found that kind of parental love elsewhere, sad that you didn’t know exactly what it felt like beforehand.

After giving the couple Steve’s phone number to call in case they needed you and giving them both another hug, you and Steve headed back home.

Home, you call it. Like it’s yours.

Sometimes it feels like it is.

Later, after you and Steve have both showered and had dinner and gotten comfy in your sweats, you’re back in the living room, Steve shows you the movie he’s brought back this time.

“Gremlins?” You ask, smiling and shaking your head.

“Hell yeah, angel. It’s a classic.”

Steve sets everything up, joining you on the couch after pressing ‘play’ on the movie and adjusting the volume with your guidance.

“So, how was work?” Steve asks during the opening credits. The two of you have a hard time being next to each other and not talking. It’s why you get dirty looks whenever you go to the movies.

“Weekdays are so boring, Steve,” you say, letting your head fall against the back of the couch. “You’re so lucky you have Robin to entertain you during the day. I think I dusted like, ten times at least.”

“Robin is a pain in my ass.” He says. He doesn’t really mean it, because even when she is, he’s glad to have her around. A different kind of gladness than he feels with you. “She kept pushing me every time I sat in the rolling chair. There’s probably a dent in the desk.”

“That’s because you were probably hogging the chair, Steve.”

“What the fuck!” Steve’s smiling when he says it, lacking any sort of anger. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Your smile mirrors his, the way it always does. It’s contagious, you think, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner.

Shrugging, you say, “I don’t know, I’d wanna push you around on that chair too, I think.”

“You’d spin me too much. I’d get sick all over you and then nobody’s happy.”

“Don’t talk about barf while I’m eating, Harrington.”

You throw a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his lap, and he doesn’t even flinch. Steve just picks it up and pops it into his mouth.

When the bowl’s empty, you lean forward and set it on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch, Steve's shoulder brushing yours. You let the warmth seep through your clothes and shut your eyes.

It’s a little more than halfway through the movie when Steve realizes you’re asleep. You’d been quiet, sure, but Steve only thought that meant you were paying attention to the movie.

That was, until your head slipped and rested against his shoulder.

He looked down at you, at the hair falling across your forehead (he smoothed it away gently, so it wouldn’t be in your eyes or your mouth), your eyebrows relaxed and free of any worry, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

He thinks of how tired you must be, after everything. Your apartment and dealing with the aftermath both emotionally and physically, working long shifts most days to keep your bank account full.

Steve, though he doesn’t let himself look too deep into it, also thinks of how beautiful you are. Now and always.

Not wanting you to get a kink in your neck from the position, Steve decides to rouse you from sleep as gently as possible. He slips a hand under your head to keep it steady and maneuvers himself to kneel in front of you.

“Hey, angel,” he almost whispers, thumb dragging across your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Your nose scrunches and you grumble, but after some coaxing, you blink your eyes open and squint at Steve. You blame your half-asleep mind on the way you nuzzle into his palm. “Hmm?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh, sorry,” you mumble.

Steve laughs softly. “Don’t be sorry, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The warmth of his hand leaves your cheek as he stands and holds his hands out for you to grab. He pulls you up off the couch and starts leading you towards the stairs.

You knuckle at your eyes on the way, a tiny smile gracing your face at how sweet Steve’s being. As if you haven’t fallen asleep on his couch plenty of times before.

Still sleepy, you stumble a little on the stairs, but Steve catches you easily with an arm around your waist and a small “Careful.”

He leaves his arm there the rest of the way to what’s become your bedroom, guiding you over to the bed and lifting the covers for you.

Tomorrow, you’ll regret not brushing your teeth or washing your face before climbing in bed. But today, you don’t feel like risking not being able to sleep again if you wake yourself up further.

You’re practically asleep again by the time you’re settled with your head on the pillow as Steve tugs the blankets over you.

You’re just awake enough to feel the light press of his lips on your forehead and a soft “Goodnight, angel” against your skin before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

-

On a random Thursday that you and Steve both have off, he convinces you to let him take you to the mall.

“We should go shopping,” he says when you walk into the kitchen. It’s a little later in the morning, having slept in since it’s a day off, the sun slipping through the window in warm beams.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Like, groceries?”

“No, like shopping shopping. You know, the mall?”

You lean against the kitchen island, the countertop cool on your back where it touches the sliver of skin between your tank top and sleep shorts. Steve has his shoulder against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight against his muscles. Not that you’re looking.

You squint at him, trying to find his motive on his face. “You literally buy whatever the mannequins are wearing to avoid shopping.”

“That’s what they’re there for!” The sass in his voice has you biting back a smile. “You need new clothes,” he continues, “and I need to get out of this house.”

“We can do something else, Steve,” you say. “I thought you hated shopping.”

“Well, I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes lowering to that sliver of skin above your shorts. He flicks them back to your face quickly, hoping you didn’t notice, because even he’s not sure what compelled his eyes to wander. “Plus, Eddie called me a hermit the other day and I really can’t stand for that, can I?”

“Ohhh,” you ignore the way your skin suddenly feels warm beneath his gaze, “so you need to make a public appearance to prove Eddie wrong?”

“Exactly. We’ll replace some of the things you lost and restore my reputation. Two birds, one stone, right angel?”

So that’s how you’d ended up at the mall. After Starcourt burnt down, the closest place was a couple towns over, and Steve (as always) offered to drive.

He lets you pick the music the entire way, sings along when you hold your water bottle by his mouth like a microphone, even attempts to harmonize with you which just ends in laughter because neither of you sounded that great.

You’re a couple of stores in, and Steve’s been complaint-free so far—which makes sense, since this was his idea, but you’ve caught him side-eyeing some things, so you know he’s got some remarks in his head he just hasn’t said out loud—and follows you around as you browse. You try not to take too long, because you can’t imagine that this is any fun for him.

“How about that one?” Steve asks, pointing at one of the dresses hanging along the store’s wall.

He’d seen your apartment, though that was a bit ago, and he remembered what you’d lost the most of, along with the type of stuff you like. He pays attention like that, in small, quiet ways that you think mean the most.

He knows you. He cares enough to know you.

“Yeah, that’s really pretty, actually,” you admit.

At your approval, Steve grabs one in your size (which he also just happens to know) and adds it to the couple of things he’d already been holding for you. Every time you picked something up, he was quick to snatch it from you, telling you it was ‘too hard to browse with your hands full.’

After making your way through the rest of the store, you decided to head back to try things on, holding out a hand for the stuff Steve’s holding. “You can wait out here, I’ll be quick.”

“Hold on,” he says, holding the hangers out of your reach. “Why do you think I’m here, angel? I wanna help you pick.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Give me a fashion show, yeah?”

“Oh my God,” you mumble, letting him follow you to the fitting rooms.

They’re hidden behind the back wall of the store, a hallway painted bright blue with pink changeroom doors on one side, and white benches along the other.

“Hi there,” an employee with auburn hair greets you both, her smile wide and kind, though you know it’s a practiced one. Customer service smile. “How many you got there, darling?”

“Oh, um,” you turn back towards Steve, who’s counting the hangers in his hand. “Five.”

“Perfect!” The girl takes the key hanging around her neck and unlocks one of the rooms for you. She takes the clothes from Steve and hangs them up inside for you, then turns to the two of you and says, “Your man can have a seat right here. We call them the ‘boyfriend benches.’”

“He’s not my-”

“Thanks,” Steve says, cutting off your correction because for some reason he didn’t want you to correct her.

Did he… like the idea of being your boyfriend?

Fuck. No. He just didn’t want you to have to explain the whole situation in your rambly way. That’s all.

The redhead smiles again, “Holler if you need anything,” she says before walking off.

You stand there for a second, something like confusion on your face. Did it look like you were boyfriend and girlfriend?

“Come on,” Steve says, snapping the both of you out of whatever that was. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“I can't believe you’re making me do this,” you say, walking into the fitting room and shutting the door.

You try on a couple of sweaters first, and Steve feels the fabric both times, making sure that it’s not scratchy on your skin. Then, there’s just some basic t-shirts that aren’t all that exciting, but Steve says they look nice anyway.

Finally, you get to the dress he picked out.

It really was pretty. A midi-length with a ruffled hem and straps that tie into little bows on your shoulders. You don’t always feel good in your clothes. Sometimes you wish you could crawl out of your skin when you look into the mirror, but right now, you don’t hate what you see.

You actually like it.

“Well?” Steve calls softly from the bench.

In response, you open the door and step out so he can see you.

Steve’s seen you in plenty of dresses—hell, you went to prom together—but for some reason this one makes his heart beat just a little bit quicker. Maybe it’s simply the fact that it looks great on you, or the way you’re smiling shyly as he looks you over.

Or, maybe it’s because he’s the one who picked it.

He stands up, spinning his finger in the air in a gesture for you to twirl. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. The hallway of fitting rooms isn’t very big, so with both of you in it, you’re standing toe to toe, the gold flecks in the middle of Steve’s eyes and the faint freckles that dot his nose are visible from where you stand.

As if he can’t help it, Steve lifts a finger and dips it beneath the strap on your shoulder. Not moving it or undoing it, just gliding along your skin where it sits.

“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice goes all quiet and soft when he says it, and his eyes widen a tiny bit, like he hadn’t meant it to slip out that way. It sounded… more than friendly. He clears his throat and steps back as much as he can in the small space, his finger leaving your skin. “I have great taste. Clearly.”

You blink at him, then shake yourself out of it as much as you can. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” You lift the tag where it hangs by your armpit and look at the price. You gasp and swat Steve’s arm. “Steve! Why would you let me walk into a place so expensive?”

You probably should’ve looked at the tag beforehand, but here you are. Steve, shrugging exaggeratedly, says, “I didn’t know!”

“Okay, I’m gonna change before she comes back. We can make a run for it.”

“We’re not stealing.”

“I know, but they look at you all judgemental when you try stuff on and don’t buy something. Trust me.”

You turn and go back into the fitting room to put on your own clothes, taking a look at the dress in the mirror one last time before shaking your head at yourself.

Steve, however, takes the opportunity to leave you and head back out into the store. He finds the dress easily and grabs another one in your size from the rack and heads to the cashier.

He’s just finishing up, bag in hand, when you walk out and meet him at the front of the store.

“For you,” he says, holding out the bag for you to take.

“Steve…” You grab it and look inside. Your chest aches when you see the dress, your heart suddenly too full and your stomach fluttering stupidly. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine with something from the Gap.”

“I know that,” he says, a hand lifting to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick of his, and the thought of him being nervous right now makes you melt even more. “I wanted to get it for you. You looked too pretty in it not to have it.”

Your eyes catch his, and again, something passes between you that you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. A fizzle, a spark.

You rock back on your feet, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. They’re so fucking soft it makes you wonder how lucky you have to be to have him in your life. Being your best friend, driving you to work even when he doesn’t have a shift, offering you a place to stay, buying you a dress.

He’s the sweetest boy you’ve ever known.

“Well,” you twist the straps of the bag around your fingers just to keep them busy. “Thank you, Steve. This is really nice.”

His knuckle traces down your arm just once, featherlight. “You’re welcome, angel.”

You don’t buy anything else after that, instead stopping at the food court for fries, stealing from each other’s baskets, smiling and slapping hands away.

It’s the best day you’ve had in a while.

-

You don’t think anything you do will convey just how grateful you are that Steve has been so kind to you. Always, but especially now. Letting you stay with him and refusing to let you pay rent. (“I don’t even pay rent, and I live here all the time.”)

But, this morning, you’ve decided you’re gonna try.

Steve’s favorite meal of the day happens to be breakfast, which is funny, considering he usually eats something as simple as cereal. He’d told you once that it was because, as a kid, breakfast was the most peaceful of meals, his parents too busy getting ready for work or wherever they were going that he’d have the kitchen table to himself.

Lunch was usually spent at school, and Steve was never a fan of school to begin with. Then there was dinner, which his parents (when they were home) still wanted to have all together. They’d ask him questions and make backhanded comments about every single answer he gave. He never won at dinner.

So, breakfast was, and has remained, his favorite.

You made sure to get up early enough to give yourself time to get everything ready before he wakes up. Steve’s usually the one making the coffee in the morning, and you figured the least you could do was give him a break.

Yesterday, while Steve had been at work, you went over to the Wheeler’s and asked Nancy if you could borrow their waffle maker. She’d directed the question to her mother, who went and grabbed it for you and handed it over with a smile. You promised to take good care of it and have it back in a couple of days.

By the time Steve walks into the kitchen, you’ve already made the batter and set out the toppings—berries, maple syrup, whipped cream—like a buffet. However, he just so happens to come in as you’re swearing at the waffle maker.

“Stupid fucking thing,” you mutter, trying to open it.

Steve smiles to himself before saying, “Morning, angel.”

You jump at his voice, not having heard him walk in. When you turn around, your heart beats for a different reason.

Steve’s still only in his pajama pants, plaid and soft, hanging low on his hips. And he’s shirtless, his chest smattered with hair and his skin a little tanned from the sun. He’s got beauty marks all over, like a constellation you could chart, and his abs are just visible beneath the soft of his stomach. A trail of hair leading to the waistband of his pants and disappearing beneath them.

You’ve seen Steve shirtless plenty of times. Swimming and sleeping over in the summer, in high school when you used to go to his practices, but it hits you harder for some reason this time.

The way his hair is still a mess from sleep, his eyes a bit heavy. The way it feels to be greeting him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Intimate. Domestic.

You clear your throat and turn back around to pry the waffle maker open, revealing a slightly burnt but otherwise good-looking waffle. “I’m making breakfast. Coffee’s already in the pot, too.”

He walks over, his chest close to your back as he grabs a mug from the cabinet above you before heading over to pour himself a cup. He looks at the spread you’ve prepared, “Waffles, huh? What did I do to deserve all this?”

“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” you say as Steve walks over to lean against the counter next to you, his hip barely touching yours. “To thank you, in a way. For letting me stay and the dress and-”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop thanking me?” He says, though his voice is soft and still a bit rough from sleep. “I like having you around.”

“So you don’t want the waffles then?”

“Oh, I want the waffles. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s not some debt you’ll owe me, angel.”

“Want you to know I appreciate you is all,” you say, pouring a new scoop of batter into the waffle maker.

Steve, unsure of what exactly possesses him to do so, dips in and presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, his lips a whisper away from your skin when he says, “I appreciate you, too.”

Then he pulls away and moves to set the table. Like it was natural.

And it was, in a way. How you moved around each other in the kitchen. You leaning out of the way when he needed to reach something you were blocking, him putting a hand on your lower back when he walked behind you so you knew he was there.

Your cheek still tingles from where he’d kissed it when you bring the plate of waffles to the table, your skin somehow even warmer under his gaze, like he’s still remembering exactly how it felt, too.

You sit in the chair beside Steve, not noticing the way he tugs it a bit closer to him with his foot before you sit down. Soon enough, both of you are digging in. Steve’s got more whipped cream on his plate than waffle (you tell him as much) and you’ve got your berries on the side the way you always do.

Neither of you work until later in the day, and it’s nice knowing that you can take your time. Steve tells you about the advice he gave Dustin about how to be ‘cooler’ in school (he’d told him that being cool is completely overrated, he knew from experience, and that being himself is the most important). You’d told him he was going soft with age.

You talk about anything at all. How Keith somehow manages both of your places of work, how he also somehow does both terribly. The way he says ‘if you have time to lean, you have time to clean’ while literally having Cheeto dust on his fingers. Laughing at each other’s impressions of him.

What the new highscores were at the arcade, what people were renting from Family Video.

You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to leave. When you’re living alone again.

Logically, you know you’ll still see Steve frequently, because he’s your favorite person and you can’t remember the last time you went longer than a few days without hanging out. Still, it’ll be different than right now, waking up in the same space and sharing breakfast and brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror.

You’ll miss it, you think.

Trying not to dwell on something that’s still a few weeks away, you take another bite of your waffle. Steve catches your chin and wipes off a bit of whipped cream from the corner of your mouth, then pulling away and sucking it off his thumb.

He goes back to his own plate without a thought. Like touching you just now was an instinct.

Then, he teases you, “These are a little crispy, angel. Maybe you should stick to letting me make breakfast in this household.”

You kick his leg under the table. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’ Harrington.”

He kicks you back, much gentler than you’d been. “Thank you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

When you look at him, there’s an easy, boyish smile on his face.

A similar one stretches across your own lips.

-

Steve has had the thought pop up into his head a couple of times, that maybe he should’ve just asked you to live with him before you ever bought that apartment. Because having you around feels the most right things have ever felt in his house.

And though the circumstances of your moving in with him (temporarily, he has to remind himself), were far from ideal, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t glad that you’ve ended up sharing his space.

The room across the hall will always be yours, even when you move back to your place.

He knows that you feel indebted to him for all of it, but if anyone owes the other something, he feels like it’s him. For everything you’ve ever done for him. Sticking around even when he was an asshole in highschool, defending him to his parents whenever you’d cross paths, simply being the kind of friend he needed.

Even when you’re not around, he can picture your face, the way your smile spreads slowly until you’re fucking beaming. Worse, the way you cried into his chest that day at your apartment.

He remembers the crack in your voice when you spoke about that picture frame from summer camp. Though he hasn’t seen you cry since, or even bring it up, he’s decided he wants to fix it. He’d told you he would.

Dustin wound up roped into his plan: find a similar frame, decorate it the exact same way, and scour the photo albums in Steve’s room for his copy of that same picture.

When he was younger, the photo albums pissed him off, because they were purely for show. Pictures of his family that were all fake smiles. Now, he’s glad for them, because at least he has some good memories to look back on. To know it wasn’t always all bad.

Steve probably should’ve thought that one through, because when they looked through his albums, he was on the receiving end of relentless teasing from Dustin. (“Dude, you have an insane boogie in this picture.” “I was four!”)

He hopes it’ll be worth it.

Dustin was the one who found the picture they’d been looking for, and he cheered and waved it in Steve’s face as if they’d been racing.

Now, after driving Dustin back home, decorating the frame the way the two of you did as kids, trying to make his handwriting look like it did back then (which wasn’t too difficult, ‘cause Steve’s writing still isn’t that neat), he’s waiting for you to come downstairs before giving it to you.

He’d picked you up after your shift at the arcade not too long ago, but he knows you like to shower and change as soon as you get home from work, so he’d taken the opportunity to wrap the frame and have it ready for you.

Steve can hear you singing in the shower, and he knows you’re done when it goes quiet. A few minutes later you’re walking down the stairs in a baggy t-shirt and silky sleep shorts.

His eyes, for some reason, linger on your legs for a second.

He stands up, frame in his hand, when you walk over. “I have something for you.”

“Steve! Stop buying me things. Seriously.”

“This thing was free, so you can’t even be mad,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly.

Your eyes search his face, flickering between his own and dipping down to his lips and his nose and back to his eyes. He looks… nervous.

Steve’s never nervous around you.

“Okay,” you say, shuffling on your feet. “What is it?”

“Here,” he hands you the poorly-wrapped frame. “Open it.”

You scrunch your brows at him once, because you have no idea what it could be. It isn’t your birthday, or any sort of holiday at all. With zero guesses, you look down at the light yellow wrapping paper in your hands and slowly tear it open.

What you find makes your eyes grow misty, tears pooling at your lash line but not quite falling.

It’s your favorite picture, the one of you and Steve in those stupid neon shirts with messy hair and dirt on your hands. Only now, it’s not water damaged, and the frame is new, but decorated just like the old one. You run your thumbs over the glass lightly, smiling down at little you and little Steve.

When you look back up at him, he’s already looking at you, his brown eyes all warm, his smile kind but also worried, waiting for your reaction.

Seeing his face springs you into motion, jumping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck tightly with the frame still in your hand. “Thank you,” you say into his skin.

Steve’s arms move to hold you around your waist without a thought. A reflex. They squeeze you close to him, his nose pressed into your damp hair, smelling your shampoo.

“It’s not perfect,” he says. “But I know how much you love that picture, and I wanted to fix it.”

“Steve. Shut up. It is perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, his thumbs running back and forth against your back.

You hug for what could’ve been minutes, but neither of you moves to pull away first. You’re not sure if it’s still considered friendly to stand in each other's arms, breathing each other in, for so long, but you don’t care at the moment.

This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a long, long time.

When you finally do pull away, you don’t go far. Your arms stay slung over his shoulders, Steve’s hands framing your hips. His thumbs still dragging those sweet patterns against you.

“I’m keeping it forever,” you tell him.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Certain. You’ll always be my best friend, Steve.”

“You’ll always be mine too, angel.”

Then, your eyes both move to each other’s lips, yours flick back up in a second, startled at their wandering.

Steve, however, is a bit transfixed. He looks at the slope of your cupid’s bow, the way your lips are shiny from your lip balm. He thinks it quickly, like a gust of wind that can’t be stopped: I really wanna kiss her right now.

Fuck. He wants to kiss his best friend.

He blinks a few times, clearing his throat and pulling back, letting his hands fall from your waist as yours slide off his shoulders. He misses the feel of your touch immediately, but he’s too freaked out and confused to do anything about it.

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asks, cutting off his own thoughts. “I brought back a horror and a comedy. Take your pick.”

“Mmm,” he picks up two tapes from the coffee table and holds them up for you to choose from. “Horror. Unless you’re too scared?”

“You’ll just have to hold my hand, then, won’t you?”

“I guess I will.”

You look back at the picture while Steve puts the movie into the player. You smile at it every time you see it, because you can still see parts of Steve in him now that were in him then.

His eyes, always kind, the way he smiles when he laughs, and about a half hour into the movie, the way he holds your hand and squeezes it when he’s scared.

-

You’re having one of those nights. The kind where sleep seems to be fighting you.

You worked a closing shift at the arcade, which usually lasts until late considering how long you’re open plus all of the cleaning you have to do afterwards. Today was no different, and despite how much later you finish than him at Family Video, Steve waited and drove you home. He hung out in the arcade with you until close, actually.

You’d think that after such a long day, the second your head hit the pillow you’d be out and breathing steadily. Today, that is not the case. You fell asleep for maybe an hour before a nightmare woke you up. You can’t quite remember what happened, only that you’d been yelling for Steve and he wasn’t there.

Groaning quietly, you rub your eyes and toss the blankets away. You stand up and head down to the kitchen in the dark, hand trailing along the walls to make sure you don’t bump into anything.

Just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of water, you hear the shuffle of sleepy footsteps coming into the kitchen.

“Holy shit,” he says, walking over to grab a glass, one hand on his bare chest. “I thought you were a ghost or something just now.”

You shift out of the way to let him get some water just like you did, taking the second that he’s distracted to look at him. His hair a mess, wearing nothing but his boxers. You take a big sip from your glass.

“I feel like I should be offended right now,” you say, “if you think I look like a ghost.”

“Shut up,” he says, dragging out the second word. His voice being rough from sleep makes his words sound much warmer than they are. “My eyes aren’t awake yet. Nothing to do with you, angel.”

You shake your head, though there’s a soft smile on your face the way there always seems to be when you try to be annoyed with Steve. You tilt your head at him, asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. “Been tossing and turning. Just can’t get comfortable, then I got pissed ‘cause I couldn’t get comfortable and only made it worse.”

“You would get pissed at that. Probably slapped your pillow like it was at fault.”

He folds his lips inwards and blinks at you. Because he did smack his pillow and call it a dipshit. “Why do you know everything? Spying on me?”

“Hate to say it, but you’re getting predictable, Harrington.” You shrug, then move to put your now empty glass in the dishwasher. “I know you too well.”

He looks at you, your hair falling across your shoulders, your pajama shorts riding up a little as you bend down. The moonlight slipping through the window seems to hit you perfectly. Like a halo.

Fitting, he thinks. You’re his angel, after all.

“Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Then, “What about you? Why’re you up?”

“Nightmare. Been forever since I had one.”

“You okay?” he asks, trailing a knuckle over your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, skin tingling where he’d touched you. “I can't even remember most of it, but now my brain won’t let me sleep.”

Steve wishes he could’ve protected you from whatever haunted you in your sleep. It’s silly, he knows, to think he might be able to ward away anything that hurts you, but he wants to, nonetheless.

He thinks about how comfortable he is whenever you cuddle during movie night. Your head on his shoulder or his chest, his hand on your back or waist.

So, he blurts, “Why don’t you sleep over?”

You furrow your brows at him, “Um, I’ve been sleeping over. A couple of weeks now, actually.”

“No, I mean, like in my room with me,” he says, suddenly shy at the idea. He’s grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his cheeks warming up. “A proper sleepover.”

You’ve done it before. Shared a bed a bunch of times, but for some reason your heart jumps when he says it. Your stomach swirls as you say, maybe a little too quickly, “Okay.”

Steve’s eyes widen like he’s surprised, just for a split second, before a soft smile takes over his face. He holds out a hand for you to take, “C’mon.”

Soon enough, Steve’s lifting his navy bedspread for you, letting you slip into bed next to him. He stays further away at first, letting you settle and lay on your side the way he knows you always do.

You blame sleepiness—or, maybe, the lack thereof—for the way you reach behind you for his arm and tug him closer, draping it over your own waist.

He obliges, of course, his arm securing itself across your stomach, palm spread out and warm against your sleep shirt. His chest is only a breath away from your back, though he keeps his lower half a little more distanced.

His thumb runs circles over your shirt, once, twice, three times before stilling, his forehead pressing to the back of your neck.

“Goodnight, angel,” he says into your hair.

Your hand splays itself on top of his. “Night, Steve.”

And suddenly your eyes grow heavier, and sleep doesn’t feel like much of a battle anymore.

-

You wake up the most rested you’ve felt in a while. There’s warmth surrounding you, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that feels safe.

Somehow, you and Steve are even closer than you’d been when you fell asleep. His arm is still around your waist, his other outstretched and tucked beneath your head like a pillow. His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel it expand with every breath he takes.

Most differently of all, however, is the way his hips are snug against the curve of your butt. And you can feel him hard against you.

Your skin feels even warmer than before when you notice.

Steve hasn’t woken up yet, you don’t think, because the faintest snores are getting puffed out against your shoulder where his face is tucked. His hand on your stomach has worked its way beneath your shirt, though, and his fingertips press against your skin, like he’s fighting to keep you close.

As if you’d go anywhere even in your sleep.

His knee is tucked between your legs, and you’re quickly realizing that it’d be pretty impossible to get out of bed without him noticing. You’re completely tangled together, a knot of limbs somehow fitting together just right. Like two puzzle pieces.

In his sleep, Steve’s mouth presses against the back of your shoulder, and only when you involuntarily shiver at the contact, does he stir.

It takes Steve a bit to really wake up, mumbling words that don’t make sense, scrunching his eyes shut even further before blinking them open. He’s met with the sight of you right in front of him. Body curved perfectly against his.

“Steve? You awake?” you ask, checking.

“Mhm,” he hums.

Then, something that has his cheeks flushing pink, he registers the feeling of his boner pressed against your ass. He shuffles them back enough so there’s space between you. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say. Because he can’t control the way his body reacts while he’s asleep.

“I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off, because he’s not quite sure how to say I didn’t think about the whole morning wood factor or that I’d fucking plaster myself to you when I suggested a sleepover without sounding stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “I’m sorry.”

You twist yourself around to face him, sheets crumpling and twisting as you move. When you settle back onto the pillow and look at his face, at the redness on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, you squeeze his hand that’s now laying between you.

“It’s okay, really,” you say. “It’s, like, anatomy. You’re human, Steve.”

“I don’t want you to think I invited you to sleep in here for some pervy reason,” he says, scrunching his nose when he says it.

“I don’t think that at all,” you tell him. You squeeze his hand again. “We’ve shared a bed like, a hundred times by now. If anything I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, shutting his eyes and pushing his face into the pillow.

“Steve,” you drag out his name, fighting a giggle at the way he’s acting. He’s got a reputation, after all, and how shy and embarrassed he seems to be doesn’t reflect the things you heard about him in high school. He’s changed a lot since then. “It’s seriously fine. We can pretend it never happened. Promise.”

Steve pulls his face from the pillow, eyes catching yours as his fingers squeeze yours back in appreciation. He lets his eyes wander a bit, at the messy bits of your hair around your face from sleeping, the marks in your cheek from the pillowcase, the way your sleep shirt has fallen off your shoulder.

He feels lucky to get to see you this way, right after you’ve woken up. Vulnerable, unguarded, beautiful.

It’s during this small stretch of silence that you realize how close your faces are now. You’re sharing a pillow, his nose not even an inch from yours. Shift forward the slightest bit, and they’d be touching. Your eyes trail down to his mouth, to the visible patch of chest hair and the freckles that dot his skin. He’s already looking right at you when your eyes flick back upwards.

You know Steve, could tell what he’s feeling just from the look on his face, but this is one you’ve never seen before. At least, not directed at you.

Steve moves first, his eyes a little darker than usual, shifting forward slightly, then looking at you. Daring you to make the next move.

“What if we didn’t forget about it?” he says. Quiet and scratchy.

You don’t have time to think before you move forward a bit, too. Your noses brush. “What would that mean?”

Steve doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he moves forward the final bit and brushes his lips against yours in a question mark of a kiss, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, the hand of yours that isn’t still holding his comes up to the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to do it again. His free hand tightens at your waist as he dips in a second time.

It isn’t as tentative now that you’ve urged him on. His lips meet yours more sure, more firm, but still soft against you. Neither of you cares one bit about morning breath, or about what this might change. As if the morning’s haze slows time, minds still a little sleepy.

You’re simply acting on instinct. And this feels too right to stop.

Soon enough it grows more heated, Steve shifting to hover over you, his elbows pushing into the mattress to hold himself up, his tongue sneaking out to lick against the seam of your lips for permission.

Just as you open up for him, the blaring sound of Steve's alarm cuts you off, pulling back with a gasp. He simply leans up on one arm and slams the snooze button—and you laugh, you laugh, at how hard he hits it—before diving back into you.

You feel hot all over, where one of Steve’s hands has moved to cup your jaw, his thumb running delicately against your face as his mouth moves against yours, practically devouring you. Where the blankets are still over your lower halves, trapping in heat. When he pulls back, looks into your eyes, fucking smiles all dopey and pretty, and then kisses you again.

It’s so good, you’re almost angry at yourself for not kissing him sooner.

You kiss until his alarm goes off again and Steve's forced to pry himself away from you, groaning about being on his ‘last tardy warning’ from Keith.

Still, he takes the time to kiss your forehead on his way out, Family Video vest slung over his shoulder, calling a sweet, “bye, angel,” on his way out. His hair’s still a mess from your fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to mind.

You stay in his bed longer than you probably should, blinking up at the ceiling, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re searching for physical proof that everything was real.

What the fuck just happened?

-

It’s been a couple of weeks, and Steve can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He doesn’t know it, but you can’t stop thinking about it either.

Neither of you have brought it up, and things have faded back to normal as if it had never happened. But you and Steve are both thinking the same things without knowing it. How good and natural and easy it felt, how, every now and then, you think about doing it again.

You talk and joke and watch movies and eat meals together the same way you always have, and it’d be so easy to stay that way, to never kiss again. But then, what if you could stay that way and kiss? Wouldn’t that be something close to perfect?

You lay awake thinking about it every few nights. Because, when you really reflect on your life and how intertwined it is with Steve’s, you realize that you’ve sort of always acted like a couple, minus the kissing and sex aspect. You go on what could easily be classified as dates—the movies, lunch or dinner—you cuddle on the couch almost nightly, and you’ve never shied away from physical touch with one another. Held hands, a palm on your back.

You haven’t brought it up with Steve because you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself. Feelings are so fucking confusing and messy and you’d like to have a better idea of what’s going on in your own head before asking him about his.

Meanwhile, Steve has allowed himself to come to terms with it. He’s in love with you.

He’s pretty sure he has been for a while. Months, maybe even years.

It hadn’t come easily, though. It was nights spent similarly to yours, running through interactions you’ve had and the way he felt that one time in senior year when you went on a date with some guy from your math class. Even then, a part of him felt wrong about it, that pit in his gut.

Then there were his shifts with Robin at Family Video where he’d practically spilled everything just to get her opinion. She looked up and sighed “thank you” before saying that it was nice of him to finally catch on.

Had he really been that obvious? All this time? And had he really been that oblivious to his own feelings?

Steve can’t answer those questions. He can’t say when his love for you changed from platonic to romantic, he just knows that it has and he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back from it.

You’re his best friend in the entire world, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and he can’t picture himself loving anyone but you so wholly.

He’s fucking terrified of losing you, but he’s also terrified of never telling you how he feels and testing that what if.

So, like a desperate idiot, he knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer.

Eddie opens it after a minute and what sounded like him stubbing his toe, “oh, hey Harrington. More weed?”

“No, shut up. I need your help.”

“You,” Eddie points at Steve, then at himself, “need my help for something? Are you ill?”

“Okay,” Steve, dramatic and bitchy as usual, sighs and mutters something about this being a stupid idea and turns to leave.

“Come on,” Eddie laughs, “I’m just joking. What’s up?”

Soon enough, Steve’s sitting on Eddie’s couch, Eddie pacing in front of the coffee table like this is a very serious matter, and telling him pretty much everything. Your kiss, the train of thought it sparked.

“Basically I’m in love with her and I have no clue what to do,” Steve finishes, sinking back into the couch cushions. It squeaks as he shifts.

Eddie pauses, tugging at his bottom lip between his fingers, then looks at Steve and says, “You know I’ve never dated anyone in my life, right?”

Steve groans into his hands, “Why do all of my friends have to be losers with no dating lives.”

Eddie ignores that, because he can tell how affected Steve actually is by all of this. How much he cares. He walks over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, telling her how you feel?”

Steve rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and letting his head hang for a moment before picking it up. “Of course I have, but I’m fuckin’ scared.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um, she could reject me and not feel the same way and everything would be awkward because I ruined it and I’d lose my best friend in the entire world.”

“What if she does feel the same?” Eddie asks.

He’s both yours and Steve’s friend, he’s been around the both of you together. He’s seen the way you look at each other. Eddie might not be an expert, but it’s always looked a lot like love to him. He’s pretty sure the chances of you feeling the same are quite high.

“What do you mean?”

“What if she does feel the same and you never figure it out because you’re too afraid?” Eddie says. “Man, don’t you think that risk is worth taking?”

Steve thinks about it, and as much as he hates to admit it, Eddie’s right. He’d hate to always wonder, to lose out on the chance to really be with you when he knows it could be so good.

You are worth the risk to him.

“When the fuck did you become so wise, Munson?”

“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Wanna smoke?”

Steve laughs, “Yes I do.”

-

With Steve gone at work and you off for the day, there’s been too much room for your thoughts to creep in. Too much silence.

You’ve already been thinking about things so much. Thinking about him so much, that in his absence, your mind seemed to work overtime to fill in the gaps.

You thought about the day he picked you up from your apartment, how quick he was to drop whatever he’d been doing and come over and help you and take you home with him. The day he took you shopping and bought you a dress because he thought you looked pretty in it, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap on your shoulder when you tried it on for him.

The day he gifted you a remade version of your favorite picture from summer camp because he knew how much it meant to you, the way you held on to each other afterwards.

How you’d been waiting for him to get home that night he went to Eddie’s, just to make sure he was okay. How when he came in, he smiled at the sight of you curled on the couch, and he kissed your cheek when he walked by like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Your brain knew he was high, you could smell the weed mingling with his cologne on his clothes when he leaned in close, but your heart didn’t care about that. It thumped in your chest the second he leaned in closer, even worse when his lips touched your cheek.

The realization hits you now like a shock, a quick zip of electricity running through your system. You fucking love him.

Sure, you’ve loved Steve practically your whole life, but this was different. You love him, love him. Like, you want to kiss him when he comes home from work and in the morning. You want him to introduce you as his girlfriend and to be able to call him your boyfriend.

You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, because looking back on things now, knowing how you feel, you can see it written throughout your entire friendship. Holding hands and kissing foreheads and hands pushing hair away from faces.

For a second, you’re purely happy, because you get to be in love with your best friend and it feels as warm and sweet as sunlight. Then, the fear creeps in, and you’re scared. Scared of losing him, of making things weird, of change and doing the wrong thing.

So scared that you start to panic and pack up some of your things in your bag like you’re running away.

Truthfully, you’re not sure what else to do. You’ve never been in love before, you’ve never known it this way—so kind and unconditional. And your parents sure as hell didn’t set a good example for you. They’d fight, and someone would leave with the slam of a door, and then they’d be back and the cycle would continue.

You’re scared and confused and your instincts are telling you to run away even though the only place you really wanna be is with Steve. In his arms.

You’re stuffing clothes into your bag just to keep your hands busy, breathing hard and fast, when you hear the front door open and close. Steve’s quick to find you, his eyes scanning your room and then looking at you. “What are you doing?”

You feel like you might cry just looking at him. His brown eyes worried but warm as always, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s nervous.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the shake in your voice.

“It was dead, so Keith let me off early. I-” Steve furrows his brows, “are you leaving?”

You nod. “I’ve been in your way long enough.”

“I told you, you’re never in my way.” Steve knows you, and he loves you, and he can tell that there’s something going on. That you’re panicked and trying to get away from whatever it is. He cares too much to let that happen. “I want you to stay.”

You want to stay, too. You just don’t know what comes next, and that unknown, the lack of control, of familiarity, it makes your hands shake.

Your mind doesn’t work the same when you’re afraid.

“Give me one good reason why I should stay, Steve. I’ve been taking up your space for weeks and-”

“Because I love you.” Steve cuts you off. He hadn’t planned on telling you this way, he wanted it to be romantic and perfect but he can’t wait any longer. Especially not when you’re trying to run away. “I’m in love with you. And I want you here.”

You immediately stop in your tracks, blinking up at him like you’re not sure you’d heard him correctly. “You- what?”

“I love you. Romantically. And I think I have for a really long time.”

“You’re not high again, are you?” You ask, your eyes a little misty.

Steve walks over to you and grabs both of your hands in his, making sure you’re looking at him, at the sincerity written all over his face, when he says, “Completely sober. I fucking love you and I want you to keep living with me, because this house doesn’t really feel like home unless you’re in it.”

“What about when my apartment is ready?”

He squeezes your hands. “Stay then, too. Stay forever.”

You look up at him, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes so honest, a tentative smile on his mouth. The only boy you’ve ever loved.

You feel silly for trying to escape this when this is how it’s turning out. Steve had been brave just now, telling you he loves you and he wants you to stay, so you decide to be brave, too.

It’s easier than you thought it would be to say: “I love you, too, Steve. I feel the same. I only just realized it and freaked out. I’m so scared of losing you, is all.”

“You won’t. Not ever.”

You tip your chin up to kiss him after he says it, because you can. You pour your feelings into it, and Steve returns your kiss as if it’s one he’s known for years. It’s slow, and deep, and sweet, and so full of love you’re practically overflowing with it.

The two of you only pull away when you need a breather. Steve doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.

“So what happens now?” You ask.

“Well, we’ve been acting like a couple for a while, I think, so we stay the same. Mostly. Except now I get to call you my girlfriend-”

“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me first.”

He lets go of one of your hands and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckle running lovingly across your cheek. “My angel girl, will you be my girlfriend?”

Your grin is wide and lovesick and cheesy and you don’t care one bit. “Yeah, yes I will. Boyfriend.”

“And, being your boyfriend means I get to do this.”

He kisses you once more. And you don’t ever want to not be kissing him again.

𝜗𝜚

thank you guys so much for reading!!! it would mean a whole bunch if you would consider leaving a comment or a reblog and letting me know what you think!! it helps more than you know <3

[erenists]

Nerd!Gojo X Bimbo Reader

Part 5 MDNI 18+

“Wait— how did you know my name?” as that question spills out he realizes he doesn't know your name either. You turn around flashing him a big grin before winking and giving him a little shush signal before walking off again.

After Gojo had gotten home from school he immediately took out the piece of paper you handed him with your number in it. He exhaled softly not believing he actually has your number and he barely had to do much.

He quickly moves his fingers across his phone screen inserting your number he didn't even stop to think about how to text you he was too excited to finally get to text you.

XXX-XX: hey it's Gojo :) I realized I never got your name btw.. So what should I save you as.. oh and here's my address XXXXXXXXX you can come at 5!

He throws his phone to the side as soon as he sends you that text flustered and nervous to see if you'll respond. His eyes widen and he tenses when only a few seconds later he already hears his phone ping.

XXX-XX: hiii gojo sweetie ;)

sorry about completely forgetting to give you my name whoops it's 𐙚˙⋆.˚  make sure to put a cute heart next to it!!

Gojooo :3 💙: DW it's fine!! I'm glad to have it now.. it's a beautiful name :)

𐙚˙⋆.˚ 🩷 : aweee gojo you little flirt! ty cutie piee can't wait to see u toniteee 😘😘

Gojo smiles giddily like a middle school girl with her crush he hearts your message and swipes out of the app looking at the time in the corner of his screen, 3:02 He had enough time to clean and make sure he looks good, not for you but for himself he tries to convince himself.

He's looking at himself through the mirror fixing up his hair making sure no strands are sticking out weirdly he also makes sure to check his breath because well he never knows maybe he might get some action tonight. Gojo checks himself out making sure he's ready to have you over meanwhile you are in your room quite frankly doing the same.

You're applying lip gloss, your lips slightly parted as you sit in front of your vanity mirror. You look to the side looking at the notification from Gojo, he didn't reply, just liked your message but you still appreciated the notification anyways. you press your lips together getting up from your seat walking to your full body mirror.

You look at your outfit smirking at yourself proudly, it's not much really, just a very cute jean mini skirt and a tight white tank top that showed a peak of your blue lace bra which pushed your tits up deliciously and you topped your outfit off with a little sweater that matched the color of your bra.

"perfect m'sure he'll like this" You muttered to yourself running your hands over your body checking yourself out before heading over to your vanity once more and spraying yourself with your favorite perfume that always had you smelling nice. You picked your phone up you noticed you still had 30 minutes left and you thought to yourself why not show up a little early anyway.

-

Gojo swears his heart dropped when he heard the doorbell ring he looked at the time on his phone, it was only 4:45 meaning you were 15 minutes early NOT what Gojo was expecting but not that he minded anyways he wanted to see you again as soon as possible.

He practically tripped over himself rushing to the door, wiping his hands on his sweats one last time and running a hand through his hair as if that would somehow make him look cooler. When he opened the door, he tried to play it off with a lazy smile—but the second his eyes landed on you, it faltered.

“Holy shit,” he breathed before he could even stop himself.

There you were, standing on his doorstep with that teasing little smirk, your jean skirt hugging your hips and that snug white tank giving him an eye-full he absolutely wasn’t ready for. The little sweater draped over your arms made it look like you hadn’t even tried—but Gojo knew better. That kind of outfit was lethal, and you knew it too.

“Hey, Gojo,” you sing-songed, stepping past him like you owned the place. Your perfume hit him like a truck and he actually had to close his eyes for a second just to collect himself.

“You’re early,” he managed to say, shutting the door behind you. His voice cracked at the end. Great.

You turned, hands behind your back as you rocked on your heels. “Mhm. I figured we could get started sooner…” you trailed off, biting your glossed lip slightly as your gaze drifted down his body. “Unless you weren’t ready for me yet?”

He blinked, cheeks flushing despite his grin. “I—pfft, of course I’m ready! I’ve got the whole session planned out, down to the last equation,” he said, tapping the side of his head like he was a genius.

You cocked your head. “Oh? Equations, huh? Hope you’re better at math than I am Im literally the worst at it"

He softly laughed. “c'mon you can't be that bad, I promise as your tutor you'll be even better at math than me.”

“Well,” you said, placing your hand on his bicep looking up at him through your lashes “if you claim to be a good tutor… why don’t you teach me something already, Gojo?”

He stared at you for a second too long before finally speaking “r-right uh follow me to my room!” he chirped before turning around walking towards his room, you look around as you both step in observing everything in his room like his nerdy anime and digimon posters, his assorted collection of figures to your surprise he even had a gaming pc.

"wow Gojo so you're like a decked out nerd huh?" You smirk plopping down on his bed

"uhh yeah I guess you could say that" you assume Gojo must be blushing because he’s embarrassed about you seeing all his nerdy things but actually he's blushing because when you plopped onto his bed your skirt rode up just a little. what a perv. He looks away from your figure and grabs the material he prepared for today plopping down next to you.

"Ok..so tell me what you're more confused about in math and I'll try my best to help you through it.." He says sheepishly as he feels your eyes on him, your smirk at that last part deciding to be a little tease.

"yeah? you'll help me through it Gojoo~?" You press yourself against the side of him tilting your head and smirking slyly at him he gulps before looking down at you and nodding with uncertainty not 100% sure on what you're getting at.

Gojo clears his throat, clearly trying to act normal, like he isn’t hyper-aware of the way your thigh is brushing against his or how your perfume keeps sneaking up his nose and messing with his head.

“Y-yeah,” he stammers, trying to steady his voice, “like… equations. Fractions. Graphs. Whatever’s giving you trouble.” You lean in closer, pretending to glance at the notes he laid out, but your lips are dangerously close to his ear now.

“Mmm… I think it’s graphs that really get me,” you murmur, voice soft, sultry. “All those hard lines and curves… I can never quite figure out what to do with them.” Gojo almost chokes on his own spit.

His hands scramble for a pencil as he flips open the textbook in front of him, trying to physically shield himself with the material like it’s some kind of defense.

“Right! Graphs! Okay cool, cool cool cool—so this is, uh, a parabola…” You giggle quietly and lean your chin in your hand, blinking up at him like he’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“you’re cute when you get all nervous, y’know.”

“I’m not nervous,” he lies—terribly—his voice cracking at the end.

“mhm. sure you’re not.” You let your knee bump into his under the pretense of adjusting your position, but you don’t move it away. Your skirt has slid up again, and this time you don’t bother fixing it. You watch as Gojo’s eyes flicker down for just a second before jerking away, his jaw tight.

He shifts uncomfortably, suddenly sitting more rigidly. “Okay, s-so the x-axis goes here,” he mumbles, pointing to the graph. “And if you plug in the numbers—”

“Gojo,” you interrupt, voice slow and syrupy as you reach forward and rest your hand over his on the page, “I’m trying really hard to focus. But you’re making it kinda hard.”

Gojo’s head snaps to you, eyes wide. “Me?? I’m making it hard??”

You just smile and trace a lazy circle on the back of his hand with your fingertip. “Mhm. You just have that effect, y’know?”

He swears he short-circuits. His brain completely blanks—he’s forgotten what a parabola is, what numbers are, who he is.

“W-we should really get through this lesson,” he mutters, practically begging the universe to give him strength. His voice is shaky, but there’s a little edge of something else in there too. Something hungry.

You hum. “sure. Go ahead, teacher. I’m all ears.” But your smirk says otherwise. He starts explaining again, hand still trembling under yours, and you let him—for now. Every time he gets even slightly more confident, you lean a little closer, let your chest brush his arm, let your eyes wander just enough to make him stutter all over again. Gojo tries to stay focused. Really, he does. He’s clutching the pencil like it’s a lifeline, his other hand gripping the edge of the textbook so hard his knuckles go white. He’s halfway through explaining how to find the vertex of the parabola, and you’re… well, you’re definitely not helping.

You tilt your head, your lashes fluttering as you lean forward again—pretending to squint at the page, but you know exactly what you’re doing. The strap of your tank top slips just a little, falling off your shoulder. You don’t fix it.

Gojo’s eyes darted to it, then back to the book. Then back again. “Uh—so—when a is negative the graph opens, uh… downward…”

You smile like a cat who knows they’ve got the mouse cornered. “Downward, huh? kay think I get it” You rest your hand on his thigh looking at the graph.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters under his breath, pushing his fingers through his hair as his face burns.

“what?” you blink innocently. “I’m just trying to understand the material. You said you’d help me.” You scoot just a little closer and remove your hand. Now your thigh is pressed fully against his, warm and bare and impossible to ignore. Gojo freezes like a deer in headlights.

“W-we can… review another example,” he says, flipping the page too fast and nearly tearing it. He’s clinging to this tutoring session like it’s his last thread of dignity.

“Great idea.” You rest your chin on his shoulder now, peeking at the book over his arm. Your breath fans lightly against his neck and you feel the shiver run through him.

“You smell good,” you murmur offhandedly, like it’s just a casual little observation. “Like soap. And something else… is that cologne?”He swallows hard, ears turning red.

“Uhh. Yeah. Maybe. Just a little.”You smile to yourself, your voice low and warm.

“It’s nice. Makes me wanna get closer.” Gojo’s hand slips, dragging the pencil across the page in a messy line.

“O-oh, cool, coolcoolcool. Totally normal thing to say,” he rambles, trying and failing to focus. “You really are bad at math, by the way.”

You grin. “Mhm. I know. Guess that means we’ll need a lot more tutoring sessions, huh?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, dazed. “I think I’m in trouble.” he mutters to himself but you end up hearing it anyway. You hum, leaning back just a bit, the warmth of your body pulling away.

“Maybe. But only if you stop being such a good teacher, Gojo~” He’s barely holding it together. Every brush of your skin, every word laced with suggestion, it’s like a slow drip of gasoline on an open flame. He’s this close to combusting.

But for now, he nods, forces a grin, and mutters, “A-alright. Next problem…” You glance up at him through your lashes again. He’s fidgeting—his leg bouncing a little, his pencil tapping the page like it might save him. But it won’t.

Not with you this close. Not with your skirt riding high up your thighs, the scent of your perfume wrapping around his senses, and your eyes locked on his mouth more than the textbook. You wait a beat longer. Just to watch him squirm.

Then, without warning, you lift your hand and slowly slide it over his thigh—not high enough to be bold, but just enough to jolt him. Gojo freezes.

“Y-you okay?” he asks, voice cracking hard. He’s staring straight ahead, but you can feel the way his breath catches in his throat.

You tilt your head. “Yeah. Just trying to get comfortable,” you say sweetly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

His lips part like he wants to say something—anything—but no words come out. He glances down at your hand on his thigh, your bare skin pressed against his, the little peek of your bra still visible and you can practically see him sweating bullets.

“okay but..” Gojo says suddenly, tossing the pencil down with a soft thud. “You’re not even trying to study.”

You blink innocently. “Sure I am.”

“You're lying." he says, turning to you, and now his voice is different—low, frayed, a little breathless. “You’ve been messing with me this whole time.” You smirk, leaning in so your faces are inches apart.

“Maybe. But you liked it.” He swallows, eyes flicking to your mouth. You see the exact moment he gives in.

In one quick motion, Gojo leans in and kisses you—soft at first, like he’s afraid he’s imagining this, but when you melt into it, he groans low in his throat and deepens the kiss. His hand slides to your waist, gripping tight like he’s been dying to touch you since the second you walked through his door.

You gasp a little, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and that’s all it takes—he pushes you back gently onto the bed, hovering over you now, eyes wild and wide with need.

“You’re such a bad student” he murmurs against your lips, breathing hot. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” You grin against his mouth, heart racing.

“Yeah? if im such a bad student what are you gonna do about it, Gojo?” that has him practically whining, God he thought you were so hot.

“D-don’t say stuff like that~ it’s too tempting…” he mumbles, voice wobbling like he’s hanging on by a thread. He’s looking anywhere but your face—down at your lips, your hand on his thigh, the inch of blue lace peeking from under your tank. Anywhere but your eyes.

You lean in, your voice a sultry whisper against his ear. “Tempting…? So you’ve thought about this, huh?”

Gojo makes a noise in his throat—somewhere between a whine and a gasp—and squeezes his eyes shut like he’s trying to delete the whole situation from his memory before it breaks him. “Th-that’s not what I meant—! I mean, I have, b-but—like, not in a creepy way! Just in a normal, completely average way! Like a guy would!”

You laugh quietly, and that does nothing to help the pink spreading across his cheeks. “You’re adorable,” you murmur, dragging your fingers up his chest slowly, watching his breath hitch with every inch.

His head flops back with a groan, glasses sliding slightly down his nose. “You’re seriously gonna kill me,” he mumbles.

You hum thoughtfully. “I mean, I could stop. Go back to learning about… parabolas or whatever.”

Gojo’s eyes snapped open, panicked. “No—! I mean. Y-you don’t have to stop exactly, just maybe slow down a little or I might—” He cuts himself off, pressing the heels of his hands to his burning face. “God. This is not how I thought tutoring you would go.”

You giggle and shift in his lap just slightly—enough to make him physically twitch. “Guess you should’ve made me study harder.”

He makes the most pitiful noise you’ve ever heard. “You’re evil.”

You smile sweetly, tilting your head. “But I’m your favorite, right?”

“…Yes. Obviously. Unfortunately. Please have mercy.”

You giggle at his barely-whispered plea for mercy and lean forward again, your fingers skimming just beneath the hem of his hoodie like you’re testing how far you can go before he breaks.

“Mercy, huh?” you murmur, brushing your lips barely against his jawline. “Didn’t take you for the begging type, Gojo.”

He lets out a sound that might’ve been a whimper, his whole body tensing like he’s holding on to the last shred of self-control he has left. “I’m not—I mean I am—but only because you’re being mean,” he blurts out, voice cracking. “You’re cheating. This is cheating.”

You pretend to be confused, blinking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Cheating? But I’m just trying to learn…”

“You’re not learning anything!” he practically explodes, hands flying up in exasperation, then immediately dropping as he realizes he’s yelling. “You’ve been driving me insane since you got here and—oh my god—I can’t think straight, you smell good, your boobs are out, and you’re touching me and you’re so close and I haven’t even finished writing the example problem and—!”

You cut him off by kissing the corner of his mouth, not quite a kiss, just enough to knock the wind out of him. “Then stop thinking.”

His breath hitches again—he swears he could combust on the spot. You can see it in the way his thighs tense under yours, in the way his fingers dig into the edge of the bed like he’s trying not to grab you. He wants to. So bad.

“But if I stop thinking,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “I’m gonna do something stupid. And you’re gonna laugh at me.”

“I won’t laugh,” you promise, dragging your nails gently up his arm. “Unless you're secretly into it....” He full-body shudders.

“You’re actually insane.” You smile, eyes sparkling. “And yet you still haven’t told me to stop.”

“I can’t tell you to stop,” he blurts. “I literally can’t. You could say anything right now and I’d fold like a pathetic lawn chair.”

“Anything?” you purr, nosing up against his ear. You can feel him trembling. “Like if I said ‘I want you to touch me, Gojo’…?”

He whines. Like, actually whines, head dropping forward onto your shoulder as his hands finally come to rest on your waist—tight, needy, but still so nervous you can feel the tension buzzing through him.

“You’re not fair,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin. “You’re not playing fair.”

You run your fingers through the soft white strands of his hair and smile, leaning in close to whisper against his temple, “Good thing this isn’t a game then… or you’d already have lost.”

His breath hitches at your words and he stays still, trembling, like he’s deciding whether to run or melt right into you. But it’s already over. His fingers twitch against your waist, gripping harder now, and when he lifts his head, there’s a glassy look in his eyes—unfocused, lust-drunk, and desperate.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he mutters. “I was just trying to explain linear motion. That’s all I wanted. Now my brain’s—fuck—I can’t even remember how to spell velocity.”

You lean in until your lips are brushing his featherlight. “Good. Then maybe take a break from studying and indulge in me hm?”

His mouth crashes against yours in a messy, frantic kiss, all teeth and tongue. His glasses are skewed, his hoodie pulled taut between your bodies as he grips your hips and drags you down flush against the hardness straining in his sweats. He groans into your mouth like it hurts—like he’s been this hard since you walked in and it’s finally breaking him.

“God, you’re so—so—pretty, and mean, and smart, and mean,” he babbles between kisses, one hand sliding up under your top, shaky and reverent as he finally touches skin. “I was trying to be professional, I swear, I had notes and everything—”

You roll your hips down into his lap and he chokes, head falling back, lips parted. His cock twitches against you, leaking through his sweats.

“This is what you wanted, right?” you whisper, dragging your fingers down the front of his chest, his stomach jumping under your touch.

“Me on your lap, distracting you. Being such a baddd student, hmm??" He whimpers, nodding like he’s trying to keep his sanity through sheer willpower.

“I’m not gonna last,” he says weakly. “I’m—if you keep moving like that, I’m gonna—gonna come in my pants like some desperate virgin loser—”

“Gojo,” you say softly, smiling as you palm him through his sweats. He gasps, body jerking. “That’s because you are a desperate virgin loser.”

He moans. Full-body, high-pitched, humiliated. “Oh my god.”

“But,�� you murmur, shifting to tug down the waistband of his sweats just enough to free him, his cock flushed and twitching in your hand, “you’re my desperate loser now, right?”

His eyes roll back as you stroke him, his hips bucking helplessly into your fist. “Y-Yeah. Fuck. Yours. Just—just don’t stop. I’ll do anything, just don’t stop—”

And when you sink down onto him, slow and tight, squeezing him inch by inch until he’s fully inside, he clutches at you like he’s drowning, sobbing out your name like a prayer.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “You feel so good—I-I’m not gonna make it—I’m gonna—oh god, I’m gonna come already—” "Mm..Gojo you're filling me up s-so well im so happy u-ugh been wanting this." You moan out into his ear and he whimpers loudly at that stiffening under you.

"W-what agh- do you mean you've fuckfuckfuck been wanting this?" You're kissing all over him before finally pulling back in a complete daze over him.

"G-gojo Ive mphh- wanted you since I saw you on the first week of school this y-year I fuck — Heard a teacher calling you Gojo w-while praising your work and you just looked so cuuteee~ needed to have you" Your arms are wrapped around his neck and Gojo swears he's seeing stars. so that's how you knew his name — wait you knew him before he even knew about you?

"D-don't hafta call me agh Gojo anymore just call me sat-agh satoru~" He draws out his eyes rolled back and his knuckles white with how hard he's gripping onto you, you look down at him and grin your hips grinding on him.

"T-toru m'close cum with me please?" You whine out your movement getting faster and faster being too much for Gojo to handle. "C-cum on me baby~ im right there pleasepleaseplease give it to me ugh you're so pretty" He cant shut the fuck up begging you to cum on him as hes so close to reaching his high.

One final snap of your hips and you both break. Loud, helpless, completely ruined. It hits him hard, his whole body jerking beneath you as he spills deep inside, voice cracking with every breathless moan of your name. And even as he twitches and throbs, face buried in your neck, he clings to you like he’s never letting go.

"god..that was a-amazing t-thank you.." you smile softly and lay your head on his chest listening to his heartbeat.

"no need to thank me toru hun.. but this makes me your girlfriend now right?" You blink up at him and he wraps his arms around you tight, placing a soft kiss on your forehead.

"definitely you're not going anywhere."

A/n: ok guys so basically.. this is the last part.. I KNOW IM SORRY but this is not the last of nerdjo.. i will be making more nerdjo series and just nerdjo content because I fear im hyperfixated on him atm.. I hope you guys enjoyed this mini series and this part :3

[7-deadly-cats]

killing me softly | 14

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ G E N R E ✿ she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, suggestive language, suggestive version of truth or dare (non-graphic), mention of weed, coke and alcohol usage, physical violence (a punch to the face) & mention of bloody nose + description of bruise, ruthie being a bitch, reader feeling anxiety/discomfort bc of a dare and bc of chris reid, verbal tension/fight, rafe being an ignorant asshole, mild mentions of vomiting (non-graphic), kinda angsty but also funny and fluff

✿ S U M M A R Y O F L A S T P A R T ✿ you were picked up by rafe for kelce’s party—he kept joking about you needing to get laid, and you finally snapped, calling him out but you ended up solving it. at kelce's you smoked a joint and immediately felt at ease, sharing a chill moment with both boys. later, after the party actually started, rafe left you alone in the kitchen to go sell/and do coke to/with chris reid, and you ended up playing beer pong with molly, topper and his surf friend robert lewis from wilmington. you actually had fun for once—rob was sweet and charming, and seemingly into you. meanwhile, rafe texted you while you were in the bathroom, asking for your location. he also spiraled over the idea that you’d left him to hook up with some random guy. he went to look after you, only to find you had just puked and were fine—leaving him confused and even more on edge. back in the kitchen, tensions flared again when rob reappeared with kelce, and you were clearly enjoying rob's company. rafe, pissed off, decided to join a game of truth or dare—fully ready to ruin rob’s night just to make a point.

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 11.4k+ (oops)

✿ A / N ✿ i didn't think i'd still have that much left to say about the party, but the words just came and somehow we ended up with over 11k. i'm actually very anxious about the direction i went with and not completely happy with how i handled the rob-reader-rafe situation, feels a little underwhelming and i'm sorry if you expected more, but i hope you still enjoy the reader x rafe content and PLSLLSLSLS I NEED TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT THIS PART <3

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

W E E K O N E // F R I D A Y

The moment Ruthie Whitmore decided to join the game, you knew the night could go downhill real fast for you.

Because holy fucking shit, this? This wasn’t Truth or Dare. This was Strip or Humiliate Yourself. Either you did the dare, or you took off a piece of clothing for the rest of the game.

Great, right?

Even the setup was wild. Originally, it was supposed to take place in the living room, but Ruthie thought it would be so much better to play in a private room, so it could be just you guys.

Mhm. Fucking Ruthie Whitmore and her bestie Gracie Malone (very friendly reminder: Rafe’s ex-FWB or whatever) were in on this insane-ass game.

And of course, it had been Ruthie’s idea to play this specific version, and unfortunately, over half the group had been super hyped about it, so it was officially locked in.

So now ten people were sitting in the lower lounge room on a circular couch. The glass table that used to be in the middle had been carried to the side by Kelce and sleazeball Chris Reid (aka the asshole Rafe ditched you for to go deal coke).

And to make things worse: the room had a giant floor-to-ceiling window looking out onto the backyard—where the rest of the party was still going strong.

To sum it up: You were now participating in an absolutely batshit insane, borderline scandalous game. And not just you—some of the worst people you knew were in it too. Oh, and bonus: the room had the perfect view for any drunk watchers hanging out outside.

Mhm. You were fucked.

But getting up and leaving now? Nope. That would officially label you as the cowardly, prude, shy girl everyone probably already thought you were. Plus... you were pretty drunk, still riding the last warm waves of that joint, and even though your heart was pounding like crazy (note for next time: avoid Rafe’s JägerBull mix), somehow it all felt... kind of exciting.

I’m so fucking wasted holy shit.

Also, it was five girls and five guys playing, sitting alternately on the couch (another brilliant Ruthie idea).

And now came the sickest part: you were sitting between Rob and RAFE.

Like ???!!?!?, WHAT KINDA BELLA-JACOB-EDWARD SHIT WAS GOING ON????

Even funnier? After you'd sat down next to Rob (because obviously!), Rafe had taken the seat to your right. EVEN FUNNIER??? The couch, as big as it was, still had everyone sitting kinda squished together and guess what: Rafe manspread like a damn king, arms crossed, leaving you no choice but to shift closer to Rob—so close your thighs were touching and JSJCKSNDKSNCJS.

Let’s just say, your stomach was doing somersaults—and not because you needed to puke again.

Well… maybe a little, because Samantha had just finished her drunk attempt at a lap dance for the perv Chris Reid.

The worst part of that dare wasn’t even some pricks outside watching her—it was that Sam seemed to actually be enjoying it. Swinging her ass in that tiny skirt in front of that asshole, smiling all wide while Ruthie and Gracie cheered her on.

It was so sad and disgusting to watch. If you weren’t such a chicken, you’d go pull her out of there yourself.

“Bitch, that was hot as fuck!” Ruthie yelled, and Sam giggled as she flopped down next to Chris, his hand settling on her bare thigh and NO. Just. EW.

Judging by the look on his face, he couldn’t wait for this game to end so he could disappear with her for a few minutes.

“Ayy, my turn now!” Kelce said, clapping his hands with a big grin. “Hit me with some good shit, Ruthie.”

He was wasted too. Or maybe that was just Kelce being Kelce.

Ruthie smirked like a damn fox and tapped on her phone (mhm. she was the game master, using some weird app she’d entered everyone’s names into that generated these insane dares).

“For 20 seconds, put your hands under the top of…” Ruthie began, and your heart was thundering, nerves buzzing all over, “the person to your right.”

You exhaled in relief—but immediately held your breath again.

All eyes on Molly.

NOT HER.

Kelce raised his brows. “Ayo, that’s kinda sexual harassment, no?”

OH. Kelce Statter actually showing decency??? King shit.

Ruthie just shrugged. “Do it or take your shirt off.”

“I’ll gladly take your place, dude,” Chris chimed in and GOSH THIS ASSHOLE YOU WANTED TO UGHHHHH. Fucking disgusting prick.

Rafe scoffed beside you (YES, THANK YOU), and Kelce’s mouth tugged downward, opening his lips to respond but:

“It’s alright,” Molly said casually and WHAT. GIRL WHAT?! She shrugged with a sweet smile. “It would be consensual.”

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK OMG?!

YOU SNEAKY LITTLE OMGMGMFMM. Did cutie patootie Molly Crane have a thing for CRAZY-ASS LOUDMOUTH KELCE STATTER?? LIKE??? AND WHY DID THIS ABSOLUTELY INSANE SHIP KINDA MAKE SENSE?!!!

Kelce chuckled (yep, your head was fuzzy but you still picked up on the nervousness) and shook his head all cool (bro was 100% flustered). “Nah, it’s cool. I’m a gentleman, okay?”

With that, he reached back and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing some very well-defined abs and muscles (okay, Rafe had been right—Kelce really took the gym bro life seriously).

The other girls and Chris clapped and wooed him on. Except for Molly: she just smiled, all soft and genuinely amused, and KELCE TOTALLY NOTICED AND GOD, IT WAS WEIRDLY SWEET TO WATCH… if you ignored the whole raunchy setting for a second.

“Our dear Molly is next,” Ruthie said, her voice all fake-sweet.

YOU WEREN’T EVEN UP YET AND YOUR NERVES WERE SHOT.

Ruthie tapped her phone and: “Which two people here would you most likely have a threesome with, and why?” She furrowed her brows. "Ugh, boring."

OH. MY. GOD.

AND FUCKING MOLLY DIDN’T EVEN HESITATE. THIS GIRL HAD BALLS OF STEEL. Because in the most casual tone ever, she said, “Hm. Maybe Kelce and Y/N.”

GUYS!!!!!!!!!!!

OH MY… FUCKING GOD.

Molly pulled her legs up, smiled softly, and shrugged. “And I guess I’d just feel comfortable with them both.”

GIRL.

You and Kelce locked eyes for a second, both of you looking like you’d just seen a ghost because WHAT. OMG. LIKE GO GIRL BUT WHAT???

And while everyone else immediately burst into chatter and started debating who they would pick, you barely noticed Rafe’s knee nudging your leg. He glanced over at you, eyebrows raised just slightly, voice low so only you could hear: “You'd be down for that?”

OKAY WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON?

The heat that had already crept into your cheeks after Molly’s answer spread to your whole face. “I…”

For a brief second, Rafe then looked at Rob, sitting on your left—his expression hard to read. “Nah, you’d rather swap Kelce for your new boyfriend, huh?”

Your brows twitched. Something about his voice sounded off, and you weren’t sure if it was just the booze messing with your perception or…

“Okay, this is getting boring, let’s move on!” Ruthie’s shrill voice cut through the air, and everyone quieted down.

Topper was already shifting in his seat—being on Molly’s right, he was next.

Ruthie’s grin twisted into something Joker-esque. “Ohh, I like that one. Send a nude to the last person in your chat history.”

Literally every guy in the circle started grinning like idiots, Kelce and Chris said some dumb shit, and Rafe muttered, “I’m sure his mom’s already seen his dick.”

Even Rob chuckled, shooting Rafe an amused glance. “Pretty sure he’s had her chat pinned since fifth grade.”

Rafe scoffed, appearing amused—but you knew better. You could feel how his whole body tensed beside you, and you were pretty sure it wasn’t out of some protective instinct for Topper.

Which reminded you...Rafe never faked things. He was blunt, direct, and always spoke his mind. But with Rob? There’d been this one-sided tension—like he'd been one second away from decking Rob in the kitchen just earlier. And you couldn’t help wondering if they had some kind of history.

“And?” Ruthie asked, brows raised. “Who’s the lucky recipient?” She pouted. “Or are you gonna chicken out?”

Gracie and Samantha giggled, and Chris laughed, nodding. “It’s fine, bro. If there’s nothing to show, better keep it to yourself.”

Your jaw clenched. Poor Topper looked genuinely trapped and uncomfortable. AND FUCKING CHRIS, THAT GUY LIKE DHFCSBCFHSJDNFCSKHCNDUIK GRRRRRRR.

“Ayo, dude, you sure you wanna be the one bragging?” Kelce chimed in, all casual and grinning, and holy shit, he did it so well. It was definitely a jab but Kelce had this bro-energy that made it sound like nothing.

And just like that, your respect for Kelce shot up by a mile. Him standing up for his friend? YES. KING.

Chris clearly tensed but laughed it off, pretending Kelce’s comment was absurd.

“I’m not doing this here,” Topper said—and everyone looked at him, surprised he even considered doing it.

Ruthie frowned. “Um, yes? That’s literally the whole point of the game. What’s the use if no one sees it?”

“Not everyone’s as public with their nudes as you, Ruthie,” Rafe said, and you had to bite back a smile. (Also, Rafe backing Topper despite their weird tension? Also king shit.)

Ruthie glared at him, then her gaze landed on you like she was about to say some unhinged shit but this time Rob spoke up, shrugging: “Seems fair,” he said. “I mean, he could show it to one of us as proof. Doing this and sending it off seems kinda unbalanced compared to the other dares, right?”

Jesus. A whole Topper Avengers team was forming here, apparently.

It was clear Ruthie didn’t like the direction this was going. Her smile tight and fake. “Sure, I guess, if y’all wanna play the boring version. But he should at least tell us who he’s sending it to.”

Topper, who’d already pulled out his phone, stared nervously at the screen. And it made you so mad that he felt like he had to prove anything here.

“Cara Hall.”

OH.

OH MY GOD.

OKAY, NO—THAT WAS. NO.

Cara definitely didn't want to receive a fucking dick pic right now while celebrating her mom’s birthday, holy shit. You could already picture her face—OH MY GOD.

TOPPER PLEASE DON’T.

Ruthie pulled a face and waved her hand dismissively. “Ugh, okay, then go do your thing. We’ll keep going in the meantime.”

Topper, cheeks flushed, stood up while Chris and Samantha cheered him on.

“Think he still has a shot with her after this?” Rafe said, leaning down slightly so his shoulder brushed yours (?!), his voice dipped in dry amusement.

Okay, WHAT. THE. FUCK. WAS UP WITH HIM???

First, he'd checked on you after your little puke episode (the fact he'd been looking for you in the first place???), then he'd been kinda touchy as he guided you back to the kitchen. Not to mention his insane mood swing afterward for literally no reason—was Rafe too drunk or high to even realize what the fuck he was doing???

You were far from sober yourself but his behavior had shifted so suddenly, it was like he was actively seeking out your—NOPE, YOU JUST DRANK TOO MUCH LOLLLLLZZZ.

“Aight, Ruth, don’t let it get boring,” Chris said, smiling all cocky as Topper left the room.

“Pfft, that’s not on me,” Ruthie muttered, clearly annoyed, and got ready to read the next dare for herself. And judging by the grin on her face, it played right into her hands. “Aww, sweet. Make out with the person to your right for 60 seconds.”

...

She can't be serious.

Yeah, funny. Real fucking funny that the perfect guy happened to be sitting next to her, and she was the one in charge of this whole damn game.

And even funnier, how she first smiled at you before turning to Rob with fluttery, fake-innocent eyes.

“That okay with you?” she asked, voice all smug and sugary and just—HNCDSUNFCJDSFUCKYOU.

Your heart thundered with rage because, for some reason, this just felt so unfair and wrong and AHHHH. Like—no, just NO.

HOW was it that you finally met a guy at a party who you instantly clicked with, who clearly liked you, AND THEN THIS HAPPENED? It felt like the universe had just sucker punched you in the face.

But yeah, sure, it’s cool, everything’s fine.

Would’ve just been too fucking wild if you were allowed to have one lucky day, hm. And you feeling jealous now? It felt so stupid and embarrassing because clearly Rob could do whatever the fuck he wanted. It was a fucking party and you two only knew each other for barely a few hours. There was NO point in getting riled up about this. This whole game was designed for this kind of crazy shit anyway—it was just…

Why Ruthie? Why not Molly? Or giggling Samantha? Or hell, even fucking Gracie? But WHY that bitch?

“Fine by me,” Rob said, and your stomach dropped.

Ruthie’s annoying little friends cheered them on as she and Rob leaned in to get ready to—yeah, no, you didn’t need to watch this shit.

While everyone else watched the two of them make out, your eyes locked on Rob’s back. Looking away entirely would make you seem like a little bitter girl, so you focused hard on the music blasting from outside, just trying not to hear the kissing sounds—or whatever else was happening right next to you.

“Shit, cheer up. You dodged a bullet with this fucker,” Rafe whispered, his shoulder brushing yours AGAIN, and when you looked at him—you had never seen him grin so hard. Like, dude was full-on gloating. Pupils blown wide.

You had no idea if this asshole was mocking you or actually trying to make you feel better.

All you could do was furrow your brows, anger bubbling up inside you—confused and irritated by this whole night. BY RAFE ACTING LIKE THIS?!

You just wanted to get up and go home.

Instead, you sat there frozen, letting the moment pass, subconsciously scooting a little away when Rob shifted back into his seat after him and Ruthie were done.

Now your thigh was touching Rafe's, but at this point, did it even matter anymore?

Gracie and Samantha giggled again, bickering over something, and honestly—could someone just throw them out already??

“Aww, no, you’ve got something right here,” Ruthie said all cheeky, pointing at a smudge of lipstick on the corner of Rob’s mouth.

Rob laughed, surprised. “Oh, thanks,” he said, wiping it away and throwing you a little sheepish smile.

The worst part? He wasn’t some pervy guy. He didn’t seem to have any bad intentions or shady motives. No, he was just genuinely having fun, enjoying the game and the whole social vibe—kind of like a golden retriever, oblivious to Ruthie's stupid shit.

Which made Rafe's apparent disdain toward him all the more ridiculous. Like, Rob was literally just existing and enjoying life. Then again, exactly this worldview was probably what pissed Rafe off in the first place. That guy was a hater.

"What’s taking Topper so long?" Shitface Chris said with a scoff. "Does he need help finding his cock or what?"

Do you need help finding your brain?

“Sounds like you’re volunteering”, Rafe said, scoffing amused.

This time Chris narrowed his eyes, leaning forward like he was ready to throw hands. And Rafe? He raised his chin like he wanted someone to hit him tonight.

O-kay. Two guys on coke? Not exactly the best combo.

"But the game," Samantha said, clinging to Chris’ bicep.

"Sammy’s right," Ruthie chimed in, and then she smiled in that way—and you knew it could only go downhill from here. "Let’s get back to the fun part."

Aaaand your adrenaline spiked the second she met your eyes, that fake-ass smile on her face.

"I think Rob should sit back for now. Catch his breath and all, you know? Then we can move on with you, yeah?"

BITCH.

"No, it's fine", Rob said, genuinely confused.

Ruthie shut him down with that sickly sweet smile of hers. "Aww, no, it's alright. You've already proven yourself plenty."

OH THIS FUCKING BITCH.

Your heart pounded, nerves buzzing, all eyes on you, and the awareness of your sweaty hands just made everything worse. Rafe bouncing his leg beside you didn’t help either.

But you didn’t give your brain time to react. You just nodded with a forced smile and said, "Sure."

"Great." Ruthie was grinning like a damn hyena. She tapped on her phone, the next dare loading, your pulse shooting into orbit, and when that disgusting sparkle lit up her eyes, you knew you were fucked.

"Oh, this one’s..." She giggled again, pretending to hesitate. "I mean, it’s not really bad but for you it might be a little too much..."

Samantha kicked her feet. "Don’t keep us in suspense, Ruth."

God, you hated these wannabe mean girls and whatever fake Barbie energy they were on so much. Like who even talked like that, all sugary and fake?

"Okay, okay, you’re right." Ruthie smiled, still staring at her screen. Then she said, "Play 7 minutes in heaven with..." Her brows twitched, then the biggest grin appeared on her lips. "Chris."

FUCKING HELL, ABSOLUTELY NOT. NOPE NOPE NOPENOPENOPE.

NO!

Just the thought of being in this room with that perv made your skin crawl—but being locked in with him for 7 whole-ass minutes??

FUCK NO.

You just stared at her, feeling Chris Reid’s nasty, filthy gaze on you, the way he chuckled—gross and suggestive—and Ruthie grinning with that awful glint in her eyes.

Your body felt dizzy, heart pounding in your chest, your ears, your head—NO. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t do this.

Not with him.

You didn’t even know what to say, afraid you’d come across as prude or—COULD RAFE PLEASE STOP BOUNCING HIS LEG??

Ruthie tilted her head, pouting. "Aww, knew it was gonna be too much for you. Well then, remove your top."

You pressed your lips together, too many thoughts and emotions boiling over, this whole thing suddenly crashing down like a massive wave of disgust.

"Ruthie..." Kelce started but the bitch just shook her head.

"What? Those are the rules."

Rob seemed to lean over to gaze into her phone, but she immediately turned it away, laughing like everyone else was insane. "Jesus, y’all are acting like this is some crazy dare. It’s just staying in a room with—"

"Okay!" you snapped, heat flooding through your entire body.

No—not heat. That was the suffocating weight of fear and panic at the thought of being alone in a room with Reid.

The room went silent. Only some shitty Travis Scott song kept playing through those obnoxiously loud speakers outside.

It’s just 7 minutes. And he’s not going to force anything, right? RIGHT?!

Heart thundering, adrenaline buzzing through your nerves, ignoring that perv's disgusting smirk across from you, you moved to get up—

And froze.

A warm hand had grabbed your wrist. Gentle but firm.

"That’s some bullshit." Rafe’s voice was low and calm. The way he stared down Ruthie—cold, disgusted—no, actually, there was something deeply unsettling in his gaze.

It gave you goosebumps.

Ruthie scoffed, raising her brows. "Yeah? And why’s that? Jealous she might enjoy—"

"Nah, that fucker’s just a fucking perv," Rafe cut her off, and the entire circle practically gasped.

Reid's brows drew together as he squared up in his seat. "What the fuck, man?"

"What?" A crooked smile spread across Rafe's face. "Am I wrong?"

And just like that, Chris was on his feet, his whole body and face radiating anger. The aggressive football player vibe? Very much present—and those blown-wide pupils? Danger.

A guy like that on coke was definitely not the best mix.

"You got a problem with me, Cameron? Get up and say it to my fucking face," Chris said, his face flushed.

Rafe’s grip on your wrist tightened slightly, and you could feel his whole body tensing up like he was about to rise and blow the entire situation up.

And your heart? Either it had stopped, or it was beating so fast you couldn’t hear it anymore.

"It's fine," you said, forcing a tight smile while a thousand thoughts raced through your head. "I mean, Ruthie’s right. Compared to the others, it’s an easy dare."

Agreeing with that bitch felt more humiliating than what the dare actually entailed.

Rafe looked at you with an intensity and disbelief like you'd just full on slapped him. His pupils were massive, and under the surface, you could sense the storm of anger brewing. He opened his mouth, but Ruthie cut him off.

"See? Your girl gets it," she said.

Chris chuckled condescendingly. "Don’t worry, dude. You know I'm chill. I’ll be soft with—"

He didn’t even get to finish the sentence. Rafe was on his feet—

— and caught a fist straight to the face.

"You’re a bitch, Cameron," Chris gloated.

With a groan, Rafe rubbed his bloody nose, a twisted grimace on his face.

But instead of backing off, he instantly grabbed Chris by the collar—Kelce and Rob jumped up too, rushing to intervene with a panicked, "Ayo, guys, guys!" while Ruthie was giggling like a maniac in the background.

She looked at you, her thumb gesturing toward Rafe. "Get your pathetic dog under control."

Oh, and you were this close to throwing hands with her because she was seriously pushing every button—but the chaos unfolding had you too stunned to do anything.

And somehow, in the midst of it all, Rob ended up the one in Rafe’s crosshairs. As Rob reached out to pull him off Chris, Rafe’s head snapped toward him.

Rafe shoved him hard. "Keep your fucking hands off me."

"Hey, man, come on, you need to chill," Rob said, raising his hands, eyes wide with genuine confusion, like he had no clue why all this anger had suddenly been directed at him.

"Guys, come on," Kelce said over Ruthie's manic giggles.

But Rafe was locked in on Rob, didn't even react when Kelce grabbed his shoulder.

"Oh my God, guys, why are you even fighting?" Ruthie suddenly piped up, her voice all fake-innocent (Rafe was legit about to swing at Rob). "I was just joking."

The room seemed to hold its breath. Everyone turned toward Ruthie now, who was grinning and soaking in the attention like it was the best drink of her life.

She flipped her phone around for everyone to see but held it up toward Rafe specifically. "See, Cameron? You can relax your balls. Lucky for you, the dare actually included your name." She laughed. "I was just messing around a bit."

"You're a bitch, Ruthie," Molly said from behind—and that sentence coming from sweetheart Molly? Lowkey, the craziest part of this whole messed-up night.

Rafe’s face was tight, blood smeared across his nose and lips, a bruised mark blooming on his cheek from Reid’s punch. He locked eyes with you for a split second—his gaze cold, brows twitching like he was waiting for you to say something.

But you couldn't.

He slapped Kelce’s hand away and said, "I’m fucking done with this shit," before pushing past Kelce and Chris and stormed out of the room.

Ruthie sighed, fake sadness plastered all over her face. "Aw, game’s over I guess."

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

"Seriously, why does all the crazy shit always happen when I'm not present?" Cara said, frowning as she watched Topper mix her a non-alcoholic cocktail at the bar outside.

After that whole completely unhinged mess earlier, Kelce had—very nicely, actually—kicked Ruthie and Chris out of the party (thankfully, Gracie had left on her own), and then even apologized to you for their “uncool” behavior.

And not only that, he'd asked if it would be okay if he left you behind to go check on Rafe. Like… dude, you felt SO bad for ever having judged Kelce even a little.

You’d just said, "Of course. I hope he’s doing okay." Even though you kind of really wanted to follow him but you were too afraid of coming off clingy, especially with how done Rafe had seemed with you tonight.

Besides—BESIDES asidefromfuckingbesides—CARA had finally shown up.

Topper (thank GOD the guy hadn't sent her a dick pic) had indeed vanished to the bathroom but instead got into a long texting back-and-forth with Cara, which led to her showing up earlier than planned.

Yep. There was definitely something going on between them.

WHEW.

A LOT had happened tonight.

Which was why the bar in the backyard was the perfect place to stop your brain from sobering up and spiraling.

You’d have enough time for that tomorrow HAHAHAHAHHELP.

"Be glad," Topper said at Cara’s disappointed tone, placing the finished pink drink in front of her. "I didn’t experience the whole mess that went down but Ruthie really lost her shit tonight."

Molly nodded, sipping her own drink. "That’s always how she is. Tries to make up for her insecurities by playing power games." Then she glanced at you. "Sorry she took it out on you."

You shook your head with an awkward smile (suddenly feeling weird about Rob's presence so close to you). "It’s okay. I mean, it was kinda obvious this would happen if she joined and took charge of the game."

"Nah, next time call me right away," Cara said firmly. "I’m not afraid to throw hands with a bitch like that. I’ve been wanting to punch her for years."

You all laughed.

Then Topper’s expression turned serious. "I just hope Rafe’s alright. I mean, taking a punch from a monster like Reid? I’m surprised his jaw’s still intact."

"Right? I thought we were gonna have to call 911," Molly added. "But I guess he got lucky that Chris held back."

Rob nodded with a baffled laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I'm also lucky Rafe held back as well. I seriously thought he was gonna give me a matching bruise."

"Yeah. He's been on edge since this afternoon", Topper said with a frown. "I'm not saying he deserved that punch, but maybe this humbled him for once."

"Okay, we nearly got a crazy-ass fight, which is cool and all but... how did that even happen?" Cara asked—and funny enough, all eyes turned to you.

PLSSSS.

You smiled awkwardly. Even you couldn’t deny that the whole situation had kind of escalated because, well...

"He stepped up for Y/N," Molly said, her voice gentle, her smile amused. "Saved her from playing 7 minutes in heaven with Chris. Very heroic."

NAHHHHHH MOLLY PLEASE DON’T.

Your face flared up instantly—AND FUCKING CARA AND TOPPER SHOOTING EACH OTHER SIDEYES WASN’T HELPING.

"It was just a nice gesture," you said but you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling a little as you thought of how gently he’d grabbed your wrist.

"GIRL, what?! He literally took a punch for you." Cara was shaking her head like a maniac, looking from Topper to Molly. "Please, can one of you just tell her that he likes her? She never listens to me."

CARA OMG.

Molly chuckled and gave you an amused look. "I feel like he would’ve killed someone for you in that moment. Just saying."

"Yeah, me", Rob chuckled and took a sip of his beer.

DGFKHBJKVJKCSLFICJKSAJDFHXKNDSK GUYS.

And to top it all off, Topper chimed in with a deadpan expression: "Please don’t tell me you’ve fallen for this idiot."

OKAY THIS WAS GETTING OUT OF HAND.

You shook your head, your whole face burning. "No!" you laughed nervously. "I mean—"

Someone’s phone rang (a miracle anyone could even hear it over the music), and according to Topper's expression, it was his.

"Kelce," he muttered and answered. "What’s up?"

A weird feeling spread in your stomach. What if Chris’s punch had actually done more damage to Rafe's face? Reid could’ve easily caused a concussion and—

"And why can’t you get it yourself?" Topper frowned as he listened to whatever Kelce was saying on the other end.

"Yeah, sure, I guess. Be there in a sec." With an annoyed sigh, he hung up and stuffed the phone back into his shorts pocket.

"Rafe died?" Cara asked, sipping her drink.

Topper shook his head. "Kelce thought it was more important to smoke a joint first instead of looking after Rafe’s busted face, and now they’re both too stoned to get off their asses."

"There's no better painkiller than a fat J", Rob replied.

Molly chuckled, and you also had to smile, relieved that Rafe seemed to be okay after all (plus huge props to Rob for being so cool about Rafe's almost crashout).

"So now you’re playing sexy nurse or what?" Cara asked Topper, raising a brow in amusement.

Topper shook his head, a faint blush on his cheeks, and walked around the bar. "Nah, they just want some ice for Rafe’s face." He pulled a medium-sized bag of ice cubes from the freezer. "Be right back."

"Wait!" Cara said, grabbing his arm. NO, you did NOT like the look on her face. "I feel like Y/N should go."

Topper raised his brows.

You frowned. "What? Why?"

"Think of it as the perfect chance to thank Rafe for his little hero moment."

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

This is ridiculous.

You stood in front of Kelce’s bedroom door. The music wasn’t nearly as loud up here in the hallway. In your hands: a bag of ice and a towel Topper had handed you.

Why were you even nervous? Seriously?

You were just bringing Rafe this stuff and then heading back down again. That was all. UGH—no, the problem was that YOU were the one standing here instead of Topper.

Before you could spiral with a thousand overthinking thoughts, you shoved down every anxious nerve and the obvious heat in your face, and knocked on the door.

Your brows furrowed when no one answered.

Okay, no big deal. I’ll just go in, drop off the ice, maybe ask if everything’s alright, and then dip. Rafe won’t think I’m clingy.

Ugh. Maybe you really should’ve taken more of Topper’s shots.

You opened the door and peeked inside.

And what the actual fuck—Kelce’s room was way cleaner than you'd expected. The bed was made, posters of athletes and boxers were hung in perfect symmetry on the walls, everything on the desk was neatly arranged... and it didn’t smell like gross boy.

Nope. Instead, a sweet scent of weed drifted in from the half-open balcony door, Kelce and Rafe’s muffled voices outside.

You bit the inside of your cheek. I got this.

You walked straight to the glass door and knocked like a little idiot.

Kelce smiled right away and stood up. Rafe had his back to you, not bothering to turn around (probably expecting Topper—and let’s not forget they still had some weird beef going on).

"Yo, Y/N. Oh wait, the door’s kinda heavy," Kelce said, voice slightly slurry (yeah, he was totally wasted—eyes half-lidded and red), and slid the glass door open.

You smiled gratefully, doing your best NOT to meet Rafe’s eyes as he finally turned around. "Thanks."

"Hey, no problem," Kelce said with a grin and gestured to the outdoor couches. "Come on, sit down. Guess you needed a break from Ruthie’s madness too."

You shook your head gently. "Oh no, I was actually just..." You held up the ice pack and towel. "Topper said you’d asked for this."

Kelce raised his eyebrows like he’d just had a full-on epiphany. "Ahh, shit, right. Forgot about that."

Dude was gone.

"That idiot too scared to bring it himself or what?" Rafe said, his tone dry.

You finally dared to meet his eyes—and the bitterness in his stare didn’t even register because all you could focus on was the big red bruise on his right cheek that tightened your chest.

He looked wrecked, and guilt crawled up your spine.

"Nah, he probably just didn’t want to miss the chance to lock down Cara," Kelce cut in, flopping back down on the couch across from Rafe.

You used the laid-out opportunity and nodded with an awkward smile. "Seems like it."

"Understandable. That chick's a bombshell."

That actually made you chuckle. "I know."

"Then let those two do their thing and come chill with us," Kelce said, gesturing toward an empty armchair.

You clenched your teeth. As much as you'd love to join them, Rafe probably didn’t want—

"Okay," you said and sat down in the chair between the two of them. You held the ice pack awkwardly in the air, eyeing Rafe with a sheepish smile.

He simply gestured toward the table in the middle. "Drop that shit there."

... Was he really too proud to hold a damn ice pack to his clearly busted face?

"Dude, that looks bad. Just take the damn thing," Kelce said, bless him.

Rafe scoffed and winced (clearly from pain). "Nah."

"You're stupid," Kelce shot back, shaking his head.

GRRRRRRRR, why was he so fucking stubborn? You wanted to smack that ice pack against his cheek yourself.

Well, girl, like he said, he wasn't your stupid boyfriend—so who cared, right?

You placed the towel and ice on the table.

This is all so awkward for no reason.

"So, psycho games aside, how do you like the party so far?" Kelce asked, eyeing you with a half-lidded grin.

Hmm, aside from being ditched by Rafe, finding a new guy who you'd lost interest in after his make-out-session with Ruthie, getting dragged into some gross dare, possibly becoming Ruthie’s next target, being the reason Rafe’s face was bruised to hell, and not to mention the absurd amount of mixed signals he'd thrown at you tonight?

You smiled. "Pretty good. I had fun."

"Glad to hear it." Kelce nodded with genuine satisfaction and slumped deeper into the couch, staring up at the stars for a moment. "I think the highlight for me was Molly choosing us for a threesome."

A baffled laugh slipped out. "Yeah, I guess."

Kelce turned to look at you, warmth in his eyes. "You think she meant it?"

Aww, did he catch feelings because of that? LMAO.

Rafe let out an amused breath and shifted in his seat. "Shit, she was probably just being nice ‘cause you didn’t grope her tits."

No, bro, YOU don’t get to play anti-cupid.

“I think she likes you,” you said to Kelce, ignoring Rafe’s glare. “I mean, sure, not going through with Ruthie’s stupid dare was definitely part of it, but even before that, she didn’t seem, um... turned off by you touching her.”

AM I PLAYING MATCHMAKER FOR KELCE STATTER AND MOLLY CRANE HOLY SHIT?

Kelce sat up straight, nodding. "Holy shit, you’re right." He smiled like an actual kid. "I think she’s the coolest girl I’ve ever met. So chill and unbothered. And her freckles move when she laughs. Can't believe I've never really talked to her before."

DMJWSKBCFJFSDBCHSKJD PLSSS JUST MARRY HER.

"Dude, you're wasted," Rafe said with a condescending scoff.

What the fuck was his problem, like BE FR—be happy for your bro.

Maybe if you played this right...

"I think she’s still with Topper and Cara at the bar," you said, looking at Kelce with a smile (intentionally leaving out Rob), shifting a little as if you were about to stand up. "I should probably get back to her so she’s not stuck third-wheeling them."

“No, no, it’s fine,” Kelce said, jumping up like he’d just sobered in 0.2 seconds. “You deserve some chill time after all this chaos. I’ll go save her from Topper’s tragic flirting attempts.”

With that, he walked past you, flashing the biggest idiot grin, and closed the balcony door behind him.

...handle facing down.

Shit.

Now you were stuck with Rafe, which had kinda been your plan, because something deep inside you wanted to work through the tension between you two—but um... there was no way out now if things got messy.

Cool cool cool cool. Now you actually were playing 7 minutes in heaven with Rafe after all.

Or hell, depending on what kind of mood he was in.

Rafe furrowed his brows, probably having come to the same conclusion, and slouched deeper into the couch. "Don’t tell me you actually think he has a chance with her."

You frowned. "Why not? As a girl, I can tell she genuinely likes him."

"Shit, if you say so," Rafe muttered, tilting his head, eyes glassy and red from the weed and probably leftover coke. "What about your new boyfriend? That fucker ditched you to chase Ruthie?"

You raised an eyebrow. "What’s your problem with Rob?"

No way in hell you'd feed his ego by telling him you'd ditched a chance at...something, for him. Because guess what, Rob had actually seemed pretty sad and disappointed that you'd leave him behind by bringing Rafe the ice (wow, you'd actually pulled a Rafe on him).

Didn't matter anyway. Him having exchanged saliva with Ruthie was such a turn-off—even if he didn't mean any ill by it—that all the butterflies you'd felt for him had died almost instantly.

Rafe nodded with an amused, almost triumphant expression. "So I’m right."

"No, I’m serious. The way you nearly started a fight with him, even though Chris was the one who punched you," you shook your head with an irritated smile. "What the fuck was that about?"

Rafe shrugged, eyes tired. “Shit, he’s a fucking asshole. Would've deserved a good beating.”

Wow, going straight to a beating...they definitely had some kind of history.

"An asshole? That’s not the impression I got," you said, fed up with his bullshit. "He was polite, respectful, and tried to save you from getting your ass beat by Reid."

"Oh, yeah he's a real hero for throwing himself at Ruthie", Rafe said with an irritated smile. "Is that why you're here now? Trying to get back at him or some shit?"

What the fuck was even going on in this guy's head?

You furrowed your brows in confusion. "Seriously, your passive aggression toward him is so fucking weird."

"Did you want me to kiss his fucking ass or some shit?" Rafe sat up straight, gesturing to his chest. "I don’t see you thanking me either for saving you from getting harassed by a fucking perv."

Oh, the audacity.

"I didn’t ask for that," you shot back sharply, even though—fuck—you were indeed very thankful for his interference. You didn’t even want to imagine what that creep Chris might’ve tried.

Rafe leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You’re fucking kidding me, right?"

"I’M the one feeling played here," you snapped, then instantly pressed your lips shut—those shots from earlier were definitely kicking in. Your mouth now faster than your brain.

Rafe's whole posture shifted, with almost the same intensity he'd looked at Ruthie earlier. "The fuck is that supposed to mean, huh?"

I thought I’d at least earned some of your attention tonight.

But actually saying that out loud? Fuck no—then you’d sound like a psycho, crazy, clingy bitch.

"Your behavior tonight is confusing," was all you managed to say.

And Rafe? His whole face twisted like you’d just said the dumbest shit imaginable.

"I’M confusing? That’s rich—coming from the girl who complained about not wanting a hookup tonight, then throws herself at the next best fucker.”

Fuck that.

“Okay, first of all, I didn’t complain. I asked you not to make fucking jokes about me needing to fuck my brains out,” you snapped. “And second, there is no reason why I should justify anything to you. It’s not like I did anything wrong.”

Rafe scoffed. “You act like you’re this perfect little girl but in reality? You can’t even handle being at a fucking party on your own.”

“Wow. That’s low, even for you”, you said dryly.

“Is it? I left you alone for thirty fucking minutes and where do I find you? Puking your guts out in the bathroom after letting Prince Charming pour you drink after drink.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “Rob treated me with more respect than you did all night.”

“You’re an ungrateful brat,” Rafe spat bitterly. “’Cause guess what? Fucking Sunshine Robert wasn’t the one making sure you were okay after you puked your soul out, and he definitely wasn’t the one who took a punch in the face for you.”

Your lips parted in disbelief. “Right, so caring leaving me behind to go snort coke with the same prick who gave you this bruise.”

Rafe smiled irritated, gesturing at his chest, frustration visibly bubbling over. “What the fuck did you expect me to do, huh? I asked you to come along and you declined.”

You clenched your jaw. “I know, but—”

“But what? You expected me to go run after you? Beg you to stay with me and act like some stupid boyfriend or some shit? Is that what you were hoping for tonight?”

You wanted to snap back. Call him out for being an ignorant asshole, a dick for inviting you and then leaving you behind, then suddenly seeking your presence for whatever reason, and for being a fucking loser for pulling this whole I-don’t-give-a-shit act.

But unlike him, you had decency.

"Okay, seriously, what the fuck is your fucking problem with me all of a sudden?" you asked, trying to steady your voice. "You’ve been off since this afternoon, switching personalities every two seconds, and it obviously started right after you've found out that I was joining you for Topper's ride."

Rafe's brows furrowed, probably having expected you to actually snap back, throw some insults at him like he’d done, and you could tell by his whole posture that he was about to say some bullshit to twist the blame and come out on top.

But not this time.

"Don’t even think about throwing some fucked-up comment back at me," you said before he could open his mouth. "I’m actually trying to talk this out because I’m sick of you deflecting everything like an ignorant asshole."

Rafe scoffed condescendingly and tapped his temples like a maniac. "I seriously can’t make any fucking sense of you. One second, you want me to be this unbothered guy; the next, you're desperately looking for confrontation. What kind of crazy-girl-bullshit is this?"

"Okay, let’s get this straight," you said sharply, emphasizing your words with a hand gesture. "When I said I appreciated you not making a big deal out of things, I did not mean you should avoid confrontation altogether. I appreciate you not making fun of my anxiety—yes—which, by the way, I’m taking back because you did just earlier. But I do want you to take shit like this seriously."

That actually shut him up for a second. His face scrunched up like the idiot was trying to make sense of your words.

You took the chance and continued, voice now more controlled: "I don’t want you pushing your own feelings aside just because you think I can’t handle confrontation."

And Rafe was back with an offended smile. "My feelings? Holy shit, do you—"

"Oh my fucking god," you groaned, giving him a look like he'd never heard of basic communication. "Concerns, issues, feelings, okay? Stuff that’s bothering you. Seriously, stop acting like I’m attacking you all the time, I’m just trying to solve a thing here. And right now, it seems like something about me is bothering you, the way you’ve been acting all night."

For a second, something in his expression shifted. Very subtle. Could’ve been your imagination—because right after, he was back in defense mode (or attack mode, since with Rafe, it was always offense as defense).

"Why the fuck would you think I've got an issue with you?"

Literally what. This guy? Zero brain activity.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" You scoffed in disbelief. "The way you'd reacted at school when Topper announced I’d be joining your ride? Pretty damn clear I wasn’t welcome. The way you got all pissed with me in the kitchen earlier for no damn reason? I mean, what the fuck. And now... whatever this is."

Rafe leaned forward, shaking his head with squinted eyes, gesturing to his chest again. "Then why the fuck would I even bother picking you up in the first place?"

"Yeah, no shit."

"What?"

"Exactly: what."

Rafe's lips stayed parted like his brain was trying to connect the dots—but he wasn’t connecting shit by the looks of it. He leaned back, sank into the couch, and closed his eyes, face scrunching up. Out of anger, frustration, or pain, you couldn't tell.

Motioning with his hands to his temples, he said, "I can't listen to this shit anymore. You’re giving me a fucking headache."

Perfect. You’d been crushing on a full-grown toddler all these years.

You sighed and rubbed your eyelids with both hands, frustrated with how incapable he was of holding an actual conversation.

And the worst part? You actually felt bad for him because clearly, he wasn’t used to someone actually trying to solve things with him.

"You’re an idiot," you finally said, surprised with how soft it came out.

Rafe opened his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, ready to reply some bullshit—then he winced, a hand snapping to his cheek as if he’d been hit again.

Something tugged at your chest. Pushing the anger down for a second, you said, "You really should put that ice on before the bruise swells up or gets worse."

"Shit probably looks worse than it feels," Rafe muttered, though the pain was written all over his face.

"You look like shit."

"I don’t need that fucking ice."

You clenched your jaw. This was the biggest, dumbest, most stupid idiot alive with the communication skills of a baby. How the fuck had he ever seemed intimidating to you in any way?

God, I’m the idiot for seeing him as this untouchable crush. All he is... is a fucking dumbass.

Somehow, in this moment, that realization flipped a switch in you. Instead of the years-long crush you'd built up in your head, all you were seeing now was a stubborn idiot with the temper—and brain—of a 13-year-old Fortnite kid.

…and a poor idiot who had never learned how to express real emotions — either because he was never taught or never allowed to.

And because the alcohol and frustration had shredded your filter and restraint, you grabbed the damn ice pack, wrapped it in the damn towel, and got up to sit beside that damn idiot.

He just gave you an irritated look. "What? You actually wanna make out now?"

"Jesus Christ, that bruise looks even worse up close," you said, ignoring his stupid comment.

Because it did—a blotchy mess of deep red and the first hints of purple creeping in around the edges, the skin over his cheekbone already swollen, dried blood still crusted, and you could feel the pulsing pain just by looking at it.

"You’re lucky he didn’t dislocate your jaw with such force", you said, unable to remove your gaze from his bruise.

That made Rafe chuckle in disbelief. "That fucker just hit a lucky shot. He wouldn’t stand a chance in a real fight."

Oh my god, we get it. You’re the strongest, coolest guy in the world.

"Yeah, I’m sure," you said dryly—and then gathered every last bit of courage you had, pushed down your own ego, and raised the cool pack to his cheek.

"Shit, stop that, I don’t need you nursing me," he said with a strained smile, pushing your hand away.

And the fact that you were making him uncomfortable almost made you laugh out loud.

You allowed yourself a smirk, holding the pack out to him. "Well, you clearly need it. So do it yourself."

He eyed you like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline.

"Oh fuck that," you said and pressed the cold towel against his cheek.

And well, the alcohol hadn’t just lowered your inhibitions—it had also messed with your coordination which meant you basically hit him.

"Fuck," he winced, pulling away, face twisted in pain.

You chuckled. "If you don’t cool that now, you’ll be walking around like Quasimodo tomorrow."

"You almost gave me a concussion with that", he replied, his amusement finally returning.

"Oh my god, shut up and hold still." With a suppressed smile, you reached out again. This time, you tried to be gentle, carefully dabbing at the dried blood on the corner of his mouth.

To your surprise, he actually stayed quiet, jaw tense, letting out small groans every time the towel stung—but he endured it with a frown so dramatic, he could've played an extra in Bridgerton.

Your heart was racing in your chest, the heavy bass from downstairs syncing with its beat, head slightly dizzy from the alcohol, and the smell of weed in the air mixed sweetly with his cologne.

The silence between you two (aside from his suppressed groans) felt heavy. Not with tension, not with anger—more like... something else. Something you didn’t dare name, not even in your head.

You scooted closer to get a better angle, but in your dizzy state, you accidentally bumped him with the pack again.

"Fuck. Give that shit to me," he said, taking it from your cold hands, his tone lacking any real bite. "You’re a horrible nurse."

"And you’re a pussy," you shot back with an amused smile, nerves buzzing.

Rafe scoffed, eyebrows drawn together, and turned away to rewrap the ice, but in his profile, you saw him trying to suppress a smile.

You leaned back, pulling your legs up to the side, elbow resting on the couch arm. A warm feeling spread in your chest as you noticed how soft his features actually appeared when he wasn’t in his usual you-piss-me-off mode.

And somehow, seeing him like that—with that big ugly bruise, the little smile on his lips, the obvious pain he was feeling—made you put your ego aside, pushing away the remnant anger from your fight.

"I need to correct myself," you said.

Rafe looked at you for a moment, irritation written on his face. "What?"

"Earlier… when I said I didn't ask you to step up for me," you said, voice quieter now. "I am thankful for that. More than I’m able to express.” You shifted your gaze for a second. “Obviously, I know the dare itself wasn’t even that crazy compared to the others, but…" You played with your fingers and frowned. "The thought of being locked in a room with him… I don’t—"

Rafe waved a hand dismissively. "That fucker's a disgusting perv."

"Yeah, I know. I just…" Your eyes wandered to the awful bruise on his face. "I’m sorry that happened."

Finally, he looked you in the eyes, something softer behind the tension in his gaze. Something hesitant.

Then he shrugged and sank back into the couch again—finally pressing the damn ice pack to his cheek.

"I’ve been through worse shit," he muttered—and you didn’t dare ask what or from whom.

You just nodded, the air between you suddenly heavier than before. The dull thump of Mask Off by Future playing downstairs, some drunk guys shouting along to the lyrics.

Rafe shifted in his seat, jaw clenched like there was still frustration in him bubbling beneath the surface.

And then the craziest fucking thing happened:

"Shit, okay, guess I’m sorry too," Rafe fucking I’m always acting nonchalant Cameron said, glancing at you with those big tired eyes before staring ahead again like he was afraid of holding your gaze. "If I made you feel like you weren't welcome or some shit."

His brows pulled together, face scrunching like his idiot brain was still searching for the right words. "And shit, I don't know—I guess it was also stupid to leave you behind with all these pervs and gossiping bitches around." He let out a pitiful scoff. "Pisses me off I dealt coke to the same fucker that smashed my face."

Okay, scratch everything—your crush just went nuclear again. Your heart was back in the race, and the butterflies in your stomach were basically tearing themselves apart from excitement.

His blue eyes locked with yours again. "You are fucking weird and crazy," he said, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, "and your anxiety overthinking whatever bullshit you have going on definitely drives me fucking insane. But I don't know..." He let out an amused, almost awkward (!!!) breath, his voice containing a nervous (!!!) edge. "I guess I fuck with that."

...

OH.

MY.

HOLY.

FUCKING.

GOD.

LIKE WHAT. WHATWASTHATWHATTHEHELLWHAT?!?

Your brain couldn’t even process it. What he’d just said. The fact he'd said it. Him finally showing some sincerity. And the way he looked—so stupidly sweet with that busted face and crooked smile.

I CAN’T OMG.

You didn’t even care that he was probably just saying this because he was stoned as hell, maybe even had a mild concussion that cracked his emotional firewall (seriously, dude should see a doctor tomorrow), and some chaotic mix of sketchy drinks in his system.

It was the fact that he'd actually made the effort to communicate his thoughts at all, letting himself show some vulnerability despite all that fucking ego.

OH MY GOD THIS IS TOO MUCH. (Also, yeah, let’s ignore him having called you crazy again—you honestly didn’t care right now.)

"That... I appreciate it," you said quietly.

Rafe raised his brows, a smile tugging at his lips. "Shit, no crazy-ass monologue? That's an improvement."

Your smile widened. "Well, I’m just gonna assume you’re not saying all that just so I don’t go up to Mr. Smith and ask him to kick you out of our project."

Rafe scoffed, his smile lazy and half-lidded. "Did it work?"

"Nah, I’m not that easy to buy," you replied with a smirk.

"Shit," he muttered with a low chuckle, "guess I gotta change my strategy then."

And then—everything in you froze.

Because if your eyes didn't betray you, his gaze dropped to your lips. Just for a second. LITERALLY A NANOSECOND.

Barely noticeable. But enough.

Almost instantly, panic hit you like a freight train.

Full red alert blaring in your body.

Your brain shutting down.

Heart rate? Through the roof.

Internal monologue? Screaming.

AND THEN THAT FUCKER HAD THE AUDACITY TO LEAN FORWARD, REMOVING THE TOWEL FROM HIS CHEEK—

—only to get a better look at something that caught his attention behind you.

"Holy shit", he said, brows raised. "That fucker actually did it."

Still dazed by whatever the hell was happening, you forced yourself to turn—and oh god—bathed in Kelce’s neon lights, two silhouettes were making out.

Oh god.

OH GOD.

"I don’t think he knows we’re still locked out," you mumbled, awkwardness creeping in. You did not want to sit here with Rafe and accidentally witness Molly and Kelce doing… that.

Rafe raised his eyebrows, amused. "You really wanna interrupt them now?"

"Um, yeah?"

"Might learn a thing or two," he said, and immediately raised his hands with a boyish chuckle when he saw your glare. "Shit, okay, sorry. I’ll handle it."

With a frown, you watched him get up, toss the coolpad onto the couch, and knock on the glass door.

Somehow, this was all so embarrassing and you weren’t even sure why. PLUS YOU WERE STILL SHAKEN BECAUSE OF THAT MAYBE-ALMOST-LEANING-IN-FOR-A-KISS-MAYBE-JUST-HIM-TRYING-TO-GET-A-BETTER-VIEW-OF-THE-SEX-SCENE-BEHIND-YOU-MOVEMENT.

Kelce opened the balcony door, grinning like the luckiest idiot on Earth. "Ayo, you guys still here?"

"You fucker locked us out," Rafe replied.

Kelce rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh shit, my bad. Didn’t notice." He gestured behind him. "So, if you could—"

"Yeah, yeah," Rafe said, already pushing Kelce to the side.

You quickly got up too, snatched the coolpad, and slipped past Kelce with an awkward smile.

Molly, sitting on the bed, gave you a little wave as you and Rafe walked by.

JESUS.

In the doorway, Rafe turned around, about to throw a stupid comment at you (probably something like "you sure you don't wanna stay and watch?"), but you pressed your hands against his back and pushed him out of the room, cheeks burning.

You quickly shut the door behind you and met his eyes with an oh-my-fucking-god look.

Somehow, that made both of you laugh.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

"You sure you wanna dip already?" Rafe asked, watching you slip into your jacket in the entrance hall.

It wasn’t even cold outside, but that flimsy excuse for a jacket didn’t look like it’d keep you warm at all.

You raised your brows at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. "‘Already’? It’s 4am."

Too fucking early for a Kelce party, Rafe thought, his chest still feeling warm from the last three hours.

After you two had fled from Kelce’s room to give him some peace and quiet to have his fun with Molly, you’d dragged Rafe to the bathroom first (which had excited a very specific part of him more than he was ready to admit), but all you made him do was play security outside the door (much to his dismay) while you went in to pee. When you came back out, you both ended up chilling with Cara and Topper in the living room.

Too fucking high and sore from the throbbing pain in his face, Rafe had pretty much collapsed against your side on the couch, nearly crashing into your hip. You’d just giggled and didn’t even seem to mind how close he was sitting (not that he'd been able to move away anyway, even the tiniest movement was draining all the strength out of him).

Then he had to endure listening to Topper and your friend getting loud over some absolutely uninteresting bullshit, and he couldn’t figure out how those two even vibed like that. He only started paying attention when the conversation somehow turned to weird sex stuff, but then again, he absolutely didn’t want to picture Topper doing any of that, so he’d just pulled you into a side convo, letting you ramble about random shit you were excited about.

And somehow, Rafe found himself listening—which was fucking strange because normally, he didn’t give a single shit what some girl was babbling about. Especially when he was only giving her his attention for a shot at getting laid.

With you, it was different, but he didn’t know how exactly. Like sure, if you’d actually dragged him into the bathroom earlier to go down on him, he definitely wouldn’t have said no, but the actual crazy part was that he hadn’t even wanted to leave after it hadn’t happened.

Whatever the fuck that meant.

So there he was, slouched next to you on that stupid couch in Kelce’s living room, idiot Topper trying (and failing) to win over your best friend with some of the worst flirting Rafe had ever witnessed, and the bass from the music vibrating through his skull.

Somehow, three hours just passed like that. And Rafe didn’t even need another line.

But now that you and your friend had decided to dip, that familiar pull in his chest was back again—the one that told him the high was fading, and the low was creeping in.

"Yeah, and? You got plans tomorrow or what?", he asked, almost feeling offended by your question.

Cara scoffed. “Girls need their sleep. And unlike some people here, we don’t snort a line of white and bounce back like it’s nothing.”

Idiot Topper chuckled beside her.

Rafe wasn’t sure what to make of your friend. She had the mouth of a boxer, was more eager to throw hands than any guy he knew, but still didn’t fall into the same category as someone like Ruthie.

Honestly, as long as she didn't get on his nerves, he could tolerate her.

And since he didn’t feel like getting into some dumb argument with her, he decided to let the comment slide. "That’s what Saturdays are for. You’ve got the whole damn day for spa girl shit or whatever."

Your soft laugh next to him made something warm bloom in Rafe’s chest, and he had to suppress a smile.

"No thanks," Cara replied dryly, turning to Topper with a blank stare. "Next time Ruthie starts any shit, text me right away. I’ll put the bitch in her place."

Topper chuckled. "That the only reason I’m allowed to hit you up?"

Rafe locked eyes with you, face deadpan, and you both internally gagged. That idiot was so bad at flirting it hurt.

"If you don’t want me to block you, then yeah," your friend replied, tone serious (her weird sense of humor very much questionable), and grabbed her bag. She then pulled Topper into a quick goodbye hug. "Well, tell Kelce ciao from me. Party was cool and all. I assume he’s still busy."

All four of you chuckled, and when Cara moved to hug Rafe goodbye too, he tensed slightly, not having expected that, pulling back quickly as soon as she stepped back.

"Thanks again for the invite or whatever," she mumbled impatiently to no one in particular, then turned to you. "I’ll wait in the car. My feet are killing me."

With that, the crazy girl you called your best friend left.

Topper eyed you with an uncertain smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "I can't tell if she likes me or not."

"Trust me, you'll know if she doesn't," you replied with a cheeky smile, and Topper nodded like the dumb idiot he was.

Then he stepped forward to pull you into a hug as well, and the way your arms slid around his neck for a second itched Rafe in all the wrong ways—but he figured it was just the sight of Topper that got on his nerves.

"Glad you came," Topper said with one of his usual, butter-up smiles. "Hope you had fun, despite... well, you know."

You nodded with a chuckle. "Yeah, it's all good, no worries. Thanks for looking out for me earlier tonight."

Rafe couldn’t help but wonder what exactly you and Topper had been up to while he'd been gone. And because he couldn't stand whatever this thing between you two was, he just nodded impatiently and said, "Yeah, yeah, great job. He deserves a gold medal. Can we wrap this up now?"

Topper gave Rafe a frown and for a second, Rafe expected that idiot to bring up that stupid driver argument in front of you—something he was lucky Rafe had already decided wasn’t worth his time anymore.

But Topper just turned back to you with a smile. "Get home safe."

"Thanks," you said, and with that, the idiot left.

Finally, Rafe felt like he could breathe again. And yet—something tugged at his chest at the thought of you leaving now.

"You two should fix this," you said, your tone firm.

Fuck no. Not again.

"Still no clue what the real reason behind this beef is," you went on, softer now, "but I guess that doesn’t matter. He’s your friend."

Rafe frowned, but he was so done with this topic and somehow didn’t want to snap at you again, so he just shrugged. "By Monday, that idiot's gonna have calmed down."

You raised your brows, expression dry. "With 'idiot,' you mean yourself, I assume."

God, Rafe would have loved nothing more than to shut you up. And the way he'd do it startled even him.

"Shit, just a few drinks and suddenly you're all bold, huh?", he replied, fighting the urge to look at your lips.

"I've always been bold," you said with a sly smile. "Right now I just don't care how it comes across."

Rafe gave a lopsided smile and tapped his head with a finger. "Nah, I think the minions in your head are just finally comfortable around me."

And shit, it was the truth. Rafe didn’t care to describe it but since your stupid little fight, you seemed to be more… at ease around him. No more uncomfortable smiles and nervous energy bullshit radiating off you.

Which meant: he’d been right all along (as expected).

Bringing you here had helped to shut your crazy-ass brain finally down, and that, in turn, promised no more project sessions in which Rafe felt like he was holding you at gunpoint because of the tension you had going on in his presence.

Mission accomplished.

"Actually, they’d love to beat up the minions in your head. But kinda hard to do when it's empty", you replied.

Rafe laughed and ignored the sharp pain shooting through the right side of his face. "Aight, I think you’ve ran your mouth enough."

You chuckled, and suddenly the question was on the tip of his tongue—whether you maybe wanted to stay, whether he should walk you home instead, whether you’d like to crash at his place.

Fuck, no. Rafe swallowed that ridiculous thought down fast.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," you said, and Rafe drank in your smile. You stepped closer and he half expected you to reach out to him but you just tapped your finger against your cheek. "And you should definitely get that looked at. It’s looking worse by the second."

Rafe chuckled. "Already had a nurse check it out. Her hands were about as gentle as the Hulk's, but I guess it’ll do."

"Sounds like she should’ve beat you up instead of looking after you."

Rafe raised his chin, the corners of his mouth tugging down. "What if I was into that shit?"

You gave him a deadpan look but he could definitely see your brain short-circuiting which only made him feel all the more cocky.

"Then I’d say, keep your kinks to yourself," you said. "Because I’m heading out now."

A laugh slipped from Rafe’s lips. He saw the hesitation in your eyes and decided to save you from your misery, stepping forward with an "Aight" and pulling you into a goodbye hug.

Your hands wrapped around his neck as he pressed himself against you, feeling like he’d just done two back-to-back lines—your scent taking over his mind, almost making him act on instinct and letting his hands wander. But that thought sobered him up REAL quick, and he kept his fingers where it was considered appropriate.

When you pulled away, his chest clenched hard. Again he found himself debating whether he should ask you to stay.

Fuck that shit.

Coke and weed never made him this fucking pathetic. He'd definitely need to talk with Barry about his new formular because what the actual fuck?!

A soft smile curved your lips, your whole presence suddenly glowing. "Thanks for... everything," you said, stepping back and pulling your flimsy little jacket around your shoulders. "Then I’ll see you Monday, I guess."

Rafe nodded and walked you to the door. "Should be enough time for your brain to recover."

You gave him a mock frown. "And for you to discover yours. I still haven't forgotten that you've called me an ungrateful brat."

"Alright, you better dip before you actually start getting on my nerves," Rafe said as he opened the door, his eyes landing on the Bentley waiting outside. "I'm just gonna assume your friend had the sense not to drink tonight."

You slipped past him with a bratty smile. "I'm not even sure she has a license."

And with that, you turned and stumbled your way toward the car.

Rafe’s eyes trailed after your dimly lit figure, and before another one of those insane thoughts could creep into his head, he closed the door.

Suddenly, the same emptiness settled in—the one he’d felt the last time you'd left Tannyhill. But he was too tired, too hazed from Kelce’s fat joint, his head pounding too loud with the echo of the bass, to really process the reason behind it.

Even all the rage he’d felt earlier toward that fucking perv Chris and that surfing bastard Robert Lewis had dulled. Rafe would’ve definitely thrown hands tonight—he’d even offered Kelce a baggie of coke to stir Lewis up, just to have a reason to punch his jaw in (not that Rafe ever needed a reason but it was more fun if the other bastard was boiling inside).

Which reminded him never to leave a task like that in Kelce’s hands again. The idiot had clearly failed.

But even that, Rafe could forgive—because that fucking victorious feeling he’d felt on the couch with you, that deeply satisfying sense of winning, fuck—seeing that bastard Lewis at the end of the night, sitting outside with a bunch of other losers by one of the hookahs, almost felt better than any punch to this bastard's face ever could have.

Shit, still Rafe would have loved to give that bastard a good beating. Wipe that smug, annoying grin right off for even thinking he could make a move on the girl Rafe had brought with him.

And as soon as Rafe so much as lifted his hand, that pussy backed off instantly (shit, in a way, Rafe actually had Ruthie to thank for that opportunity).

Because that was the thing with assholes like him: They’d try some shit with Rafe, push their luck, but the second he only threatened to beat the crap out of them, they’d back off and crawl back to whatever crowd of nobodies they came from.

It was all just about playing the game right.

But to Rafe’s deepest confusion... that feeling of victory was overshadowed by something else in this very moment.

A deep low settling in his body. The only thing buzzing in his mind—the one thought that somehow sobered him up—was the fact that he wouldn’t see your crazy-ass head for two whole days.

Why the fuck that bothered him? Who the fuck knew. At this point, it felt easier not to fight against these insane thoughts. Because somehow, just like you, they seemed to drive him crazy in all the right ways.

So maybe it was that bit of clarity the universe decided to reward—because when he spotted your forgotten bag sitting on top of a cabinet in the living room, it almost felt like fate.

But since Rafe didn’t believe in gods, fate, or any kind of hippie bullshit, the only explanation that made sense to him was that you’d left it there on purpose—for him to find and bring to you tomorrow.

And that thought alone sent such a rush through his chest that he even greeted backstabbing-ass Topper in the kitchen... with a grin.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

A/N: So I hope you guys enjoyed this part even though you may have expected something different. Maybe more drama and not Rafe and Reader actually solving some issues and getting closer but I felt like they deserved a moment of true sincerity (after 14 chapters lmao). Don’t worry, from here on, there’ll only be more tension hihihhi

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

T A G L I S T F O R M (taglist for this series is CLOSED but you can sign up for my other stuff through this link)

@ursogorgeous13 @my-name-is-baby @moneybaby07 @jjasmiineee @sttaejoon-blog @vogueprincess @princesspeaxhh @wtfisastiles @wefelldowntherabbithole13 @rafes4 @kathryn-maraudersversion @wuluhwuhmaster @torturedtypewritersdept @sfotiegiuls @ltristessedureratoujours @stoned-writer @lunaleah @akobx @cokewithcameron @b00klvrs @rafesdrew @mattyskies @yktayy9669 @beabafreakbee @c1gsafterwhat @drewstarkeyswife-7 @wtfdudesblog @akobx @wintercrows @miaaaoa @setmefreemyg @pogueprincesa @chimchimjiminie16 @drewstarkeysrightarm @wtfdudesblog @wolfstarsimpxx @emmiesummers @brycesfav @ayy1234567 @rgeraldg @stanseventeen @louvrgirl @chaoticromantic @drewstarkeysrealwife @drewstarkeyswifehoe @psychicnatural @mysticbby2009 @oreocheescake-12 @miniiminie @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @drewstarkeyywife

[bbyjackie]

𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐒' 𝐆𝐅 — ♡

one piece social media + dating feat: shanks

》 i had to edit half of these photos to have red hair lol

♡ liked by d_mihawk, B.B_buGGY and 8.8k others

_ynln: this man is definitely 'wanted'

tagged: sh444nks

sh444nks: i know you're obsessed but gosh stop flirting with me 😒😒

↳ sh444nks: i have a girlfriend already geez 🙄

↳ _ynln: not with that attitude you won't 😐

↳ sh444nks: WAIT IM JOKING PLEASE 😭🙏

↳ benn__b: I hate you guys, you're literally a meter away from each other right now

YASXPP: Yo captain you're looking a little too fine right now 😍🫵

↳ luckyroux.x: For real Yn gotta start gatekeeping these photos 🤤

↳ _ynln: can u guys stop trying to steal my man 🤨

↳ YASXPP: He was our captain before he became your boyfriend, get in line (liked by luckyroux.x, sh444nks)

♡ liked by luckyroux.x, _ynln and 10.3k others

sh444nks: gf taught me abt angel numbers, that's why my user is now 4️⃣4️⃣4️⃣

tagged: _ynln

_ynln: the yn effect (liked by benn__b, luckyroux.x)

↳ sh444nks: my angel 😇😇

↳ _ynln: nah stop 😔💗

B.B_buGGY: Simp

↳ sh444nks: mad you don't get any huh 🥱

↳ B.B_buGGY: SHUT UP SHANKS I DO GET SOME

↳ sh444nks: get some skincare that's what u rlly need 😭

↳ sh444nks: also what the hell is wrong with your user

↳ B.B_buGGY: MY SKIN IS BEAUTIFUL

↳ B.B_buGGY: I was drunk

YASXPP: Damn captain you're not gonna post me? 😩😩

♡ liked by sh444nks, benn__b and 6.1k others

_ynln: im gonna miss this little sucker 💓

sh444nks: he’s so annoying though

↳ _ynln: shanks you literally have no say, luffy is literally a mini you 🤨🤨

↳ sh444nks: this is so offensive my love 😔

sh444nks: nah this isn't even cool, luffy stole my girl

↳ d_mihawk: He just has more game than you. (liked by YASXPP, luckyroux.x, _ynln)

↳ YASXPP: YOOO WTF AHAHAHAH

↳ luckyroux.x: LMFAOOO 😭😭

↳ sh444nks: MIHAWK WTF BRO

benn_b: Nah cause Luffy had us nervous all the time, little shit

↳ _ynln: HES SOO CUTE THO!!

↳ sh444nks: what about me yn!

↳ _ynln: no

♡ liked by benn_b, YASXPP and 9.5k others

_ynln: happy birthday my ancient artefact 🎉

tagged: sh444nks

sh444nks: i love you but damn im not THAT old 😭😭

↳ _ynln: love u 2!

B.B_buGGY: Break up

↳ sh444nks: ayo?!!

YASXPP: ANCIENT ARTEFACT NAHH AHAHAH

↳ luckyroux.x: STRAIGHT VIOLATION

d_mihawk: Happy birthday you drunk slop

↳ sh444nks: knew you loved me mihawk 🥺🥺💓

↳ d_mihawk: die

[redcherrykook]

✰ 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦.

✰ 1 / 02 / 03 / series m list.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

tags: bestfriendsboyfriend!jungkook, boxer!jungkook, cheater!jungkook (not on oc) , making out, grinding, mini tit play, oc is a piece of shit, sneaking around

note from cherry: shameless one is here!! debuting a morally grey (fucked up) lil three shot. yay!! Lmk what u think >_<

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The grey, cloudy storm outside knocks on your window rather gently, brushes against the glass with it´s windy strokes as if asking to be let in rather than commanding you to. But you knew Jungkook wasn´t really asking.

"Hey doll" the sleezy smile spreads across his features quickly, his scratched up, tattooed hand wraps around the window seal while he kicks his legs over, invites the rain in briefly. The sliding window shuts closed behind him- shakes off the wetness from his leather jacket, runs a hand through his damp mullet.

"You look beat up, what happend?" he hums briefly, letting your exposed arms sneak around his neck while he find the familiar spot on your waist- he shouldn´t know that that´s where you like to be held. Does nonetheless, rubs his rough palms under the flimsy material of your cami.

"Street fight, coach said i shouldn´t but the bastard was asking for it" he lowly murmurs against your lips, unable to resist their proximity anytime he crosses boundaries again. Instinctively leaning down to meet you, splatter ink on to your skin that you would have to spend hours scrubbing off of every patch on your body he´d touch- everywhere, only to still linger around with his cologne.

He brushes his busted lip against your own plump, soft ones- vanilla, your usual lip balm that´s kept on at all times. Even on mundane days where the thrill of his presence lies low.

"Want me to patch you up?" your words fan against his small wound, breathe the hot air, thus the life, back into him like you always do. Like you´ve grown to do in the reflection of broken vows and in corners you should not be lurking in.

"Hmm, missed you" Jungkook grins, feeling your own smile creep up into your lips, invading that slight scowl you worse tentatively. Outside becomes louder, drags the trees against your window now, but you can´t hear it, not against your heart pounding in your eardrums, not when you try to ignore the guilt that bubbles up every time his lips hungrily meet yours. Clash, collide, collapse.

You moan at the wet sensation of his mouth trailing down your neck, he blindly finds your sweet spot and you let out his favorite sigh, tangle your fingertips into his midnight hair and tug on it near his roots. He matches the sound, groans and embeds himself deeper into your delicate skin.

You smell like his favorite too, cotton, a hint of lavender. He had always despised strong floral scents, especially artificial ones. They make his head hurt and his nose burn, he´d say.

Your breeze of lavender kisses his senses as much as it devours him whole. He indulges in it, drinks every drop, tongue darting along your skin to feel it rise, feel how you shiver through his open mouthed, hot kisses.

"Come on, let me clean you up baby" you speak through breathy moans, gliding your finger along his jaw, he whines; then chuckles "Fine"

"This is so unnecessary doll" his teeth chew down on his pillowed bottom lip, oozing out more red liquid - you wipe it again, scoffing "Well stop getting into street fights. Turn left" you nudge his chin, inspecting the dirty scratch on his cheek- shake your head as you bring the disinfectant to the cut up skin. Jungkook tries his best not to wince at the sting, but you see right through him, his eyes scrunch up briefly "Such a baby"

"You just need an excuse to sit on my lap don´t you?" the flat tip of his nose nudges yours, pokes little holes into your annoyed facade, he throws your other thigh over his hip aswell- planting you to straddle his larger frame. You proudly nod, shimmy his leather jacket off his shoulders and let him find his rightful place around your waist again. He massages the flesh carefully, taking his silver lip ring between his teeth while you apply the last little bandaid just above his eyebrow piercing.

The storm roars now, banging against your windows, breaking through to be acknowledged. But you´re oblivious. Focused on the routine like feel of Jungkook´s hands sliding up your cami to cup your breasts, he gropes the soft swells, brings his head forward to tug down the lace with his mouth, "So cute" he mumbles, runs his tongue flat over your hardened pebble. The neglected, bruised knuckles of his caress you with airy adoration that don´t seem to match their broken exterior, bled through, vulnerable. Contrary, they´re feather light, guarded. Almost, as if he´s still afraid to go too far. His cock strains at the memory of being nestled inside of your cunt.

"Kook.. she´ll be here soon you know" the sentence floods his mouth, invading your sweetness with bitter aftertastes- he´s aware that he can´t fully enjoy you without it stringing along, but he likes to pretend in these moments, that it´s just the taste of sweat, part of your giving body that he claims with vile breaths. Inhales, swallows.

Your airy noises of enjoyment deafen him, edge his tongue to swipe across the skin of your chest and make his palms itch to grind you against his clothed cock, run your throbbing, wet core over he bulge to create electricity throughout his system, strain his throat with gutteral groans only a equally hungry man would understand.

"Just a little, missed you all week" it echos through your made empty head, fills up your every cell with lust for something in your possession, inside of a grasp you dug your claws in, fitting in holes that aren´t yours- molds you never made, though you seem to fill them out better than their originator. You sneak your way down his body, work to zip open his heavy jeans while he´s long gone in pulling down your little sweatpants- sighs at the view of pink undies covering your pussy.

"Did you know i was coming?" he jokes, engulfs your hips into his hold and stutters out a curse at collision, "No, but I was hoping"

Every ragged, filthy drag of your panty clad core to his messily pulled out, thick cock feels like a hit of gratification, he glistens with the cover of your sins and swells at the fat tip every time you rub your needy clit against it, digs deeper into you.

His solid muscles flex under the touch of your eager hands, it burns on the surface of his skin and Jungkook wastes a thought on wishing it wouldn´t show when he faced the mirror later. Invisibly ruined by your fingerprints, committed to his pleasure once his hand wraps around his cock in solitude- even when he tries to wash off your remains, the chamber of his mind found it´s way back. In horror, his heart always pumped his blood in the route to where you tainted him.

"M´close" you whisper ravishing his jaw with your dainty kisses that don´t mirror an ounce of the true need coursing through you, you weren´t allowed to bruise his skin more than you had already done so in the secrecy of your affair, a single visible mark and it would be over. It can however, not be over, not yet, or so he thinks even when his milky cum splurts on his stomach, paints the sensitive flesh of your cunt as you lazily drag over it. Let out little whimpers that make his chest clench with ownership.

The fever dies out into a candle, he smiles, presses a kiss to your nose "We should be quick baby"

Fast enough to make it seem natural when he just undoes his no longer wet jacket at the front door while it rings expectedly,

"Hey- oh baby, you´re here already?" she chimes, turns the corners of her lips up in excitement

You watch as your best friend leans in, kisses his cheek on the side he´s been patched up on, "Yeah, came here just now, had to get fixed up first"

"What happend?" you hold back the answer that prudes the tip of your tongue, glance at his loose hold on her hips and briefly allow yourself to proudly smile, just before you recoil in shame.

"Street fight, all good"

The rain trickles down her wet hair, pools down at the floor but calms down significantly on the other side of your four walls, sings against the heavy curtains, asks you to forget.

"You smell so good" Jungkook tells her, letting the words intoxicate her innocent head with lovesickness, but his eyes dull with boredom even when she beams, he´s good at lying you´ve learned- even burries his nose into her hair.

"Thank you babe. Gucci flora, got it just the other day"

It takes a bit not to chuckle, stepping behind her back to carefully send him a knowing smile before you turn around- walk back up to your room and leave the lovers in their confined, rightful space.

[joejhang]

tgr spoilers !!!

ive JUST finished it it is 2am where i am rn these r my very incoherent and chaotic first thoughts:

canon jeandrew interaction SAVE ME the way they talk about neil makes me sick god GOD

the interview...everything surrounding it...hannah bailey when i catch u...

FUCKBOY JEREMY KNOX YOU OWN ME GOD HE'S ACTUALLY HHHHHHH

jeremy i'm sorry i was truly TRULY unfamiliar with your game

reading this like: oh jeremy gets BITCHES (leo, faser, elias, the sheldon guy???, mystery guy with the shirt and cologne, dexter...this is getting out of hand)

NEIL...get UP my baby bunny GET UP GIRL

sorry but the image of neil getting his ribs bashed in and curling up on the floor of the court in a ball...like that's my shayla...that's my bunny rabbit what the fuck ru doing to him....

grayson's dead WHO ELSE CHEERED

kevjean...oh they make me sick they make me SO SO SICK the way they interact with each other...there's so much flavour oh god

kevin being like "did u actually read any of the trojans' articles or where u too busy staring at jeremy's photos-" and jean elbowing him to shut him up KEVJEAN YOU ARE SO DEAR TO ME

kevin defending jean to the press YEP YEP I KNEW IT WHAT DID I FUCKING SAYYYYY

wow jer's backstory is even MORE fucked up and messy than i thought

that MESSY AHH ravens v foxes game...andrew's broken CLAVICLE god i was shaking

INSANE jerejean scene when they were getting ready for the banquet absolutely INSANE

jeremy lore goes CRAZY

andrew and his insanely acute gaydar...how i love you

andrew asking jean if grayson touched neil...andreil you make me so sick so insanely unwell about them

kevin and andrew not knowing abt neil's little visit to jean is SO funny to me

NEIL STILL BEING A LOUDMOUTHED LITTLE SHIT TO THE PRESS UGH I LOVE YOU SO

"fuck what i deserve. what about what i want?" modern poetry. to me.

jean beating bryson's ass...laila was SO real for being like that was so sexy...as a lesbian too...real asf

more of jeremy being a piece of shit please i love it so much jean was right it makes him SO much more interesting

kandrew and kevneil still going strong

jerejean is absolutely insane in this book like...it would be less obvious if they kissed tbh

"give me a name. i will kill him." GO FERAL JEAN GO FERAL GOD HE IS. SO FINE.

the way jean staring at annalise left a bad taste in MY mouth asw, jer real asf for getting jealous

jabberwocky moreau you are MINE

"why can't you fuck someone who respects you?" wow. what do i even say to that. wow.

teenage dirtbag jeremy is real and dear to me. sneaking into his ex-situationship's house through the window??? jumping down and stealing his mother's roses??? he's so sexy i'm sorry

JEAN you are HEALING how i love this man

"he's handsome. the dog is cute, too." AHHH RENEE I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU

i like how the "spicy scenes" in this book were literally all just jer's hookups with random guys every five chapters or so

service top jeremy...he's like...always on my mind

jeremy CLOCKING kevjean so fast was crazy to me and kevin clocking jerejean asw...the trio we didn't know we needed

cody noticing the way jean says jeremy's name had me CRYING they were so real for that

cody and jean the best duo ever methinks

i like how every time jean thinks of jeremy in a romantic way he immediately backtracks and is like "let's not think about this"

"emotional procrastination" is one of the funniest terms i've ever heard

jean kissing cat's temple...he makes me violently, violently ill

jeanneil save me...i will always come back to you...

will not be recovering any time soon do not attempt to contact me

[littlelovelunette]

can u maybe do sevika x reader making up w sex after they had an argument..

Makeup Sex

contains smut, angst, rough sex, hitting, spanking, choking, biting, mentions of blood

I:30 AM here... I can't sleep I have to try I'm sorry if this is too shitty lmk if it is and I'll edit it

"you always do this!" you yelled at sevika.

this wasn't the first time she broke something out of anger. but it was worse than other times when she did it. she knocked over a snow globe that she had gotten you as an anniversary gift.

of course she didn't throw it by purpose, she threw something else which caused the snow globe to topple over off the show piece shelf and onto the ground shattering into a thousand pieces before your very tear stricken eyes.

"it was an accident and you know it," she retorted, her voice was low, almost a rumble from her chest and you knew she was still angry, not because of the snow globe but because she was left fixing silcos shit and currently was under a lot of stress.

but still the fact that the globe was broken made something inside you break as well, "i hate you so much!" you screamed and ran into your shared bedroom with her, burying yourself under the thick duvet and cried silently.

sevika promised she would try to soften her harsh edges for you because she needed to put effort in the relationship too, it couldn't always be you trying to string things together.

you were curious, just a little part of you was curious to see how she'd salvage this not that you expected anything high and fancy from her.

6 hours pass the incident and sevika had stormed out of the house never returning. you didn't know if she would even return at this point.

anxiety gnawed at your chest and kept you awake, you just wanted your baby back at this point. you didn't care if she would try to fix things or not. you just needed to be in her arms as you cried your pain out.

slowly, your sadness faded into some sort of anger, the moment you heard the door open and close indicating sevika was back home, you were fuming as you walked to the door to confront her and have another round of arguments.

however sevika looked absolutely wasted and tipsy the moment she saw you, she lunged forward grabbing you and pinned you to the wall lifting you off your feet, her lips crashed against yours.

"let me dow—" you began but she kissed you so deeply forcing her tongue inside as her hands squeezed your thighs, mechanical arm holding you in place as her flesh arm trailed up and cupped your breast in her hand.

"I hate you..." you mumbled angry tears forming around the corners of your eyes.

her fingers rolled your nipples over and squeezed the sensitive nub between her rough calloused fingers. "I hate you too." sevika said but you knew she didn't mean it because right after she sunk her teeth onto your shoulder making you gasp and cry in pain mixed pleasure.

her teeth left a slightly bloody imprint of her fine teeth over your shoulder and you could see it under the sheer fabric of the dress you wore to bed earlier. soon it was ripped off your body along with your underwear and thrown somewhere far away without a care in the world.

sevikas palm came in collide with your cheek not too harshly but just enough to get her anger across along with building sexual frustration, "I'll ruin your holes." she said more as in declared.

you cried out as she threw you onto the bed, ass facing up and crawled in bed herself, unbuckling the belt of her pants and letting all her clothes begun looking around the bed one by one.

"sevika you're inebriated don't do this," you whispered earning a harsh smack on your ass followed by a few more firm slaps.

"I'm fine. and you need to be taught a lesson."

you yelped in pain, biting the sheets to keep yourself from screaming out too loudly in pain, drool covering sheets as your wetness increased feeling the firm slaps on your plush butt.

"cute ass, covered in my slaps. you should keep it like that always," sevika slurred.

sevika didn't wait too long before strapping herself and shoving the huge 8 inched toy inside your soaked hole earning a loud scream from you.

you clawed at the sheets helplessly as you clenched around the toy and tried to crawl away from the animalistic woman who only grabbed you by your hips, metal and flesh digging into your skin.

"hurts! hurts!" you cried out, earning another smack to your ass, and a slam of her hips making the dildo hit your cervix.

your face slowly sunk into the pillows as you drooled over how the silicone toy stretched you out. her pace started getting sloppy and fast as she gave another smack to your ass.

"I'll break your hole," she slurred out as she continued thrusting, pausing as she felt you squirting your release and wasn't long until the older woman collapsed on top of you.

you moved on away from under her and you were so exhausted yourself you could only unstrap the toy and fall into bed beside her again, body shutting down and giving into sleep.

[troublesomesnitch]

The Novice

Aemond x Septa!Reader

The one-eyed prince makes a late night confession.

Contents: Book!Aemond. Pure filth, extremely dubious consent/non-con. Confessional dirty talk, coercion, power imbalance.

Words: 4200

Mostly book!Aemond, but with some show elements added to make him a real piece of shit.

CW: sexual assault!

Proof read, but I am not good at proof reading.

-

Twice a week, the grand sept receives fine visitors.

It is always something you look forward to, something special and exciting; hearing guards in the streets outside, and the swift feet of errand boys running to inform your superiors.

The queen will be arriving shortly. 

There is not much preparation that needs to be done, because you never tarry in your duties - there are always fresh matches laid out, candles ready to be lit, not a spec of dust on the altars. But for the queen, you go above and beyond. You fetch cushions for her dainty knees, you light incense in every corner, and you usher out any crowds that are not worthy of her presence. 

You greatly admire the queen. She is all that a lady should be, the very image of womanhood. Gracious, pious, beautifully but modestly dressed, and always kind and courteous to you. She says thank you, and blessed day, sweet Sister, and she asks about your training, your health and wellbeing, what charitable causes you wish to devote yourself to. 

The older septas say that the queen seems to have taken a liking to you, and that perhaps if you are lucky, she will request for you to join her household once you have taken your vows. To be a helper and companion to her daughter, and to teach the little prince and princess - her grandchildren, which is a strange thought, because the queen is so young and so beautiful to already be a grandmother. 

She is certainly much younger than her husband. The king is old and frail and rarely leaves his castle now, but even in his youth, he never came to the sept. At least that is what you are told. Septon Alester says he is an unworthy husband, and an unworthy ruler, too. A heretic, like all the rest of his Valyrian kin, who flout divine law and believe themselves above the gods. 

You would never dare to utter such a thing, but it seems at least partially true - in all the time you have served the sept, the king has never accompanied his queen to prayer. Not even once. She always comes alone, escorted by her guard and her maid. And sometimes by her son. 

The one-eyed prince. The one who rides the largest beast in the world. 

There are many rumours swirling about noble lords and ladies, but especially about him. In the taverns and winesinks people say he is of a sullen disposition, and that the loss of his eye at such a young age has left his face hideous and deformed - clearly they have never seen him, but you have, and you know it is nothing more than malicious slander. 

The prince is as beautiful as his mother. 

They look lovely when they kneel together by the altar, with their hands delicately folded and their heads respectfully bowed. Regal, godly. Like the Mother and the Warrior, you think. You often wonder about the contents of his prayers - what could a royal prince possibly wish for? Not as many things as a queen, it would seem, because he never kneels for as long, retreating after a minute or two to stand and wait for his mother. Watch over her; look at her with devotion and reverence. You cannot help but steal quick glances at him; at his graceful posture and his strong face, and you are always too slow to look away, so sometimes he catches you in it. Even when you stand on his blind side, he somehow knows to turn his head and meet your gaze. The little bow he gives you is courteous, but the taunting smile that follows is not, and you must always remind yourself that you have done nothing wrong. 

It is not a sin to be curious. 

—

When the evening bell tolls, and the city gates close, the High Septon calls to prayer. But one person must always stay behind to keep vigil until the morning, and the duty is shared between all servants of the Faith. Septons and septas, novices, even holy brothers and sisters, sometimes. Only the Most Devout are exempt from it, as well as those who are weakened by illness or old age.

You are neither, but you do not mind taking your turn. It is an easy task, as all of the city is asleep, and those who are not would much rather drink and carouse than come to a place of worship. Here, the night is quiet and calm, and you quite like these hours of solitude. Alone in the sept with only the statues, and maybe the gods, for company. 

On this day though, you are startled from your thoughts when the heavy doors are swung open. 

You have never before encountered guests at this hour, so your fearful imagination is quick to jump to conclusions - the man could be a thief, a common brute, a scoundrel hiding from a brawl, or - gods forbid - from the City Watch.

But when you peek out from your little corner, you are surprised to see that it is the prince. And that he is alone. 

He is dressed differently tonight, in dull colours and coarser fabrics, far simpler than what he usually wears. Perhaps in an attempt to go unnoticed among the common people - but if that was indeed his intention, he has very much failed. Everything about him is unusual, from his hair to his eye to the shining silver clasp at his neck; the immaculate tailoring of each of his garments. Even the way he carries himself makes it abundantly clear that this is no grocer or stonemason. 

You cast your eyes down as his steps echo through the sept, purposeful and determined.  Clearly heading towards you, but you would hate to be presumptuous, so it is only when he is right in front of you that you rise from your seat to curtsy. Reverently, so deep that your knee almost touches the floor. 

“Sister,” he nods. “I have sins I wish to confess - a troubled mind I wish to unburden.” 

You curtsy once more, though not as low this time.

“I am not ordained to hear confessions, but I should be happy to fetch a septon - “

“No,” the prince says. “I will speak to no one but you.” 

What he demands is a breach of the rules, and a cruel thing to ask of you, but there is not much to be done about it. You can hardly refuse a prince of the realm, and what if he tells his mother that you were unhelpful? After all, it is your sacred duty to comfort and guide the faithful. To lead them on the path to righteousness. 

So you nod, draping your veil over your head as you both sit down on your little bench. Right beside one another, so close that your legs almost touch. A proper septa would say confess, and may the Father judge you justly, but that is not appropriate for you, so you merely look down at your folded hands and wait for the prince to speak. 

“I am plagued by impure thoughts,” he begins. 

The colour drains from your face in an instant. Oh, not this. 

Anything else, you do believe you could handle. Envy, drunkenness, greed, gambling, even violent offences, perhaps. Anything but this. But you remain calm; force yourself to keep your composure as you speak. 

“All young men have impure thoughts. It is perfectly natural.”

From the corner of your eye, it looks as though the prince smiles ever so slightly. 

“Of course,” he nods. “But mine are by nature nefarious, because the lady I desire is a chaste and pious woman… a maiden, and justly proud of her innocence. She would be distraught if she knew the wickedness she inspires.”

You feel yourself blushing. Although you are sufficiently educated on the matter, speaking of such things makes you feel ashamed and uncomfortable. As it would most young women. Confession or not, nothing about this conversation is appropriate, and you want nothing more than to be done with it and return to quiet contemplation. You keep your eyes cast down, and you are as curt as you dare when you answer. 

“Then you should not sully her, My Prince, even in your thoughts. You should pray to the Smith for strength, or to the Warrior if you prefer, and occupy yourself with noble pursuits. Prayer, studies, and so forth.”

“Oh, but I do,” the prince says gravely. “I devote my every hour to noble pursuits. And yet time and time again I sully her, and my own hand too in the process -  yes, I must confess that I have sinned exceedingly, in both thought and deed. These urges of mine are so unbearable, I simply must relieve myself…” He pauses to look at you coolly, his brows drawn together in a disapproving frown. “You look quite pale, Septa, is my confession too scandalous for you? I should hope the Faith would not admit a novice so unfit for her position…”

“Of course not,” you quickly mutter, though in truth, you are mortified. This is far beyond your station and skill. Not only is the matter highly delicate, but you must also carefully choose your words so as to not offend a member of the royal family. And one with a - supposedly - unfortunate temper at that. 

“It is not for me to command a prince,” you begin, “but it is my duty to remind you that the Faith condemns such practices - surely you know that by indulging your urges, you will only make them stronger.”

“I have tried to refrain from it,” the prince laments. “But even then, she haunts me…  at night, I dream that I lie on top of her - that I spread her thighs and press her body to my own. And these dreams are so vivid, so terribly arousing, they often cause me to - forgive me, Sister - emit my seed.” He sighs deeply, and turns his face away, his shoulders tense; his handsome features full of torment. “A rather shameful predicament, for a grown man - is it not?” 

Perhaps, you think, but a common one nonetheless, and not something he should be chastised for. You know perfectly well that there are some functions of a man’s body that are beyond his control, as do the gods who made it so. It is best not to dwell on it. 

“My Prince,” you say instead, with what little confidence you can muster, “ - with your permission, I would offer you this advice: if you cannot restrain yourself, and if you care for this lady, then you should court and wed her.” You fiddle nervously with your dress, lowering your voice to barely more than a whisper. “It is a wholesome thing, for spouses to give their bodies to each other - for a man to make love to his wife…”  

The prince hums, either in agreement or contemplation, you can’t tell. But you hope he will take your words to heart, and make this irresistible woman his wife. If the mere sight of her can stir such passion, then he would surely grow to love her deeply, and their union would be happy and prosperous. Blessed by the gods.

- Or maybe not.

“I am afraid that is not possible,” the prince says. Slowly, thoughtfully. “Because you see, my lady is a septa - a novice, as it were…” 

His words trail off, and his hand reaches to caress your face, right by the edge of your veil, where a strand of hair has loosened from its pin. 

You recoil at once, springing from your seat to look at him with shock and horror. 

“This is highly improper - “

“I have thought of nothing but you,” he exclaims, impassioned, rising quickly to reach for you once more, “ - since the day I saw you, I have wanted no one else - ”

Again you manage to evade his embrace, but the prince is tall, and his legs are long and agile. Each one of his strides is worth two of yours, and when you back away he follows, stepping ever closer until you are backed up against a pillar.

Oh how you wish that it had only been a thief come to rob the sept. You could have easily escaped out the little hidden door by the dias; let them take whatever riches they could carry.  There is only silver here, and the Faith has no shortage of that.

The prince is after something far more precious. 

“Don’t touch me - ” you plead, feeling your pulse quicken, the hair rise on the back of your neck. He is too near, moving to loom over you, intimidating and imposing, and so tall that he must bend to brush his nose against your hair. 

“It is a waste,” he murmurs. “That such beauty should only belong to the gods.”

You should flee. You should defend your virtue. Maids and ladies, harlots and tavern girls, all women know to protect themselves, to kick where a man is the weakest, to scratch, bite, shout, make a racket. There are guards patrolling the square outside, and septons sleeping nearby in their cells - if you were loud enough, someone would hear you and come to your aid. 

But at what cost, when your assailant is a prince? 

You dare not risk it, so you stand frozen in place, too frightened to push him away, too frightened to even look at him as he gropes your body, touching it in ways that it has never been, and should never be touched. One of his arms wraps around your waist, the other trails over your dress, feeling your shape underneath the fabric. Your stomach, your hips, your bottom, and especially your breasts. 

He cups them with both hands, kneading and massaging them hard, pressing his fingers into your flesh.

“I would take you right here,” he breathes. “Against this very pillar, for all your gods to see - ” 

The blasphemy, the shameless vulgarity - you gasp, and at the sound, the prince chuckles faintly. 

“You said yourself it is a wholesome thing…”

“For husbands and wives -” you squeak, “please, you mustn’t hurt me!“

“Never,” he says, bringing your hand to rest on his chest, over his heart, as if to reassure you. “If you would only oblige me, I swear I will be gentle…”

You shake your head, but it does not dissuade him. He kisses your hair, your cheeks, the shell of your ear, touching his lips to every little sliver of exposed skin. Not just your face and neck, but your forearms too, your wrists, the insides of your elbows. Anywhere that lets him truly feel you. Feel the rapid beat of your pulse; the warmth and softness of a woman’s body.

And as he touches you, you feel him. His manhood, stiff against your hip when he presses himself against you, moaning softly at the feeling. It is a most intimate sound, and you are ashamed to realise that your body instinctively responds to it; to the closeness, the touch of a man. You feel warm in your chest, and wet between your legs - unnerving, and so at odds with the panic that still grips you, with the tears that prickle in your eyes. 

“Please don’t - ” you whimper, just as his teeth graze your jaw, drawing a single, involuntary sigh from your lips. One that spurs him on to swiftly yank the veil off your head and discard it, fully exposing your hair and neck. 

He pulls back to look at you, your neatly pinned tresses, your smooth throat and collarbones. Your beauty that he has long wished to admire. 

“Like an angel,” he says softly, longingly, taking your face in his hands and stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. “A little angel - the Maiden in the flesh - “

“That is a blasphemous thing to say,” you sniffle. 

It only makes him laugh, and before you can say anything else, he tilts your face up so he can press his mouth to yours. 

No one has ever kissed you before. Many boys have wanted to, but none were ever allowed the privilege. You always knew you did not want to be a wife. That you had a different calling. 

It is a very strange sensation, this kiss. Hot, wet, and sticky. You do not return it, and yet the prince is undeterred, parting your lips softly but insistently, just enough to slip his tongue inside. It gives him pleasure, even when your mouth is slack and unresponsive - you can tell from his blissful sighs, and from the indecent way he moves his hips, rubbing the prominent bulge in his trousers against you. He is so entranced by your mouth and your body that you feel a treacherous sense of relief, thinking to yourself that if this is how he wants to gratify himself - by licking your tongue and humping against your hip - you will let him. No real harm has been done to your virtue, and the gods will understand you had no choice. Already you are silently saying your prayers, to the Warrior for courage, the Mother for compassion, the Father for leniency  -

But you are cruelly interrupted when the prince draws back and begins to loosen the closure of his breeches. 

“No - oh no, no - ,” you shriek, but as you try to wriggle from his grasp, his face hardens and his gentle touch becomes like a vice. Rough and unyielding, holding you in place. 

“You must forgive me,” he rasps, his gaze dark with lust, his nostrils flaring, “ - for I can no longer deprive myself of what I so desire...”

He is so much stronger than you. With an impeccably polished boot he shoves your feet apart, his one hand pinning your arms behind your back, the other hiking up your skirts, determined, deaf to your frantic pleas. 

“You don’t understand, I must remain chaste!”

“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses, “I know the workings of the Faith, you’ve taken no solemn vows yet - “

“No, I have, I have!” you cry. “I pledged myself to the Maiden when I was a girl!”

It is the truth, but the prince does not care. He silences you with another desperate kiss, crushing his face to yours, reaching to hook his hand under your knee and lift your leg. He has you trapped, pinned between his body and the stone column, and you can claw at him until your hands bleed, it makes no difference. Your dress is bunched up, your legs forcibly parted, your most intimate secrets laid bare to be violated. A great sin, made even greater by the circumstances, and yet the gods have abandoned you, left you here to suffer. 

They must be occupied elsewhere, and the statues too stand motionless on their plinths, with their tranquil faces, staring blankly into the distance as though deliberately blind to your tragedy. 

To the hand that worms its way underneath your smallclothes. The nails that dig into the back of your neck, holding your head in place. The mouth that swallows up your sobs until he is forced to break the kiss so he can reach between your bodies and finish unlacing his breeches. 

You gasp for breath, looking up and straight at him, your eyes wet and pleading, your lip trembling. 

“Don’t ruin me, please - I beg you, don’t take from me what can never be replaced - “

The prince’s hand hesitates on your thigh. His one eye flickers between your two, between the tears that flow uncontrollably down your cheeks; your little hands clenched into fists against his chest.

For a split second there’s a shadow of something softer on his face, a strange draw around his mouth, and then he curses and releases your leg. And you bolt, without thinking, ducking under his arm to sprint towards the door and safety. 

You manage all of two steps before the prince catches you and pins you to the pillar once more. 

“Not yet - ” he orders, slipping a hand down the front of his trousers to finally free his member from its confines. He cradles it at the base to proudly show it off before he begins to stroke himself, shamelessly and urgently, while you look on. At once frightened and sinfully curious. 

You have never seen it before. The masculine organ. Only in drawings, of which some were intended to educate young women, and others were of a much lewder nature. The prince’s manhood does look much like those anatomical illustrations, only it is bigger in person than you had imagined. Hard and swollen with need. It fits perfectly in his fist, and the skin glides back to reveal the head, which is thick and meaty, and a dark purple red. It almost looks as though it should be painful for him, having it filled and engorged in such a way. Having it stretched to be so big. But of course you know that is not the case. And even if you didn’t, his gasp of pleasure would have made it very clear. 

He reaches for your wrist, tugging it down between his legs, and you are quick to look away when he closes your fingers around it, with his own hand on top. Somehow, you reason that if you keep your eyes averted, it is not as sinful. Not as deserving of punishment. 

But you can still feel it. In your palm, against your clammy skin. Warm, and pulsing as he squeezes your fingers tight around the shaft, moving them from the base to the tip and back down again, using your hand to pleasure himself. Slowly at first, but as his arousal grows he quickens the pace, moving your hand only over the tip of his member, massaging the bulbous head with quick movements. All the while groping at your chest.

And you let him do it. All of it, resigning yourself to be used at his will and pleasure. It is the best and safest course of action now, and all you can do is bear it. You keep your sobs inside, and your eyes cast down, staring mindlessly at the patterns in the stone floor until the prince’s hand seizes your jaw. 

“Look at me,” he commands through gritted teeth, running his thumb over your mouth, pressing against your lips. “Open - suck, use your tongue - “

You do as he says, wanting so desperately to just be done with it - once he has finished he will surely let you go. The thought prompts you to suck on his fingers with increasing fervour, taking them deep into your mouth, running your tongue along the length of them, along his knuckles; making him gasp at the feeling.  

“Fuck, like that - gods yes,” he moans, letting go of your hand to lean against the pillar for support, his eye falling closed, his hips making shallow, instinctive thrusts.

You continue with the same movements, up and down over his manhood, trying to mimic exactly what he did before, whilst still sucking on his fingers, too. Letting him feel your soft mouth and your warm lips; your little wet tongue caressing his skin. You haven’t a clue as to what you are supposed to be doing, and there is no grace or skill to your licks, but each swirl of your tongue makes the prince moan regardless. He would probably much rather feel this attention somewhere else, but clearly he has the wits to know that shoving his member into an unwilling mouth is not a wise idea. So he contents himself with this. 

And thankfully, it does not take long before your efforts are rewarded.

When you choke back a mewl his hips jerk forward, and his hand flies down to close around yours again, guiding you to squeeze him harder and faster. His jaw goes slack, and his manhood stiffens even more, and even though you are inexperienced, you know what it means. You can feel it, feel his sac tighten, feel him twitch in your hand as semen travels up his shaft. He bends to lean his forehead against yours, and finally, finally, he spurts, moaning with pleasure as he empties himself onto your hand, his seed pulsing out in hot, wet squirts. Soiling not only your skin and your dress, but your conscience too; your virtue, honour and dignity.

And at last it is over. 

The prince slumps forwards against you, hiding his face in your neck. His body trembles with the final waves of his rapture, and he brushes his fingers over your hair in a strangely intimate way, a tender way. As though you were lovers. 

In a sense, now, you suppose you are. 

Before he leaves you he quickly tidies his clothes, throwing his cloak around his shoulders and tucking his shirt into his trousers. And once he has made himself presentable, he retrieves your veil too. Brushing it off with a gloved hand and draping it over your head once more. 

“Thank you, Sister,” he says sweetly, cradling your face to kiss your lips and then your forehead. “I feel much more at ease now.” 

No sooner have the doors closed behind him before you fall to your knees by the Maiden’s altar to beg for her forgiveness. 

Part 2: The Devil You Know

Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.

Tags. @arcielee, @helaelaemond, @targaryen-madness, @qyburnsghost.

[locsandletters]

ᯓ leak it; j.bellingham

──smau/fic

pairing ➜ dad!jude x mom!reader

warnings/notes ➜ none

summary ➜ your instagram account is private, until it suddenly isn't.

ynusername

liked by trentarnold66, jobebellingham and 98 others.

ynusername from mykonos, with love.💌

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denisebellingham: give my angel baby a kiss from grandma!🩷 - liked by author

yourbestfriend: tell that man to put a shirt on, nobody's tryna see his ribs💀

↳ judebellingham: you could never just let me live in peace😒

yourcousin: looking that good is illegal in at least seven countries

↳ ynusername: ik, they almost wouldn't let us through customs🫣

aurelientchm: my goddaughter is growing up too fast!!😤

↳ camavinga: there's only one godfather. stop this.

↳ vinijr: yeah and we all know it's me. y/n's just taking too long to announce it officially

↳ rodrygogoes: 🤨

ynusername

liked by brahim, sancho and 77 others.

ynusername find us in a flower field💐🌻🌷🌼🌺

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yourbestfriend: your life is quite literally a pinterest board - liked by author

yourcousin: y/n girl your man's fine af😢

↳ yourcousin2: fr. like, my mouth is watering all of a sudden

↳ ynusername: watch me block both of you😭

tolami_benson: my favourite little family😫💞 - liked by author

yoursister: post some cute shit like this again and i'm reporting your account

↳ ynusername: hating from outside the club is crazy

ynusername

liked by trentarnold66, bukayosaka and 89 others.

ynusername la vie est belle. a week in the south of france🌊☀️🐚🌴🫧

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judebellingham: best week with my best girls❤️ - liked by author

jobebellingham: i see a suspicious lack of my niece's face in these photos

↳ ynusername: she's camera shy (like someone i know👀)

yourbrother: pls keep the pda for private viewing only🤢

nonzinoo10: when's the wedding?

↳ ynusername: let's slow down.

yoursister: okay, we get it. y’all have a cute baby. y’all are in love, and y’all went to france. pls give us a break

↳ camavinga: you wish that was you huh?💀

↳ yoursister: more than u know sksjsj😭😭😭

it wasn't like you meant for any of it to happen.

you'd been careful, fiercely careful even, to keep your life tucked away from all that came with dating jude. he'd made his decision to protect his private life, especially when you two found out you were having a baby, and you were more than fine with that. he always said he didn't want to be one of those guys who treated his family like a public exhibit, and you had always appreciated that about him.

you'd watched enough of his life get dissected online—his every game, every interview, every faint slip of emotion. the press and fans, some more intense than others, had opinions on everything about him. and when your daughter was born, the stakes got higher. both of you were clear about it: no one was going to make your baby girl feel like she owed the world anything.

so your instagram account stayed small and anonymous. a little private bubble where you shared pieces of your life that no one outside your tight-knit circle got to see. soft images of her little fingers wrapped around jude's thumb, her cheeks flushed as she ran around in your back yard, her face lighting up at the museum, where every artefact seemed like the most exciting discovery of her three-year-old life. and your people—your families, jude's teammates, your own friends—would find their way into the comments, joking, saying how she looked more and more like her dad every day.

on other platforms, you never hinted at anything. especially not on twitter. no full names, no tags—just the subtle pictures of toys spread across the floor, or a pair of tiny sneakers next to his, just a few sizes too small. to the rest of the world, you were just a proud mom with a little girl who, based on your twitter captions, had an amazing dad who somehow never made it into your feed.

and it had worked.

for three years, you and jude had managed to stay under the radar. no pap shots, no tabloids digging into your lives, just peace. the kind of peace you never realised you'd treasure this much. until it slipped through your fingers.

it was a friday night. jude had a game the next day, so he'd fallen asleep early, his body draped protectively around you, one arm resting over the spot where your daughter would normally wiggle in between you both sometime in the middle of the night. it was your nightly routine to scroll through instagram before bed, replying to the handful of comments on your posts, maybe resharing an old memory for your close friends.

tonight, you were posting a small video you'd taken at the park that day. it was nothing special, just jude holding your daughter's hand as she walked across the grass, her tiny steps wobbly. you didn't write much for the caption, just something simple like, "my favourite view."

then, you logged off, tossed your phone to the side, and nestled into bed.

but by morning, you could tell something was wrong.

your phone was buzzing nonstop, lighting up in rapid flashes that instantly made your stomach drop. instinctively, you reached for it, feeling jude shift beside you as you did. unlocking it, you were met with an avalanche of notifications: messages, follows, likes—all from accounts you didn't recognise. your private account, the one with less than a hundred followers last night, had thousands of notifications.

you sat up, eyes wide as you scrolled through. every photo was filled with comments from strangers, fans, people you'd never seen before.

ynusername

liked by fedevalverde, gioreyna and 336 842 others.

ynusername two sides of the same coin.🤍

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username: ??

username: i need answers. immediately.

username: a BABY? i'm speechless.

username: who are you and why are there so many photos of jude on your page???

username: i thought i knew everything about him... who is she?? is she HIS??😭

username: this is how i find out he has a family???

username: this feels like a fever dream, no way jude’s been a dad this whole time

it felt like the ground dropped out beneath you.

your fingers shook as you clicked through your account settings, scrambling to make it private again, but it felt pointless—like shutting the door on an already broken window. by the time jude woke up, stretching in that lazy way he did, he glanced over at you with his usual sleepy smile, but the sight of you half in tears froze it on his face.

"hey, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep, but you could see him snap to attention as you tried to explain what happened, words tumbling out so fast you barely made sense.

he listened, brow creased as his hand found yours, steadying it between his palms. "it's okay, baby," he said softly, his voice calm, but you could see the way he swallowed, how he looked down and let out a long breath, processing.

he knew exactly what this meant; you both did. the privacy you'd guarded so fiercely for three years was suddenly slipping away, and it was only a matter of time before the chaos started—the endless questions, the ruthless assumptions.

and sure enough, it began.

you'd gone private again, but it didn't matter; people had reposted screenshots, scrutinising every photo you'd shared. the internet was relentless, obsessed with details you'd never imagined anyone would care about. the comments spilled over with speculation, twitter threads popping up with people wondering who you were, when you and jude had gotten together, if the little girl in your photos was his.

the weight of it was wearing you down, and jude could see it. it was easier for him; he'd grown up under the public eye, knew the feeling of being watched, scrutinised. but for you, it was different—suffocating, heartbreaking, to watch the life you'd built be picked apart and exposed. you felt like you were losing something sacred.

one night, he found you curled up on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through your notifications, eyes distant and tired. he settled beside you, quiet at first, just holding you. then, in a soft voice, he broke the silence. "maybe it's time we tell them. officially."

you stared at him, surprised, a bit wary. "are you sure?" you asked, searching his face, because you certainly were not. "i mean, we don't have to, do we? we could just... maybe let it blow over?"

he shook his head slowly, a hint of a sad smile tugging at his lips. "they're already guessing, making up their own stories. and i don't want them turning you or our daughter into some mystery they feel entitled to solve." he paused, his hand gently brushing your cheek before resting on the back of your neck. "they already know pieces, love. if we do it our way, maybe we can control the narrative."

you nodded, because, yeah, he made sense. still, it did little to calm the anxiety swirling in your stomach. the idea of letting the world into this small, perfect life you'd built felt overwhelming. but jude had always been protective, and if he genuinely believed this was the right move, that it was time, maybe he was right.

the next morning, he posted on his own account. just a few pictures of the three of you. he didn't write much, just a simple, "my favourite girls.❤️” and that was it.

it didn't take long for his fans to fill up the comments, reactions as chaotic and intense as you'd expected. but in the middle of it all, there was kindness, too. supportive messages, people cheering on your little family, voices of love rising above the judgment—the love overshadowed the hate.

later that night, jude found you on the couch, your daughter dozing against your shoulder. he sat beside you, his arm curling around you both as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. the world might have been watching now, but here, together, none of that mattered.

all that mattered was the three of you.

──────────────────

judebellingham

liked by virgilvandijk, erling, and 4 275 936 others.

judebellingham my favourite girls.❤️

tagged: ynusername

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username: it should have been me is all i'm saying

username: not the little belligol arms, i CANNOT😭💗

davidbeckham: proper family man now.🤍

username: is anyone else irrationally mad right now or am i just too invested??

↳ username: yeah you definitely need to touch grass

aurelientchm: big love, bro.🤝🏽❤️

username: @ynusername can u fight?

username: everyone is putting in their opinions as if we know this man personally. at the end of the day, we're just fans. he doesn't owe us every detail of his life.🤷🏽‍♀️

username: do we get to know her name at least??

username: i can't even hate on it. she seems like a good mom, and their kid is adorable

camavinga: my people❤️ ──────────────────

[sturnsmadl]

babydaddy!chris headcannons!

warnings: swearing, mentions of cheating, manipulation, mean!chris, toxic relationship, mentions of sex, mentions of violence, money struggles, insults, angst, some fluff.

divider by: @bernardsbendystraws

a/n at the bottom :)

babydaddy!chris who is the number one manipulator.

"if you loved our kid you would do this for me."

"what? chris thats not fair."

babydaddy!chris who is actually a decent dad when he tries.

"hey baby. your so adorable, look like dada huh?"

babydaddy!chris who loves playing with your feelings.

"you said you loved me..."

"so? she wanted to sleep with me. i loved her for that."

babydaddy!chris who deals despite your warnings not to.

"i got arrested..else i would've been here for pickup, y'know that."

"i know. i bailed you out."

babydaddy!chris who feels the need to torment you when he picks lilly up.

"aww, no action in bed im guessing? or do they just not compare to me?"

"shutup..make sure she's buckled in."

babydaddy!chris who always gets what he wants with you.

"come on, take it baby. we both know u can."

babydaddy!chris who tells his friends about his kid 24/7.

"yeah she's adorable, like a mini me. i love her."

babydaddy!chris who never tells his hookups about you.

babydaddy!chris who insults you like its a full-time job.

"whore" "fucking crybaby" "you aint even fit to be a mum"

babydaddy!chris who has been on and off with you for years.

babydaddy!chris who brags like theres no tommorow.

babydaddy!chris who despite everything, would do anything for you and lilly.

"you need money?"

"no, im fine."

"you're not if you're buying the cheaper diapers now and you cancelled your health insurance..you doing good? i can give you some money if you're struggling y'know."

babydaddy!chris who isn't good at showing emotion.

babydaddy!chris who is genuinely trying to change for your sake.

"you like tulips right..?"

"i do.."

"okay good..i got you some pink ones.."

"oh.."

babydaddy!chris who takes lilly on the best daddy-daughter dates.

"then we went to the park and they had an ice cream van there so she had a chocolate sundae."

"yummy.."

"yeah? you liked it angel?"

babydaddy!chris who needs contact with you or he'll go insane.

"please answer me" "is lilly okay?" "why haven't you been online?"

babydaddy!chris who has an insane breeding kink.

"inside yeah? fuck- baby please-"

babydaddy!chris who finally turns it around.

"you wanna be my girlfriend again? i swear i've changed."

babydaddy!chris who actually cries when he find out you're pregnant again.

babydaddy!chris who helps build everything for the new baby.

babydaddy!chris who makes sure he's there for the birth.

"you're doing so good..you're nearly done ma."

babydaddy!chris who ensures lilly doesnt feel pushed aside.

"hey angel. you wanna play tea party while momma feeds baby?"

"yeah.."

babydaddy!chris who can never behave for too long.

"you said you'd changed!"

"for you? please."

babydaddy!chris who ends up regretting everything quickly.

"im so sorry ma. i love you so much and i love our beautiful babies, can we talk"

babydaddy!chris who hates your new boyfriend.

"just remember im their dad yeah? not you."

"i could get lilly to call me dad with no issue."

"no."

"atta girl."

babydaddy!chris who ends up having a fight with your new boyfriend when he catches him cheating on you.

"chris! what the fuck is wrong with you?!"

"i told you he's a piece of shit ma."

babydaddy!chris who you have to help clean up after the fight, while he bounces the baby.

"you're a hypocrite. y'know that?"

"shutup..i hate him. you deserve better."

"and what do u know about treating me right?"

"dada..?"

"oh..hi angel, im fine. just a little scratch."

a/n- this ended up being so long wtfff. ive been struggling quite a bit so i haven't really been posting but i will try get part 15 of the text series out soon. chris has so many haters lol but the reader isnt pregnant in the text series btw!!

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