#(halo)smoke break

[smokehalos]

whoever made these whispers i love you

[awxcoffeexno]

ain't gon' ever deserve you

mutant!loganhowlett x human!reader one shot

fic masterlist | nsfw claw worship

summary: logan has a nightmare and hurts you by accident - or - the one where you worship his claws the way they deserve.

content: mostly family-friendly claw worship. logan believes in the animal accusations but reader fixes it. reader is human, logan and reader have an established and v loving relationship, lots of reassurance and comforting for logan.

warnings: logan has nightmares, mentions of blood, logan self-hate, family-friendly knife play??????.

word count: 2.1k

a/n: listen, claw worship has been on my mind for a looooooong time. I'm too chicken to put up any of my nsfw writing yet so here's an sfw version with affirmations for poor baby lo-lo. also this is super inspired by logan and kayla's relationship and even uses some quotes from them.

you're deep asleep, dreaming of everything and nothing when you feel the sudden sharp sting in your arm.

eyes flying open, you open your mouth to hiss in pain but logan's lips are at your ear, snarling and grunting in his sleep again.

you look down to find his claws out, the metal tips digging into your arm. you exhale sharply, watching the warm blood seep down your arm and onto the new white sheets.

"no! n– no!" he growls, and you're forced to bite your lip as you try to pull away from his vice grip. when that doesn't work, you sink your nails into his arm.

"logan–"

"victor, NO!" he screams and sits up, yanking his claws from your arm and stabbing at the air in front of him.

victor creed. logan's brother and the bane of his existence. victor who haunts his dreams every single night, victor whose name you can never forget, victor who is now the reason logan's hurt you.

you sit up with him, aching for him, wrapping your arms around his torso. the burning pain in your arm an afterthought, you hear him swallow and gently let out a breath. he's sticky with sweat and the dry radiator air in the room isn't helping, the moon glowing through your glass walls, creating a halo around his head.

"nightmare." you state, letting him catch his breath and take in his surroundings.

he nods even though what you said wasn't a question but a statement. he twists around and pulls you into his lap, hugging you like he does near every night – chin tucked into your shoulder, arms wrapped all the way around your torso. he smells of soap and cigar smoke and the faintest hint of your shampoo. you smile to yourself and press a kiss to his hair.

"you're so cute." you mutter and a small smile spreads across his lips.

"cute?" he repeats, amused. "that's new." he pulls you closer, further down his lap and you can feel his heartbeat start to steady again.

"you used my shampoo again, and don't you deny it this time."

he scowls at you but lets you kiss him anyway. "reminds me of you," he sighs when he realises you won't stop until he admits it.

"but i'm right here," you giggle, running your thumb over the shell of his ear.

he opens his mouth to explain further but that's when he smells it. the blood he's drawn from your arm in his nightmare-fuelled anger at victor. his jaw tightens as he looks for the source of blood, finding three uniform slices on the outside of your forearm.

"no," he gasps, a thousand emotions crossing his eyes.

you try to wiggle your arm out of his grip, the blood running down your arm now. "hey... i'm okay."

"like fuck you are," he snarls, angry at himself.

how could he have possibly hurt you?! was this a thing now?? was he a danger to you even in his sleep?! god, he'll have to put you to sleep and then figure out a way to declaw himself. maybe if he just slices the back of his palms open–

"james..." you break him out of his thoughts, hand on his cheek. "baby, i'm okay. really. it looks worse than it feels."

"i'm going to rip these out." he whispers, holding his fists up, the back of his palms facing you. his words are as much a promise to you as a command to himself.

you grab his fists and glare at him. he blinks at your expression, looking at you over his hands.

"don't you dare say anything of the sort. these are a gift."

"a gift," he scoffs, "you can return a gift."

"these are a gift," you repeat sternly. "and i will not let you do anything to them."

he opens his mouth to protest but you aren't done. how dare he even think of hurting himself, of declawing himself when you love his claws as much as you love every last part of him.

you run your fingers over the back of his palms and whisper, "take them out."

"sweetheart..."

"take them out, my love" you repeat, kissing his knuckles because you know it hurts every time he does.

he carefully and very very slowly bares them and you look at him from between the blades.

not breaking eye contact, you lean in and press a soft kiss to the base of the middle claw on his right hand. you catch him shuddering and your eyes widen in surprise.

"you felt that?"

you can see him redden even in the dark. "'course i did," he grunts.

"what does it feel like?" you ask, fascinated. everyday you learn something new about him and it never fails to delight you.

you kiss the base of another claw on the other hand and see him inhale sharply.

he groans deeply, humming to come up with the right words. "like... you're stroking every nerve in me to life."

that makes you sit up on your haunches and wrap your fingers around his wrists. he freezes, bracing himself to yank the claws back in the second he thinks you might hurt yourself on the sharp ends. you carefully lick along the length of the claw between his pinky and ring finger on his right hand, making him exhale shakily.

"tryna kill me, sugar?" he says through gritted teeth, every muscle in his body tense.

"trying to show you how much i love your claws, lo. even if they hurt sometimes."

you loop your right hand between both of his, gently pressing the tip of your thumb against the sharp end of a claw. you run your finger up the blade, making him whine in protest as you draw blood.

his eyes implore you, pleading, but you simply take your hand up to his mouth, pressing your bleeding thumb against his lips. he relents, sucking it into his warm mouth and licking it clean.

"logan?" you whisper and he hums around your thumb.

despite the heat in your core, pooling between your legs, you need him to hear this. you'll have time to fulfil that need later.

"every part of you means everything to me. but your claws, especially your claws, have the most special place in my heart. they protect me. they make you feel good. and most of all, they're fucking cool."

and that finally makes him crack a smile again.

"y'think so?"

"mhmm."

"c'mere." he says finally, pulling his claws back in and tugging you back into his lap.

he makes you straddle him and kisses you warmly. he looks into your eyes with such fondness, it squeezes your heart. carefully he pulls his first claw out on his right hand and uses it to gently push your hair out of your eyes. your eyes flutter shut in response, leaning into his metal touch.

he brushes the back of the claw across your cheek and your lips part prettily for him. the air doesn't feel so thick anymore, the quiet humming of the refrigerator in the kitchen not overwhelming him the way it was when he snapped awake.

ever so carefully, pushing his own boundaries, he turns his wrist and pushes the flat of his claw onto your tongue. it's warm and tastes of him, salty and musky and like metal.

"that okay for you, pretty girl?" he mumbles and you can hear the strain in his voice. he's terrified but he so badly wants to be brave for you.

you wrap your lips around the claws and suck softly in response, drawing a groan of pleasure from him.

he shudders beneath you, every inch of him tense and trembling with restraint. you slide your tongue along the metal, tracing the edge of his claw with reverence, savoring the taste of him.

logan’s breath catches in his throat, and you feel the warmth of his exhale ghost across your face. his other hand, free of the adamantium blades, finds its way to your waist, gripping you tightly.

"god," he breathes out, voice rough and filled with a raw vulnerability you hear only at night. "you have no idea what you do to me."

you slowly release his claw from your mouth, letting it slide out with a deliberate slowness that has him biting back another groan. his eyes are locked on you, dark with need.

you reach up, cupping his face with your now clean thumb, and brush your lips against his in a featherlight kiss. "i think i do," you whisper against his mouth. "i want you to feel how much i love every part of you, logan. even the parts that scare you."

his claws retract with a soft snikt, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

"you're something else, darlin'," he murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. you can feel the smile playing on his lips. "you make me feel... whole."

you nestle into his embrace, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest. "and you make me feel safe," you reply, closing your eyes and letting the furnace heart of his presence envelop you. "always."

you feel his grip tighten, his hand trembling slightly against your waist. he's always been the warrior, the weapon, the animal, but here in your arms, he's just logan, just a man who’s been through more pain than anyone should endure.

"people see the claws and think i’m nothing but a beast," he murmurs, his voice thick with self-doubt. "like i’m more metal than man. they look at me and all they see is the damage i can do."

you pull back just enough to look into his eyes, your hands framing his face. he tries to look away, but you won’t let him. you press a soft kiss to his brow, then his cheek, and finally, to the corner of his mouth.

"they don’t make you an animal," you whisper, your voice even and filled with conviction. "they make you strong. they’re not just weapons, they’re part of what makes you you."

his breath hitches at your words, and you feel him struggle against the years of conditioning, the years of being told that he’s nothing more than a killing machine. but you won’t let those words hold power over him anymore.

you reach down, gently taking his right hand in yours. with care, you press a kiss to each knuckle, feeling the warmth of his skin under your lips. then, you look up at him and slowly, deliberately, coax his claws out again.

you run your fingers lightly over the metal, tracing the curves and edges with the same care you’d give to a delicate piece of art.

logan watches you, his expression shifting from uncertainty to something deeper, something like awe. "you don’t see me like everyone else does," he says, almost to himself.

"no," you agree, leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of one of his claws. "i see you, logan. the real you. and what i see is a man who’s fought for so long to protect the people he loves, even when it’s cost him everything. your claws, they’re not just about hurting or fighting. they’re about protecting. they’re about survival. and they’re about who you have been for so long."

his chest rises and falls with each breath, the tension slowly easing from his body as your words sink in. for once, he doesn’t feel like an animal. he feels like a man, just a man. and it's nice.

"besides," you say, tone lightening. "so you really think I'm such a baby i can't handle three little cuts?"

you both know you're underplaying it and though he would never admit it in the day, the moonlight across his face betrays his grateful expression. it's easier to believe that he hasn't hurt you too much when you're saying it yourself.

you lower his hand, resting it against your chest, over your heart.

he swallows hard, holding you as if he’s afraid to let go. "ain't gon' ever deserve you," he whispers, his voice thick.

"you deserve everything," you murmur back, holding him just as tightly. "and i’m going to keep reminding you of that, every day."

for a moment, he’s silent, just holding you close. then, in a voice that’s barely more than a whisper, he says, "you almost make me feel human, darlin’."

you pull back just enough to kiss him again, only because you know he'd much rather feel than hear. your kiss is slow and tender, letting him feel the truth in your touch.

he doesn’t say anything more, but the way he kisses you back, the way he holds you, tells you everything you need to know.

he'll be okay. you'll make him okay. you gently push him to lie down and rest your head on his chest.

you love him, you love how he wants so badly to believe you, and most of all, you fucking love his claws.

--

this stemmed from a very nsfw thought™ but here we are, all warm and fuzzy. a mostly non-angsty fic is new for me!!

hope you liked this x

love, d <3

--

edit: i wrote an nsfw claw worship fic too 🤠🤝🏽 >> unholy

[ghoulphile]

wish you'd make me cry | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 2.3k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; rough, dom!cooper, frottage, sitting missionary, dirty talk, degradation kink, pet names, teasing, dacryphilia, bareback, drug/chem use (jet), shotgunning, high sex ➥ summary | "You’re such a needy fucking brat." :3c ➥ notes | drabble (that's no longer a drabble lol) request for @tearueful, thank you bby!! this one really got away from me... i had to stop myself from writing lol. un-beta'd atm. masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

Setting up camp for the night in an abandoned warehouse, you and Cooper wait out a radstorm that blows in off the horizon. Because while he loves sitting outside with a smoke, soaking in the rads until he’s buzzing with frenetic energy, you don’t feel like hunting down RadAway tomorrow.

It’s quiet apart from the distant sound of super mutants and ferals roaming the city, the sporadic roar of thunder, and rain tinging off the sheet metal roof. There’s still hours left until daylight, and it doesn’t seem like the volatile weather will break soon.

Unfortunately, you’ve read all the Grognak comics you could get your grubby hands on three times over, and there’s not much else to pass the time besides scuff your boot along the concrete floor, and pluck at a stray thread hanging off your tattered sleeping bag.

Meanwhile, Cooper lounges on his side, unbothered. His hand - bare for once - props up his head, the unscarred skin of a commandeered digit stark against angry rad burns and ropey scars. Between the knuckles of his other hand, he rolls a vial of chem over and over in a mesmerizing flick of deft fingers.

A lantern sputters between you as the old battery struggles to keep it lit. Its jaundiced glow banishes the thick darkness; a fuzzy halo of light that elongates shadows and deepens the cuts of his face.

You kiss your teeth, and say, “Hey, you got any more Jet?”

Lazy eyes slide towards you. A hairless brow quirks. “And if I did,” he asks, the vial pausing between his fingers, “why you wanna know?”

“Dunno, I’m bored… wanna get high?”

“Well, shit,” he whistles, bares his teeth. A low, crackling laugh rumbles from his chest. “Why the fuck didn’t you ask sooner.”

You shrug and crack a knuckle.

To be honest, the idea hadn’t occurred to you at first. Now that it has, anticipation curls low in your belly. Not only has it been a long, long time since you last got high (the sensation a hazy, half-remembered dream of fuzzy warmth and whirling thoughts), you know Cooper always carries a top-notch stash.

The little chem fiend, you think fondly.

“So,” you prompt. “Wanna get high together or what?”

“Sure as shit, darlin’. Let’s party.”

He settles against the pockmarked wall beside you with a soft grunt, the grit of concrete digging into his back. Thigh to thigh, his body is a rad warm line of heat. A bloom of suffocating heat in the otherwise biting chill of a wasteland night. Gunpowder and smoke tickle your nose when he leans over to rifle through his bag, leather creaking.

Muted, mellow; everything fades into a silent companionship as you pass the red inhaler between you. With every puff, whorls of smoke curl from your mouths until a murky gray cloud hovers in the air; defining the edges of your crafted universe.

The acrid vapor of chem burns its way through your lungs and into your bloodstream. A bitter taste coats your fattened tongue, lips tingling as your palm smothers little coughs. A flood of static rushes down your nerve endings, sends your head spinning.

As your vision blurs, the tension leeches from rounded shoulders with a bone weary sigh. And with every slow clicking blink, colors spark to life in a distorted kaleidoscope. Head lolling to the side, you watch through heavy eyes as Cooper rattles the inhaler and takes a shallow hit.

When he exhales, little tendrils of smoke caress the plains of his cheek. Dance along the hollow nasal ridge. “Almost out.” He grunts, your fingers brushing when he passes the cartridge back. “Go on, now. Finish it.”

The kind gesture (for him) touches you.

Then a faraway thought flutters.

Snags - settles into a nebulous desire.

And before you can second guess yourself, a rumble of thunder shakes the building. Wipes away the last of your common sense, and reservations. After all, why not? He was nice enough to share. You can too.

To his credit, Cooper doesn’t startle when you slink into his lap - not that you expect him to, even without being chem-addled. He tracks your movements from beneath a heavy brow bone, the dark Nuka Cola of his eyes glittering like shattered glass in the wane light.

“Heh, this that kinda party then, darlin’?” he asks once you settle, your thighs draped over his hips and your ass flush with his crotch. “‘Cuz you’ll be wanting ta extricate yourself if it ain’t.”

—Before I do it for you.

Humming, you dip forward until your breasts brush over the wide expanse of his chest. Interest flickers to life behind your navel; cinders cracking and popping along your spine. While you’d never considered Cooper a sexual availability beforehand (what with his never-ending search for family), the laden weight of his gaze as it pauses on your chin before dropping lower sings through your blood.

Kickstarts your heart into a galloping stutter that thuds against your ribcage as longing hooks behind your navel, tugs sudden and sharp. The world spins.

Maybe, you think, peering at him from beneath the fan of your lashes. Maybe…

“Pervert,” you murmur, biting down on a small smile.

The knife-sharp smirk falls from his lips faster than a comedown from Psycho when your fingertips ghost over the curve of his jaw, turning his head towards you. Like this, you share breath, the scant space between you thrumming with energy.

So close you can see flecks of gold in the amber whiskey of his eyes.

Your forehead brushes over his; the rough drag of gnarled skin sending a shiver through your limbs. “Let’s share the last hit. S’only fair.”

Pausing, he considers you for several long moments.

His gaze bounces from yours to the playful curve of your mouth and back. A small eternity passes like this. And then - when you’re about to crawl away to lick your wounded pride - the most imperceptible of nods grants his assent.

There’s a hiss of aerosol, a lung burning inhale, and then you’re exhaling into the open gash of his mouth.

Wisps of smoke dance off your tongue onto his, the bow of your lips glancing off the swell of his top lip as you squirm closer. You feed him chem in a slow, steady stream until all the air has left you.

He groans - a wounded, low-throated sound.

Your eyes flutter open to find him already staring, his iris a thin ring around the Blackhole of his wide blown pupils. Hooded, hungry: a caged predator. You lick your lips, and in doing so, flick your tongue over his.

Your stomach swoops, “I --”

“You’re such a needy fuckin’ brat, y’know that, sweetheart?”

Whether it was an apology or some other retort stuck to the back of your teeth like hard candy, you’ll never know because in the next moment a rough hand knocks the Jet out of your hand. The inhaler cracks against the concrete with a plastic smack before skidding off into the darkness.

A burning palm curls around your wrist, calloused fingers digging into your fluttering pulse point. “Hey — hngg!”

He yanks you close, and you taste the violence in his kiss.

Harsh lips map out the softness of yours as teeth pinch and roll until your mouth is a swollen mess of tender flesh and smeared spit. Keeping up with the frenzied scrape of his tongue and the deep pulls of his kisses is like trying to weather a hurricane or fight off a Yao Guai with a single bullet.

“W-Wait,” you gasp, fingers twined through the lapels of his duster. “I don’t --”

“Shut up,” Cooper growls, worrying the swell of your bottom lip until a bead of blood bubbles to the surface. He sucks it away with a stifled moan, his hips kicking up against the plush of your ass.

“Shut the fuck up right now. You know what you was doing - trying ta act innocent when you’ve been gaggin’ for it.”

Flustered, you pull back, “No, that’s not true!”

It’s hard to keep your balance with chem pumping through your veins, and you sway to the side. The only thing keeping you upright is the bruising grip Cooper has on your wrist. “I haven’t been — you’re wr-rong.”

He spits out a mean spirited chuckle. “If that’s what you need ta tell yourself, sweetheart.” A critical eye drags down the pathetic sight you make, crumbled as you are in his lap. “But I know the truth. I felt you looking - pantin’ after me like a bitch in heat.”

“...”

Panic grips you by the throat, your pulse thundering against the thumb he strokes along the curve of your shoulder. You should’ve known better.

Of course, he’d notice.

He was The Ghoul after all - best bounty hunter from this coast to the next. It was his job to perceive everything around him, sus out friend from foe.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

What else can you say?

He brought you along (for whatever reason, fuck if you know why), and you’ve caused nothing but trouble every step of the way. It’s a wasteland miracle he hasn’t kicked your ass and left you bleeding in the dirt by now.

I have to fix this. Whatever it takes.

“I ain’t wanting you sorry.”

Gulping, you will away the sting of tears, and say, “Please, don’t kick me out.”

“Y’know, sometimes I think it’s a miracle you survived this long at all.”

“You don’t have to be so rude about it…” 

“Listen good and well, sugar,” he says with a roll of his eyes, that tender hand brushing over your neck turning into a collar as he drags you close. His lips whisper over yours with every word. “I didn’t go through all of this bullshit just ta get rid of you. Now--”

Hips rut up into you, dragging the firm line of his growing erection along the soft globes of your ass. “Stop teasin’ and make yourself useful,” he says. “Or you will be sorry.”

Everything after that flicks in and out of focus like a zoetrope: the burning clasp of hands, the slick glide of hungry mouths, the frantic rock of your hips as you both chase after dry friction with a desperation that borders on madness.

Your hands don’t know where to settle, fluttering from the nape of his neck to the breadth of his shoulders to the rippling muscle of his stomach as he rocks into you. Bites at any exposed skin that he can until his teeth leave marks you’ll carry for days.

All the while the hard edges of his body crash into your softness like waves against an eroding shore. Liquid fire blazes in your belly like a raging wildfire, scorching you from the inside out until you’re dumb and dripping.

The chem snaking through your body enhances the littlest of sensations until you feel like one giant exposed nerve. Slick drenched and sweaty, you moan weakly and rest your forehead against his cheek.

“Please,” you slur, thighs trembling where they squeeze at his live-wire hips. “S’not enough - need more. Wanna cum. Please, please, please. Make me cum.”

Cooper bites out a curse, his fingers biting into the fat of your ass. “Yeah, s’that right, sweetheart - d’you think you deserve it for bein’ such a lil brat?”

“Yes, yes, please, I’ll do anything. Just - hhahh, fuck!”

The fabric of your panties clings to your folds, and your pants chafe.

Your clit throbs with every thud of your heartbeat, every firm grind of his cock and low husk of his voice. Want him seated so deep inside you choke - your poor pussy struggling to take his cock as he rides you so hard you cry.

“Anything?” he asks with a breathless chuckle.

The devilish gleam of his eyes rattles your bones, shivers of electric anticipation fizzing through your veins like Quantum.

“Well, shit. Don’t come cryin’ ta me when you regret it. Now, take off those fucking pants and ride my cock like a good girl.”

And when he bullies his way inside, those thick ridges dragging along gummy walls, you almost swallow your tongue. He’s so big - the biggest you’ve ever had.

Every inch is a struggle, a victory. He’s not patient, he’s not kind. You don’t want it any other way, spread so wide your pussy flutters pathetically, trying to push him out.

Then the fat head grazes past the rough patch of your g-spot, sliding home to kiss your cervix. Your knees lock around his ribs, your head tossing back as a high-pitched whine punches its way out of your throat.

“A-Ah! I can’t — oh shit — you’re so,” you babble. “Too much!”

An ache spears deep, roots behind your navel.

“Heh, you asked for it, sweetheart. Look at me.” A scarred thumb wicks away a tear as you peel your eyes open with a sniffle. “That’s it. Shit, you look s’pretty when you cry.”

He licks his skin clean, uses his wet thumb to reach between you and roll the pad over your abused clit. You jump, sliding up on his shaft only for gravity to drag you back down with a solid smack of skin, your limbs jello soft.

The motion slams him deeper and slick drips from you in a sticky gush to soak his balls. You cry out, reedy thin.

Cooper grunts, warns, “You keep doing that and we’re not stoppin’ til you’re dripping cum.”

Though the thick haze of chem and syrupy sweet pleasure, you cobble together a grin and lick your way into his mouth. Tangle your tongues and suck as your hips arch into his. “Please, ruin me,” you breathe.

A possessive greed glints at you from the depths of his hangman eyes.

“Don’t go sayin’ I didn’t warn you, sweetheart,” he promises.

[littlexdeaths]

thinking about eddie who is your older brother’s best friend.

who you’ve been madly in love with for years. and maybe, just maybe he finally realizes that he really wants you too.

he realizes it one summer eve when you show up on his doorstep after your shift at family video. when your piece of shit car overheats and breaks down on the side of the road by forest hills trailer park.

and who else can you go to but eddie?

eddie who opens the door in a cut off black sabbath t-shirt, and a pair of boxers. his hair is tied at the back of his neck in a low bun, but his curls are still damp from sweat.

the summer has been much hotter than usual, and the lack of a/c in the trailer has him ready to melt. but then he hears a soft knock on his front door, and there you are.

your skin is covered in a thin layer of sweat, the setting sun casting a halo around the crown of your head. you look like an angel, or maybe a devil, come to tempt him.

because how could he feel this way about his best friend’s sister?

despite his inner struggle he remains casual as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest which shows off the muscles in his biceps.

but he can’t help but notice the way your eyes roam the expanse of his arms, and your thighs press together. and oh boy, he’s really in trouble, isn’t he?

he keeps a cigarette placed between his lips, the cherry end igniting as he inhales deeply. eddie looks you up and down with a small smirk, before letting the smoke billow out from between his lips.

“well, well. what can i do for you, sweet cheeks?”

[nemesyaaa]

a house in nebraska ! rafe cameron x fem!reader

summary ; you were the reason he won't come home but you still call home. this story is based on the song of ethel cain.

warnings : it's angst. fully angst. it's about toxic relationship. so violence, arguing and fighting, sick behavior, daddy and mommy issues, the urge of love and being loved, mentions of drugs, the feeling of being misunderstood and unsteady. home is used as a metaphor of relationship. it's about inner rage too. slight of smut but very little. both rafe and reader being fucked up. southern goth/small town coded.

author's note : it's my first time writing angst so be easy one me please ! as i said, it's based on " a house in nebraska" by ethel cain (because she's my favorite artist and my muse.) and a lot of her songs make me think of rafe, but i also take inspo of her others songs like crush, strangers, and hard times. also a hint of bet on losing dogs by mitski.

i dont know how many words are in this works, but i think around 3k ? it's a one-shot ! BETTER TO READ IT WHILE LISTENING TO A SAD SONG. (a house in nebraska (live version)or anything else)

you lived in the nebraska with rafe, he was your man and you were his girl. it was a small town that allowed you to be just him and you against the world, to be safe from the rest. but the ugly truth was that your house had become a raging mess. the mattresses had become dirty, the silence too comfortable, the night too long, the emptiness too deep, the love too absent and the violence too present. everyone was angry here, even demons and the silence.

rafe was a storm, and every time you tried to calm it, you became further worse. no, you weren't becoming like him, you were becoming him, the mirror of his emotions, full of rage and inexpressible feelings. like a bomb, you needed it to come out, to scream and explode. like a bomb, you needed to hurt, and destroy everything in your way.

you had built this house together, when he still worked with his hands, oh god, how much you loved those big and strong hands, the dirt and bruises on his skin. the softness of his palms when he touched you, the pulsating veins engraved. they were made to love you, to caging you. they were always rushed with blood and wounds because of his work, but despite how dirty they were when he came home, they were always pure and clean on your body. but you also were so in love with his messy sweaty hair, caressing by the wind. he was tall and handsome, the kind of man who worked all day, and drunk at night, some whiskey or bourbon. but never missed to please the needs of his girl.

when he smoked his red marlboros on the porch, you were sitting on his lap like a sleepy girl to take a nap on his heavy arms that managed to hug your body. when he took a sip of his cold beer, while you had nothing to do but being his own pretty girl. when he allowed you to bathe him, cleaning the mess and the sweat. when you used to learn him how to play some classic music on the old piano, and he was just turned on by the way you used so damn well your fingers, and making you sit on the board, and fuck you right there, even if the windows were wide open.

at this time, you would have die for him.

when he still listened to what you said, when he still answered your calls and did not make you sick by his silence, when you laughed every time he came home . but now you were starting to hate the fact that he was coming.

how did the man who was supposed to make you so happy manage to break you so easily? but you weren't an angel either, oh far from it, you had neither wings nor halo on your head, you didn't even have god in your heart. you made him, like all men, your enemy.

it was four in the morning, it was still dark, you were waiting in the living room.

the tv wasn't on. rafe had broken it during an argument. that wasn’t the only thing he shattered, you had to be the hardest thing he does. not even with his fists, with just the force of his words, the way they were murderous, the way they had the force to tear your heart open and crushed it into pieces.

most people would say that this man was not the type to cry, that a man doesn't cry, but rafe cried. and you had seen him a couple of times, and the first time you saw him burst into tears, you knew straight away that it was the real him. that behind all this hatred, this anger, there was a hurted little boy. and who grew up with an open wound, a wound impossible to heal, even with all the love in the world.

rafe was the kind of man who screamed, who cried, who bled, a fallen angel who had lost god along the way, who had been ignored, but mostly, never heard.

when he opened the door to the house, you hated the strong smell of alcohol, but also of blood. you never asked him for anything, the only thing you wanted was for him to come home on time for dinner, to go to bed with you. but no one, absolutely, no one tamed a dog like him. and you rathered not bet on losing dogs.

“where were you ?? ” you had already started shouting due to lack of patience, getting up from the chair to confront him.

you had seen him sigh, making that bored face, like you had no reason to be upset, that face that made all women become even worse.

“if you had the same energy to scream when we fuck, we would have a fantastic sex life.”

“seriously, rafe? you want to play the asshole, right now ? ”

“ it will suit your bitch behavior, so why not ?”

you slapped him very hard in the face. what obviously rafe didn't find this very amusing, he crushed you in the wall, pinned your hands above your head.

“ don't you dare slapping me again. you want to be mean, sweetheart ? i can be meaner. let's see....oh this is the necklace that your mom offered to you before leaving ? how sweet. maybe, i can sell it for a good price. ”

“ rafe. don't. ”

he shushed you, by putting his other hand on your mouth. “ you're not allowed to talk right now. you had your turn for, now, it's my fucking turn. and i will do whatever the fuck i want ! it's my house, my rules. ”

he unhooked the necklace, as you tried to break away from his grip but he closed his fingers tighter against your wrists.

“I'm going to kill you, no matter what you do, i'm going to kill you. ”

“murder me” he said with a louder voice. “i’m asking you to murder me! it’s probably the only good thing you’ll have done well in your life. you know even if i die tonight, i will die yours. even if you kill me, i will always be here.”

he released you, and you exploded. “you have exceeded the limits, rafe! ”

” since when are there boundaries between us, sugar? we're freaks, remember? ”

you threw away the first object you found, it was an empty coffee cup. you threw it at his face. but he had dodged it with a sick smile. your jaw clenched, eyes blazing with fury, you were out of control. you were what he wanted you to be every time he came home late

” oh you can do better than that baby. i'm sure i taught you how to shoot better than this when i showed you how to kill? do you remember? ”

“ this, this fucking attitude, rafe is why everybody leaves you ! ”

“ yes. and do i fucking care, y/n ? do i fucking care ? i grew up in a family where nobody loved me, nobody reached after me, nobody looked after me, nobody dared to pay attention to me and you tell me i have to care about everyone leaving me ? no, it's not fucking fair ! so do you understand ? i don't care. if you want to leave, you know better than me that the door is open because you're the only one to be stucking in front, waiting like a fucking dog that i come come. ”

“ fine. i leave ! ”

you took the keys of the car, even if rafe hated that you drove, especially at midnight. but you were too upset, too mad.

your man wasn't done with you. he stood in front of the car you were driving.

“if you think i'm afraid of killing you, when you were the one who taught me how to do that, you're wrong. ”

" yes ? then show me how well i did my job. kill me. ”

“ rafe, i’m not kidding. ”

“ perfect, we are both serious then. ”

you moved the car forward, pressing the pedal with your feet. you hitted him with the car. it was strong but not violent either.

you got out of the car quickly to check on him. but he was smiling, a little blood on his face.

“are you sick!? ”

“ i raised you well, i fear. now, lick this face. i can see in your eyes how pretty you find me covered with blood, so please yourself, lick it all. ”

“ wait, i will find some tis….”

“ no, with your tongue. clean my whole face with your tongue. don't waste anything. i want to be able to kiss you right after, and recognize the taste of my blood all over your mouth. you want to be sick ? make me feel sick too. ”

maybe you were too young to realize that some loves could be bad. but this relationship was toxic. you had both destroyed each other, and it was complicated when you saw this world, this universe only through your union. you felt like you had lost a lot, like you had lost everything, like you had failed. maybe, you were the failure, and rafe, the problem. but also, maybe, he was the failure and you, the problem.

and you hated not knowing what was going on in rafe's head, you hated that no one on this earth could figure it out, and that even rafe himself didn't know it. he was crazy, he was sick but that wasn't all, it couldn't be just that.

you gave up the fight, going to the bathroom to take a bath. you needed some peace because the house didn't feel like a home anymore.

sometimes wheezie would call you to see if you were okay, she had grown up, and you lied to her all the time. because it hurt so much to be two in a relationship, but not feel like you were a part of it anymore. and the worst part of it all was that you could kill yourself for just one minute of affection, just one second of happiness, just one moment in the past when everything was okay. where rafe was still the sweet little boy you knew. but the stories were not meant to have a happy ending.

it was hard this feeling, this lack when he still lived with you in this terrible house. but one day you'll be the reason he won't come home again. but you would always call home. you promised yourself. because it would always be yours.

rafe had joined you in the bathtub. and you could tell by his red and empty eyes, his blank stare that he had been crying. he cried and he was not the drugs, he was you, only you.

and you didn't mention it. you didn't say anything. you preferred to stay smart and not start another fight.

“the walls could break down with so much screams. ” you said, laughing slightly.

“maybe we should sell the house. ”

“i like this house. i feel at home here. i have nowhere to go. ” you lied for the two first, but not for the last.

and it was true. you had built everything, paved everything here. you had remade a world. you couldn't leave, you couldn't leave anything. and above all, you were too tired to leave.

it would be a lie to say that you didn't had sex in the bathtub, that you didn't feel his tears on your shoulder, that you didn't feel his thrusts get harder each time a sob broke out his empty eyes, that you didn't feel how much he was breaking every time you took pleasure. because, it was hard for him to seeing you being happy. because it was so hard to take care of you. because it was so hard to feel loved and being loved. you were both too young, too stupid, too sick for love.

and rafe wanted to make you happy without sex, without all this selfish sex. no, he wanted to make you happy by some casual things. but sometimes, you pissed him off so bad to the point, he wanted to leave. but how can a man who hoped to be loved can leave the woman who promised to cherish him ? it was too tired, too angry, and too unsteady to leave. you broke him too. and it was sad for him, because you were the only one he was not scared to tell it hurts.

but at six in the morning you were fighting again as if it were a ritual, a need, a desire to destroy each other, as if sometimes love needed to be violent and destructive to work. actually, for freaks like you, surely.

“why did you throw my fucking drugs down the toilet?! ”

“because you don’t need that!” ”

“you don’t know what i need, you barely know what i want! you had no fucking right to do that. ”

“ don't be a crybaby ! ”

“ repeat. i dare you to repeat. ”

“crybaby! you're a fucking crybaby, rafe! your new personality changes nothing about the boy you were and will always be! what, you don't like the truth ? bad for you, i'm about to tell you what everyone doesn't want to tell you. because i'm not scared at all of you ! you're a fucking crybaby ! ”

“ but you're still here, you're still fucking here. because you know what ? i'm maybe a crybaby, but i'm a river worth wading. and this is why, you're standing in front of me with all this confidence. you wanted a broken man, you wanted someone to fix ? then come on baby, i'm here, i'm watching you, i'm listening, i'm literally at your feets, fix me ! fix the little boy you wanted, make him better. ”

“ rafe…”

“no, i'm asking you now who do you think you are? do you think that because you have this attitude, it doesn't make you a little girl who needs her daddy? because damn, yes, you need him. but i fear daddy was the only one who didn't need you because guess what ? he left. and you make all the men leave around you ! but the difference between us is that you care. when i fucking dont care.”

“ you're sick, a sick asshole. and don't touch me ! ” you pushed him away, but he came back, his hand on your throat. “ but you're the sick one who loves me, remember that ?” he answered.

“ but do you think i still love you ? ” you said with a smirk, taking pleasure to see his widen eyes. “ i'm asking you right now, do you think i still love you, and if one day, someone will like you like i do ? it would be so hard for you to find happiness after me, i can promise you this. you will fight a lot. because ? can you see ? can you see i can breathe without you, i can live without you ? but you, can you do this ? yes, you can fight, you can scream and shout but what else ? ”

“ it doesn't hurt, y/n. it doesn't hurt. and you can't break me, as you can't fix me. ”

“ then why are you crying, big boy ? why are those tears for, if not for me ? ”

“ i built a home for you, i did everything for you. ”

“ and then what ? ”

“ don't make me regret it, y/n. don't make me regret the only good thing i've made well in my life, just don't make me regret...this. you don't understand. why did every house i'm in never felt like home ? ”

“ you destroy everything, rafe. but me too, i guess. the difference is that you have an excuse, a reason for being like that. your dad fucked up with you. and i hate him for that. if he had loved you correctly, you would have known and learned how to love people, how to be attached to them. but you don't know any of that, you don't know what it is to love, and to be loved. everything i do for you, you could call it love, even when i'm mean. but it's false, love is tender, it's beautiful. but you know, i think i'm sick because i also like the way you love me, this violence, this rage, this impulsiveness, it drives me crazy but it makes me alive. so, do you think you could do it again? ”

“ why you didn't leave, why you never leave ? ”

“ because it's our house. we're stuck in forever. this is our house in nebraska, our only heaven. now be a good boy and cry a little for me, i think i'm going away a little...” you said, taking him in your arms, your hand placed on his back, and your hand pressed to his cheek. “don’t worry, i cry a lot too. all the time, even when you make me happy. ” you shushed him, bursted in tears in the hug.

you kissed him on the corner of his lips, your mouth meeting his tears, before he joined you in this kiss, you felt his sad and salty tongue against yours, his hands came squeeze your waist.

but now in the present, you were alone. the house still existed but it was just you.

you weren't sleeping anymore, because you kept hoping that he would come home, you were hoping that he would come home late at night.

but you were alone in a dirty and cold mattress. and you prayed for him hoping he was okay. the phone was broken but you were hoping to hear it ring, the door was open and you were waiting for a sign.

nothing was right, everything was wrong. you just wanted to say to rafe that he had you, that he had a house, and his home missed him, like nobody ever does in his life.

you didn't realize that you had been lying all this time, and that you were silently dying. but at least you died, only his.

[chxrrysangel]

Conflict of Interest

Pairing | Plug!Choso x fem!reader

Words | schmedium

Summary | Choso never quite does his intended job when you meet. Special treatment is what they call it, not that he’d outright admit to it. One day, you request his services outside of your normal routine. And things get, well, complicated.

Tags | 🍃, hotboxing, car sex, dub con (both parties are under the influence), overstimulation, kinda dom! Choso, no protection, praise kink, no use of y/n, overstimulation, creampie

Notes | I’ve had this in my drafts for so fucking long that I was getting sick and tired of going back to it instead of just posting. Overthinking is an understatement. (I’ll probably end up editing it again later)

You called up Choso a week early, stressed out of your fucking mind. It seemed like any problem the universe could throw at you, it did. You watched with anxious fingers tapping against the steering wheel as his deep blue car rolled into the empty parking lot. An abandoned mall is easily the best place for your exchanges, you both liked it that way.

He had his hair down today, catching you off guard for a moment. It’s not the first time he’s done it, but the stark contrast to his usual hairstyle was always surprising.

“Miss me?”, he asked with a smile as he closed the distance. You scoff and chuckle.

“I miss what’s in your bag. You’re not that special Kamo.”

“Oh but I am. We both know it.” He didn’t mention the break in routine, knowing it was probably something personal. You didn’t share much with one another, choosing the “basically strangers” dynamic to be a smarter option. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t break the agreement every once in a while. Even as he stands before the hood of your Jeep Grand Cherokee, your eyes can’t help but glance down at his playful smile when he talks or the movement of his fingers while he rolls. Your breath caught in your throat as he brought the paper to his lips, tongue flattening against its edge. Brown eyes glinted with mischief as they made contact with yours, a hum of satisfaction leaving his lips at catching you in the act. God if the earth could just open up and swallow me, that’d be great.

“Wanna smoke with me today?” You snapped out of your daze of distractions at the question, disbelief washing over your features.

“Really?” The large man shrugged, in a why not kind of way. How could you say no?

~~

Choso could taste the berry in your gloss as his lips wrapped around the blunt, inhaling the strain and feeling his chest grow warmer. It hadn’t been long, but the windows of Choso’s car had already begun to fog, despite the cracked windows.

That’s how you two spent the next hour, sharing two blunts and chatting together as your high began to wash over.

“Fuck, that’s strong.”

“Isn’t it?,” you softly whisper, head lolling towards him.

The two of you talk about anything and everything, minds expanding to limits you hadn’t even realized existed. Somehow the conversation drifted to the more personal aspects of your lives, such as your romantic lives.

“You’ve got a boyfriend?,” Choso whispered across the dash. You shook your head, waiting for his next question.

“Girlfriend?”

“If I didn’t know any better Kamo, I’d think you wanna date me.”

“God you fucking wish. Just curious.” Sometimes, you did wish. Not that he could ever know that.

“What about you, smartass. Dating anyone?”

“Nah, don’t have time for that.”

The car developed into a comfortable silence, neither of you feeling eagering to speak. It was like this with Choso, always has been. He understood the need for shutting up sometimes, no unnecessary pressure to converse.

“I think I need a haircut.” His random outburst prompted a barking laugh, caught off guard by the irrelevancy.

“I’m serious. It’s getting too long.” You looked over at him,pouting. You liked his hair, in fact you loved it. When he hung his head, the layers encased his face like a halo. It was the perfect haircut, not that you could really say so. Any allusion to your thoughts could ruin everything. So you settle for something simple.

“I like your hair.”

“Yeah?, he questions with a head tilt. You murmured a hum of agreement, leaning over the console to put a hand towards his face.

“I think your bangs could use a little trim though,” you remarked with a ruffle of his hair. You began to pull away a few seconds too late, eyes settling on his features and feeling yourself get too caught up. Choso’s eyes caught yours, grabbing your wrist to keep you close.

“Willing to cut it for me?” His eyes flickered across your features, analyzing them with an intensity you’ve never seen in him before. It was unnerving.

You nodded, swallowing a large gulp of nerves.

You sat outstretched over the console, not making any attempt to sit back properly on your side. He broke the silence before you could consider a regrettable choice, going on about munchies and making you laugh. That comment is what led to your current argument on the best type of cake as you unwrapped a cupcake in your hands.

“It’s very easily vanilla,” he argued, “it’s the most versatile option.” You scoff mid-bite.

“Didn’t know you were so boring, Kamo.” He looked offended at your comment, putting a hand on his chest like it hurt.

“Oh yeah? What’s your favorite then?”

“Red velvet. Hence why all of them are on my side of the tray.”

“You think you’re so special, picking red velvet over all the other options,” he teased.

“I know I’m special,” you mocked. Something shifted in the air when you said that, Choso growing quiet with no comeback prepared. The tension was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.

“You uh…you got something,” he whispered distractedly while leaning in. His thumb wiped at the corner of your mouth, dark eyes staring into yours. You watched as time slowed, his thumb reaching up to his lips and sucking.

“Frosting.” The two of you just stared at one another, high out of your minds and scared to breathe. Instinctively, you glance at his blush lips, not even remotely afraid that he would notice. His tongue darted out between the folds, covering the surface in spit and you nearly moaned.

“Fuck me,” you whispered to yourself, almost in pain.

He leans farther over the center console, putting a hand on your neck. Nothing was said as you stared into his eyes, bouncing back and forth between his irises as he wrestled with his thoughts. You leaned in , the gap between your lips just barely a sliver. You could kiss him easily, that much was obvious. But fear made you hesitate, breath fanning across his cheeks in anticipation of the next move.

“Choso,” you whispered in a barely audible tone.

“Don't talk,” he said before making the brave choice.

His lips capture yours, hesitant but curious. It takes a moment to find rhythm but soon you’re moaning softly into his mouth and gripping onto his arm for dear life. Choso was a good kisser, the soft muscle of his tongue bullying its way past your lips as he explored your mouth. He broke the kiss, staring at you with need. His lips were glossy with spit, pupils massive with lust.

“Back seat. Now.” You didn’t need to be told twice.

You watched as he impatiently pushed the seats forward, as far as the mechanism would allow.. He climbed into the backseat, a boyish smile adorning his features that you’ve adored from your first meeting.

“Choso, need you.”

He manhandles your body, grabbing your thighs to guide you into his lap.

Choso pushed your hips down on his crotch, your clit grinding against his rough zipper with earnestness. His plush lips peppered kisses down your neck and collarbone, smiling into your skin at the thought of seeing all this tomorrow. The two of you had crossed the line of friendship and he was quite intent on never going back now he’s gotten a taste. You whimpered, as though on the verge of tears, desperate for relief from the throbbing of your cunt.

“Oh, that’s cute.”

“Shut up. Not funny,” you retorted.

“Whatever you say sweetheart.” He thrust upwards, the outline of his erection rubbing so perfectly against your clit. A pathetically desperate whimper slips out, and he chuckles.

“I know baby, I know.” Choso continues to mark you, his featherlight touch on your skin sending tingles up your spine.

~~~

Had he not pushed his seat back, your ass would be pressing uncomfortably into the leather right now. Choso’s hands engulfed your hips, guiding you on his cock with every thrust. Your skin buzzed with the effects of indica, hot with desire as he fucked your brains out.

“Shit, Cho. So fuckin—ngh—good.” You whined into his neck, trying to muffle your sounds.

A chuckle reverberated through his body, dark with knowing.

“Don’t hide those pretty moans from me, baby. Wanna hear you.”

You leaned back, coming face to face with Choso. He was so pretty like this, a light sheen of sweat making his bangs stick to his skin in a pleasured bliss. Your pussy squeezed around his shaft, making him whine with need.

“Fuck that’s good,” he cried. Watching you bounce was like nothing he’d ever had the pleasure of seeing.

Just then, an idea formed in his mind. Choso angled his hips more upward, hitting your g-spot and pulling a pleasured sob from your lips. He watched with satisfaction as your eyes crossed for a moment, going dumb before his eyes. The glossed out look said everything, too lost in the pleasure to be remotely coherent.

“Feel good, pretty girl?” You could barely whimper out an affirmation, feeling your impending orgasm. You mewled incoherently, a jumble of curses and praise. With a shaking hand, you rubbed your clit as your stomach began to tighten in need for release.

“Right there baby. Fuck don’t stop don’t stop.”

Choso pushed off his own orgasm, wanting to watch you make a mess on his dick first. He grinned, taking in your fucked out state with great pleasure. The little you had shared with each other revealed that your sexual experience with men had been rather disappointing. Your last ex had no clue how to please you, too concerned with his own orgasm to ever worry about yours. He was selfish in that way, as well as many others.

He grabbed your hair, pulling you down in a sloppy kiss. If it wasn’t for how well he fucked, this kiss alone was enough to make your head spin. Your body felt miles away, the combination of the thc and the best fuck of your life making your skin tingle.

Your limbs began to tense, signals of how close you were. Your vision was blurry, teeth searing into your bottom lip with focus.

Choso felt your walls grow tighter, filling his chest with pride. He maintained his pace, pushing harder with each thrust. Your nails dug deep into the hard skin of his shoulders, imprinting moon-shaped marks.

“Close aren’t you?”

“So fucking close baby”. You stumbled over your response, struggling to say every syllable.

With a few more thrusts, your toes curled as you came. The squelching sounds in the car increased tenfold, a sound Choso was eager to revel in. He fucked you through your orgasm, thrusting getting sloppier by the second. His balls tightened, body buzzing as he fucked his cum into you. Before you could say anything, he didn’t stop. His mouth formed into an O, tip extremely sensitive.

“I think I can get one more out of you.”

A statement that felt more like a demand.

You began to shake your head, feeling the creeping discomfort of overstimulation begin to course through your shaking body.

He whispered sweet praises as you squirmed. Your body wasn’t sure of whether to lean into his touch or pull away, confused but pulsing with need. Your cunt choked his shaft, tense as you pushed through the masochistic pain. But soon enough that pain turned into pleasure, attempting to meet his thrusts to chase your orgasm.

He grinned with knowing, cheeky like a cat who got the cream.

“Shut up,” you uttered between gasps. He winked, satisfied with his clear victory. Even during the most intimate moments, he couldn’t help but be his usual annoying self

“Gonna cum Cho.” You whispered into his neck.

“Fuck. Can feel it. Doing so well for me, baby.”

His praise made you squeeze harder around him. Now that he’s had a taste, he’s unsure of how he’ll be able to let you go. Every touch, every look, every smile led up to this moment.

Every muscle in your body tenses as you cum, ears ringing as Choso praises you. His thumb rubs your clit in firm circles, the pleasure making your walls spasm around his sensitive cock.

“That’s it baby, doing so fucking good.” Choso slurred his words, head sensitive as he continued to fuck you through your orgasm. The base of his spine tingled, pushing him back towards the edge again. He blabbered incoherently as you came down, mumbling about how good your pussy is.

His hips stilled as he shot white ropes into you, filling your cunt with his warm seed. Your tired quick breaths as you gasped for air quickly faded into light laughter as you watched each other come down. Choso smiled lazily, dazed and completely out of it. With a delicate hand, he pushed some of your hair out of your face before pulling you in for another kiss. This one was much softer, gentle and unrushed. Romantic even.

“We just made things really complicated, didn’t we?,” you question against his lips. He didn’t answer really, murmuring in disagreement as he deepened the kiss.

“Choso! I’m serious”.

“So am I.”

[mendesblurb]

We were staying in Paris

Shawn Mendes x female reader

Warning ⚠️: mostly fluff, maybe grammar error and maybe some punctuation errors

Word count:~500

A/N: The story idea and concept are classic and predictable; your girl just couldn’t help but write something inspired by this picture. Also, it’s three weeks late; better late than never? And this is my first story in 2024? 🙈 P.S. Should I write a longer and maybe some more steamy story with this picture? 🤪

——//

In the heart of Paris, in a hotel room with a balcony overlooking the city that served as the backdrop for a love story as it was unfolding in the early hours of dawn. You lay nestled in the warmth of the bed beside your boyfriend as your fingers intertwined with his. As the first tendrils of sunlight filtered through the curtains, Shawn stirred awake, his eyes blinking open to the soft glow of morning. 

He savoured the moment's stillness a little while before gently extricating himself from the embrace, slipping out of bed, and heading to the bathroom. The cool floor beneath his bare feet offers a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the bed. He was going to return to bed, but instead, he made his way to the balcony, drawn by the promise of a tranquil morning amidst the bustling city below.

As he leaned against the railing, taking in the breathtaking view before him, he couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of the Parisian skyline bathed in the soft hues of dawn. The Eiffel Tower stood tall and majestic in the distance, a precious sight. Lost in thought, he reached for a cigarette, the flame casting a flickering glow on his face as he took a contemplative drag.

Unbeknownst to him, you had stirred awake in his absence, your gaze lingering on the spot where he had once laid.

There you were, quietly making your way to the balcony, and you found him lost in reverie with the smoke curling around him like a halo in the morning light. With a soft throat clearing, you announced your presence, a playful glint dancing in your eyes.

"Good morning, stranger," You greeted, voice laced with amusement as you wrapped your arms around him from behind.

A little startled, he turned to find you standing before him, a radiant smile lighting up her features as he leaned in for a kiss.

"Good morning, ma chÃrie," He greeted back before discarding his cigarette and nestling closer. It didn’t take long for his eyes to linger around you, and eventually falling upon the shirt you were wearing, a mischievous twinkle lighting up his gaze, “I believe that’s my shirt.” 

"Oh yeah, I hope you don't mind," You began, fingers tracing the fabric of the shirt, "I may have borrowed this from you,” You continued slyly as your lips curled into a grin as he took in the sight of you wearing his shirt, the fabric draping over your frame in a way that seemed almost too perfect.

"Shirt stealer," he remarked, his voice tinged with sincerity as he reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Moments later, as the sun continued its ascent, casting a golden glow over the city, you both remained on the balcony, lost in each other's embrace and the beauty of the Parisian sunrise. 

"By the way, I'm never returning this shirt,” You added, breaking the silence with a mischievous grin. 

In response, Shawn just chuckled, his eyes sparkling with affection, “Thank you for letting me know," he replied, pulling  you closer than before, “But It looks better on you anyway."

——————————————————————————

Thank you for reading guys... feel free to like, reblog, follow my account, leave a comment and my chat is always open for random chats or requests... appreciate every single one of you... ❤️

Taglist (open) : @monikamendes @holland-styles @bvttercupbby @lonelyreputation @badreputationlove @shawn-is-my-giant-jellybean @benito-mi-vida @swiftmendeshoran @yournameoneverypage @shawn-is-bruh @mendesbhraanth @perfectlywrongformendes @imaginashawnn @smendes-forever @nervousmendes @whenyoureadyholland @shawn-youth @myboyshawn @camilalewiss @camilalewisss @theregoesmyherojd @nanijaac1 @shawnieeboyy @silverswallow @inlovewithmendes-blog @mendeslola-blog @mendesx123 @23kofmendes @jellyloml @chipofmendes @poohofmendes @wutheringmendes @shawnmendesbuddy @chocochipcookie305 @shiningshawns

Story Code:05042409

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 52

part 1 | part 51 | ao3

cw: period-typical homophobia, canon-typical violence, blood

"I'm just saying!" Eddie laughs as he swings himself around the slender base of a young tree, cigarette dangling from his lips. "I could absolutely rock the blue eyeshadow look the main chick was wearing."

Steve doesn't disagree. They're in a dark alcove on the side of the movie theater, Eddie's hair all lit up from behind, a frizzy halo of pinks and blues from the neon radiating off the front of the building, and he looks fucking gorgeous, and he smells like menthol and strawberry shake, and he's been tapping Steve's wrist so much tonight that he might as well be drumming up a new song just for them.

"Can't argue with that," Steve murmurs as he steps up onto the concrete planter. Gets up in Eddie's space; borrows his cigarette, his words floating out on a thin wisp of smoke. "You look beautiful."

"Beautiful," Eddie mimics, tasting the word, looking unbelievably pleased with the flavor that he finds. His eyes go hooded, and there's a sly tilt to his mouth as his tongue slips out to tease the edge. "You tryin' to start somethin', Harrington?"

Steve's answering hum rumbles deep in his chest. His cock aches in his jeans. God, he wants him; wants to back him up a good ten feet until his body scrapes the bricks. Wants to rough him up a little, like Eddie did to him the first time they kissed — make his breath hitch and his skin buzz and his back arch under his touch.

"Oh, you are," Eddie purrs. He takes the cigarette back, their fingers brushing on the exchange, and they're standing so close now, nothing but this skinny tree between them, just a twig of a thing, really, the toes of their shoes touching on either side of the base.

Steve looks down at the snowy soil. Taps Eddie's wrist. Desperately. Frantically. Take me home right now, so help me—

A low whoop echoes off the pavement.

A predatory jeer, and Steve looks up to see three men approaching — three boys, about their age, and drunk, by the looks of it. He grits his teeth.

Their ringleader looks like a caricature; classic bad boy who thinks too highly of himself, some cheap knock-off mash up of Billy Hargrove and Rob Lowe. Steve eyes the shaggy mullet, the dangly earring skimming the lapel of his black jacket, the silver flask and the stupid swagger, and his blood runs hot. Thrums with the promise of a fight.

“Well shit, boys,” the guy grins to his sidekicks, taking a long swig and wiping his mouth. Gleeful malice in green eyes. Little asshole gets close enough for Steve to make out the color; gets right up in Steve’s face and sneers, “Looks like we got ourselves a couple of queers to smear.”

Really? Steve thinks. We’re doing playground games right now? He folds his arms over his chest, flattens his voice; disinterested. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

Eddie smokes his cigarette, and the smoke curls around them in short, unsteady puffs.

The guy snarls, “Do you?”

Beside him, his friend’s hands ball up in fists. A vicious voice in Steve’s head whispers: plant your fucking feet.

“Nah,” Steve answers. He takes a step in front of Eddie; widens his stance, digs his heels into the mulch. Slight crouch; deep breath. “Think I’m right where I need to be.”

“Fuckin’ freak,” the guy spits at the ground. He sways and pivots just a little, like maybe he’s about to slither back off to wherever he came from. Or maybe he’s about to throw his full weight into a swing.

Eddie’s breath whistles. His nose still healing from the break. “Seriously, man,” he tries as he drops the cigarette, crushing the butt under his boot. His voice is thin; hands up; don’t shoot. “Just- just fuck off, alright? We don’t want any—”

The first punch is slow. Sloppy. Steve sees it coming and dips low to dodge, and the jab cracks against the tree, spraying ice and splintered bark, the sound sharp in his good ear. It’s a plate over his head; it’s Billy cackling while the world dims, and Steve sees fucking red. Tastes metal and acid and rot, and all his ghosts are with him; all of Eddie’s, too. Hargrove, and Andy, and Jason fucking Carver; all the faceless specters of whoever pummeled him that night at the bar, whoever dared to lay a finger on him when Steve wasn’t there to be a shield.

But he’s here now, and his answering punch lands hard — sickening crunch as his uppercut connects with the kid’s ribs, knocks the wind out of him. The guy grunts and doubles over, but he gets in a good swing on the way down.

Steve tastes blood at the edge of his lip.

Someone grabs him by the collar.

One of the guy’s friends, freezing fingers pawing at his shoulder, at his throat, and he pulls back hard until his shirt rips at the neckline and frees him from the hold. Ducks again to dodge a blow, swivels and pops discount Rob Lowe right under the chin.

The kid’s teeth clack together as he bites his own tongue. Steve watches his head fly back like it’s about to fall off — like a ragdoll, like a bobblehead, like it’s happening in slow motion. He collapses on the sidewalk and cracks his head against the bricks, and he's down, he's out, but there’s two more still coming, one in front and one on Steve's right, and that one looks tall and broad enough to do some real damage.

Steve squares his shoulders; braces himself for another concussion, because this is— fuck, is the guy on the ground bleeding?

This is bad.

This is really bad.

And then he hears it.

A familiar thwick, a metallic slice through the sudden stillness in the air as Eddie pulls his knife out of his boot and flicks it open.

"Back the fuck off!" he growls; lunges forward with the blade and stabs at empty air, the metal gleaming like an oath. His expression is wild, sweat on his lip and at his temples, bangs sticking to his brow.

Steve spits blood onto the concrete.

Everyone backs the fuck off.

—

"Holy shit," Eddie pants as they haul ass out of the lot. Fingers trembling on the steering wheel, knee jiggling so badly it jangles all his pins and chains. His whole body is shaking. The radio is off.

In the rearview, Steve gets a glimpse of their attackers dragging their limp friend by the armpits through a snowy flowerbed. He thinks he sees a streak of blood.

“Did you know them?” he asks, his eyes glued to the reflection.

Eddie rolls the next three stop signs.

“No,” he finally says. Swallows hard in the simmering quiet. “They were just some guys.”

—

part 53

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[aregebidan]

FAULKNER: (Under his breath, weakly and numbly) How many stayed behind?

[ID: Art of Faulkner and Rane from the Silt Verses standing in a cloud of smoke. Faulkner's blue halo and crab claw necklace break up the bright orange tones. He stares blankly into the distance while a shadowy Rane tugs at his shoulder, shouting at him to run. End ID.]

[ofmermaidstories]

Katsuki’s been dreaming about you.

At first, it’s in fragments. Stuff he doesn’t remember after waking up, or can otherwise shrug off as a product of his brain, cartwheeling around with the day’s information. It’s your face, frowning in concentration, or you saying something disjointed from the rest of the conversation (No, you tell him, faintly annoyed. Of course I bought it.). It’s you squinting into the sun, the broad daylight. It’s your leg, hot and wet and sparkling with pool water, as Katsuki palms your calf. A dozen tiny moments of you, slipped between Izuku grinning with All Might’s face, his eyes glowing green, or Iida clopping through the landscape, half horse.

It’s—whatever, Katsuki thinks. Maybe he just saw your dumbass face somewhere—wide-eyed, moony, watching him warily—and his brain latched on to it, desperate for some normalcy among Best Jeanist with long golden hair like a cape, or Katsuki’s mother, crying over him, his heart in a box.

But most of the shitty extras in his dreams don’t repeat. Not like you. Katsuki wakes up in the coolness of the twilight world before dawn, breathing hard as his heart thumps in fear, the last thing he can remember from his dream being you, whispering his name and prickling his skin like he can feel your breath on his shoulder and—

It’s just him, in his wide bed. Him in the blue world before his alarm.

Katsuki shudders, eyes squeezed tight, and has to admit to himself: maybe shit was weirder than he thought.

For a while, things don’t change. The heat of his nightmares (the smoke, the ground underneath his feet tilting as UA poises precariously in the air, over the country) stays the same. His stupider dreams stay the same. The ones that feed his guilt (Izuku, four years old, chubby hand held out; Edgeshot, his eyes crinkling above his mask as he balanced his tea against his leg, the group being debriefed before battle) stay the same. You slip in like a comma, a pause, the back of your head haloed by the latelight as you’re passing by a civilian begging for Dynamight to save them. You, your lips parted around the words you can’t say before Kirishima is there, throwing his arm around Katsuki’s shoulder and talking about how they’ll be late for a school dance that never happened.

Maybe it’s a fucking Quirk, Katsuki thinks, gritting his teeth at the idea of some bastard getting a hit in, unchecked. But when the doctor shrugs at him, Katsuki slouching in the stiff chair, and says, “you’re all clear, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, sir. There’s nothing in your system—”

Well, the blond thinks, mouth tightening. Then there was a fucking problem.

Maybe he’s been givin’ it too much damn attention. Katsuki resolves to ignore it, throwing himself into the investigation at hand—some bastard, turning people into living mannequins—and for a while, it works. His dreams are filled with nonsense from work, from patrol, from the insecurities he left behind at seventeen—and then you return, the breath between words, the hyphen between thoughts.

You’re walking ahead of him, Katsuki too aware of his hands balled into his pockets, your jacket long and bright against the city night, the glitter of Tokyo Tower ahead of you both. You’re laughing at something Denki is saying, ugly and breathless and on the verge of tears, Katsuki’s chest tight with it. You’re hesitating, your legs curling against his sheets as you stare up at him, his heart thumping with the pulse he sees jump in your throat.

It’s making him more vicious. He spars with Denki and nearly burns a idiot-shaped hole into the concrete floor of the training room. Out on the scene with Deku, Katsuki jumps into the fight first, causing the nerd to shout after him, startled at the deviation of the plan.

“You’re scaring everyone,” Shouto tells him, breaking the silence as they strip from their Hero gear. Katsuki stills, coiled and deadly but Shouto is unperturbed, buttoning his shirt. “Izuku’s worried. Denki’s been threatening to make a formal request to Support for a panic button. What’s happened?”

“Nothin’s fucking happened, Icyhot,” Katsuki says, scowling. But his hand tightens on his hoodie as he says it, and for all the moron’s obliviousness, Shouto is eagle-eyed when it comes to the tremor in his friends.

“What’s happened?” He repeats, the faint steel of insistence in his voice and Katsuki tsks, before conceding.

“Been having shit dreams is all,” he says, frowning unhappily.

Shouto frowns in answer, pulling a sweatshirt over his head. “Nightmares?” He asks, reasonably.

Nightmares. Katsuki’s jaw tightens, thinking of the latest dream—you, damp and flushed underneath him, gasping against his mouth as you share the same hot breath, his hand curling against your neck, so, so afraid.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter. “Something like that.”

[smokehalos]

i’m trying to think of more art ideas i swear

(this drawing was partly inspired by @/c4tspl4sh)

[skele-bunny]

I am once again thinking about Phantom and him being shown more Quintessence culture by the elders...

CW - Heavy implications of abuse and slavery (but this is a fluff post! Also trauma healing for Phantom fr)

Bug has 0 fucking idea on his culture, only what he knows in his kithood and then learning from the others topside. He knows enough about their harmonies with the inner souls and connection to the astral. Phantom was taught by his captor about the importance of wind chimes and crystals, but beyond that? Nothing. No ceremonies, no basic breaking, nadda.

The Quintessence Ghouls enjoy getting together twice a month in the abbeys chapter house, and they go all out with it. It's clothing free but never sexual, just embracing their natural bodies and even their true forms. Ether ghouls even in the pits wore jewelry and body chains, they're decorative and very focused on the bodies.

Painting down multiple sigils around the room, with a giant one of protection on the floor where they meditate. Placing wind chimes near the windows and above the curtains, grounded amethyst near entrances and once again around the floor sigil. Candles lit around, incense sticks, and right in the middle being black tourmaline also in a powder form.

Phantom just sitting next to Swiss and Aether, trying to stop his laughter as they rub the tourmaline over his torso and back, then right down his forehead. He's lead by Aether on how to put it on him, whispering encouragements.

"Keep your attitude positive. When you place tourmaline on someone, your intentions matter. It's a double ended sword-- it can defend or it can put you as a target."

Since Phantom has too much trauma relating to chain bralettes and can't wear one, he's simply draped in a mesh cover, Aether weaving citrine into the cloth. He has a circlet resting against his forehead - Aether wearing a crown halo with shoulder and waist chains. Swiss only has a waist chain and garter on, but his horns are decorated with strings of chimes. Phantom is just in his unglamoured form while Aether's in his true, just fuzzy and silk at the same time. His horns are literally moving with galaxies, face still so gentle.

He's led in soft humming, then eventual prayer, how they intertwine hands and tails, moving side to side while they sit. How the sigils in the room start glowing and the room gets clouded in smoke.

He's shown to sit on his knees, hands on his lap and trying to push his essence forwards. He's... Not doing good at it. Swiss just places his hand on Phantom's back for that extra push and he's now in a projection. Sarra (1st era) is leading, calmly explaining to the group to eye their own bodies, remove their sigils of denial, cleanse themselves.

Phantom is just eyeing his body that's just covered in his Master's sigils. They're weak from the distance and how long he's been away, but it's just a sour reminder. Trying to reach out and pull it away. He's not strong with his magick so he's just left sitting there, staring at himself. He can see his physical body starting to cry, yet he isn't, but then a hand touches his shoulder in the astral. Looking over and seeing Enki (2nd era) just eyeing him.

"I could feel your distress, I'm sure the others can as well but I wanted to respond..." And now they're both looking at the sigils. "Such strong holds... Why don't we remove one together, yes? Then later, we'll stay with Sarra. He can remove a high majority of these."

Phantom just nods, and now Enki is directing him, slowly pulling at the weakest one. The mind. He's holding Phantom's hand as they start dragging the strings away, bundling it together until the very last one pulls away. Phantom pushing his hands together and smothering it, watching as it turns to stars and falls down into the void. Enki is just smiling the entire time, whispering strength into his ear while they start pulling at his hand binds.

"It always felt heavy to play or hold someone's hand... I never really understood why until now..." He's just mumbling, grabbing the strings again.

"With you being inexperienced, it's hard to understand when something is cast on you."

Stars again. Phantom just exhales, and is ready to go back in, thanking Enki with such genuine. He can see Aether and Swiss already back in their physicals, Aether holding his arm out for Phantom when he returns. For good reason, too! Phantom just completely falls forward, would've face planted if it wasn't for Aeth. He gathers himself before putting his tiny hand on Aether's giant, smiling as his hand doesn't feel heavy anymore. He takes Swiss and gives such a tight squeeze and the happiest expression.

There's mediation in between different sets, but Phantom's favorite of the entire session was the crystal exchange. Before the meeting, you were supposed to take one of the dearest crystals to you, and during the exchange you'd be led through the plane to exchange with someone who needed it most.

Phantom was led to a ghoulette he never met before, just smiling and tail wagging as he offered over his amazonite to her. She's just purring the entire time, thanking him and sharing scents before he goes back to his spot. Delta is one of three who offer theirs to Phantom. They're just purring as they hand over a tigers eye. Another ghoul he doesn't know offers a malachite, and then Sarra offers one too! It's so strange seeing this giant true form kneeling in front of this itty bitty ghoul, leaning down and speaking in ancient ghoulish that absolutely no one else knows. Sarra blessing his crystal before offering a handmade pendant of howlite.

Using his claws to carefully clip it on Phantom's wrist, moving to put his hand between his horns and continue mumbling in ancient. He's met with a tiny kiss on his forehead in the end.

After the ceremony, Enki leads Phantom to Sarra where he's now in a semi-glamour form. Aether deciding to stay just to accompany and it proves to be helpful! Settling Phantom in a pile of tourmaline as Aether, Sarra, Enki, and two others Phantom's seen in the infirmary before start slowly breaking sigils around and in him. With each sigil removed, Phantom feels lighter and lighter -- relaxed and at peace. Every now and then their hands will press against a certain spot, but Sarra has kept his hand right above his cervix the entire time.

"Whoever locked you was smart. This is my era of Magick." Sarra just mumbles, before he slowly twists his hand. "But still idiotic."

Phantom has a sudden extreme cramp before just as fast as it came, it leaves, and Sarra removes his hand. The last sigil gone. Aether is just smiling, carefully rubbing Phantom's cheek.

"How do you feel?"

He's quiet. Just slowly touching over his torso before he starts crying, being sat up and comforted. Just being sandwiched on all sides as he finally feels so... Free. There's no lingering touch, no magick restraining him. He's a bawling mess, crying his thanks over and over. Phantom is free.

[shieldofiron]

Steve doesn't know when he started to convince himself that it wasn't a big deal. It's not like they talk about it. At school he and Billy are still best friends, just like they have been since Billy moved to Hawkins in fifth grade.

They're just friends like they've always been. And every other weekend, Billy comes by and hangs out in Steve's room, the afternoon sun making a halo of his curls.

Mouth open, gasping. Billy's fingers dug into his hair, Steve's chest ground into the carpet while he arches up-

It's not a big deal. It's just because they started getting high. Only, that never seems to happen on the afternoons that Eddie comes by and smokes with them.

"Fuck yes, you like that, Steve?"

The sounds Steve makes, only then in the golden magic of the afternoon. Wide open, drooling sounds. Sounds people only make in porn.

And then they go to school on Monday. Best friends, bros, teamates.

"Billy, harder-"

Billy's slamming down on Steve's cock and the bed is creaking like it's going to break. Steve has his hands dug into the golden curls of Billy's thighs. Holding on for dear life.

He hasn't hooked up with anyone else since they started this. But that's not even the worst part.

Steve's gasping, turning towards Billy in the afterglow. He can't help it. It's been months and he can't shake the instinct, his lips seeking Billy's out, always.

Billy's his best friend. He's everything. He's soaked up the afternoon sun and blotted out anyone else who could take his place. And he turns away, every time. Can't take a kiss. Can't look Steve in the eye after.

It's starting to feel like a big deal.

[gamesetart]

has anyone seen that old movie the crush? im thinking of something similar rn with patrick... (without all the going crazy and manipulation and the underage stuff)

your parents have a big house. a gorgeous country home, complete with a stable, for you horses, a back garden with a pool and a tennis court, and, of course, a guest house. a spacious little one-bedroom located literally within spitting distance from the main home.

and you - home for the summer, sophomore in college, headstrong, pretty, interesting, a sports medicine major - you were supposed to move in there. it's embarassing to be your age (a precocious twenty) and still living in your childhood bedroom, for godssake! but, at the last minute, your father tells you you can't. which is absurd: you've never been told 'no' in your life, why on earth should he start now?

well, after two weeks of complaining, whining, begging, bargaining, and straight-up threats, your answer arrives. arrives in the form of a single black suitcase and one heavy sports bag. arrives in the form of a tired, scraggly looking man parking his fucked-up car in your gorgeous gravel driveway, right next to your perfect, pristine white vintage mustang. it's insulting.

your guest house is occupied. by son of family friends, sort-of professional tennis player, patrick zweig. you hate him instantly. hate that because of him, you're confined to your stupid childhood bedroom, with your stupid baby-pink walls your mom won't let you change, your canopy bed with the gauzey curtains. you hate that your parents invite him in all the time. you hate that he drinks your coffee and eats your food. you hate that he found your contraband stash of cigarettes and weed, and you hate that you know he stole some, because you counted, and that you can't confront him about it in case he tells your parents.

and you hate how he's hot. hate that he plays tennis on your court, damp curls sticking to his face, sweat running down his tanned, toned arms, stupid shorts clinging to his thick, hairy thighs... you hate that he swims in your pool in nothing but his underwear. you hate that he has these bright blue eyes, almost green in certain lights, the pupils ringed with a hazelish, almost golden halo. and you despise how those eyes look at you, like he's going to fucking eat you.

not like he doesn't hate you, too. he hates how you parade around like you own the world. he hates how you are: too smart for your own good, too aware of it for everyone else's. he hates how you've obviously never been told no until the guest house. he hates that you're a know-it-all brat.

and he hates you (and himself, a little, but mostly you) for being so damn attractive. he hates that he'll come home, from a run, or a bad date, or something, and find you in a clean white tennis set - ralph lauren, or lacoste, or some other bougie brand mean less for atheltics and more for style - lazily serving to no one. he hates that you'll read by the pool, austen and shakespeare and poe, in your little bikinis, sucking on a lollipop, or, if your parents aren't home, smoking a cigarette. he hates when you get dressed up because your parents are throwing yet another party, hates you in your babydoll dresses and your sweet skirts and your sweetheart necklines.

like you don't know what you're doing to him.

the funny thing is, both of you are smart enough to see that the other is physically attracted to you, but you're both too proud to admit it goes both ways. so you strut around in tiny tennis skirts and bikinis. he swims in his underwear and comes in in nothing but a towel to steal from your fridge. waiting for the other to break, to snap, to trip up and fall. if patrick breaks first, you get to laugh and call him a dirty old perv for going after you - he's like, a decade older than you, for christssake! - and if you break first, patrick gets to bully you open on his cock, make you cry, finally bring you down a peg.

just a matter of time.

[miley1442111]

i can fix him (no really i can)- c.berzatto

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

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

a/n: yes, i am a swifty.

summary: based off of i can fix him (no really i can) by taylor swift

pairings: carmen berzatto x fem! reader

warnings: carmen is an asshole, reader gets her revenge, sex tapes being sent around, revenge p!rn, smut, subcarmy (if you squint), 18+,

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

The smoke cloud billows out his mouth

Like a freight train through a small town

The jokes that he told across the bar

Were revolting and far too loud

Carmen had a few bad habits, mainly smoking, a low eq, and a tendency to overshare when he got drunk. One of the new line chefs had come up to you in recent weeks, joking about how you sounded when you had sex. Carmen had shown him the video he promised he wouldn’t show anyone. Not just that, he’d sent the video into the staff group chat for everyone to see.

Asshole.

They shake their heads sayin', "God, help her"

When I tell 'em he's my man

But your good Lord doesn't need to lift a finger

I can fix him, no, really, I can

And only I can

“I feel bad for her,” Richie sighed as he brought the cigarette to his lips. “You’re a fucking jagoff.”

“I was drunk,” Carmen groaned. “It was a mistake!”

“She still talkin’ to you?” He asked. 

“‘Is she still talkin’ to me’? What kind of asshole question is that, yes, you dumbfuck,” He hit the back of Richie’s head, sending his cigarette flying. 

“Fucking asshole,” Richie mumbled under his breath as he walked back inside. 

The dopamine races through his brain

On a six-lane Texas highway

His hand so calloused from his pistol

Softly traces hearts on my face

And I could see it from a mile away

A perfect case for my certain skill set

He had a halo of the highest gradе

He just hadn't met me yеt

As Carmen drove home he thought about the reaction you’d give, whether you’d be mad, or if you’d break up with him or something even worse. 

He had no idea. 

He remebered what he'd done when you told him first.

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

"Carm, what the fuck did you post on the Bear groupchat?" you questioned, humiliation and anger bubbling in your blood.

"Huh?" he asked.

"Carmen, fucking look at your phone!" You shouted. Carmen immediately fumbled for his phone, opening it and seeing the private thing he'd shared.

"Fuck," he groaned.

"Yeah, fuck indeed. You're barely in that video and you swore to me that you'd never show it to anyone!" You shouted.

"Baby, it was a mistake-"

"Fuck a mistake! A mistake is forgetting your keys, a mistake is not locking the backdoor of the restaurant up, this was no fucking mistake!" you screamed. "Take it down now."

Carmen was getting angry now, he felt controlled and he could feel the weight and consequences of his actions.

"Why? It's the only fucking thing you're good for."

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

They shake their heads sayin', "God, help her"

When I tell 'em he's my man

But your good Lord doesn't need to lift a finger

I can fix him, no, really, I can

And only I can

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

He opened the front door of your shared apartment and saw the light on in the bedroom. He dropped his bags, tired as he sauntered into the bedroom. There you were, a vision in a set of red lingerie, a set he’d bought you a few weeks back. His mouth watered when he heard your small whimpers as you worked the toy over your aching core. He immediately pulled off his shirt, and you didn’t even notice him. He lay beside you, grabbing a condom out of the drawer but you stopped him.

“You’re not touching me tonight,” you smirked. Carm’s face dropped. 

“Baby-” He whined. “Please, I’m so sorry-”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” your sentence was interrupted by a groan, the toy hitting a new spot that triggered your climax. 

“Please baby-”

“Beg for it then,” you smirked, coming down from your high. 

Good boy, that's right, come close

I'll show you Heaven if you'll be an angel, all night

Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man

No, really, I can

“Please,” he began. “I’m so sorry, I was drunk and stupid and you look so pretty, so, so pretty and I need to touch you, I-I need you, p-please,” he groaned when your hand surpassed his waistband. 

“Don’t stop,” you smirked. 

“I’m so sorry, y-you’re just so perfect, I-I wanted to share you-” 

“You want someone else in here fucking me?” You asked, a giggle in your voice. 

“No! No. I-I wanna fuck you, I do, please let me fuck you,” he begged as you laughed at his sudden reaction. You dragged your hand up and down his length as he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“I’m sure you’d love to have another person in here, watching you get fucked. Or you get fucked by two people, god you’re such a slut,” you laughed at him as beads of sweat dripped down his chest. “Not my good boy anymore, no?”

“Yes! Yes! Just you, just you-” He clapped a hand over his mouth as he came, biting into the skin. 

As he came down he kissed you, and apologised, you accepted with a promise from him to never show the videos to anyone ever again, to be careful when he was drunk. 

They shook their heads sayin', "God, help her"

When I told 'em he's my man (I told 'em he's my man)

But your good Lord didn't need to lift a finger

I can fix him, no, really, I can (No, really, I can)

When he walked into work the next day, he was confused by the laughs and jokes sent his way. That was until he saw your letter of resignation with a note beside it, reading: 

You should’ve been more careful ;)

He opened his phone to find the video of that night sent to the staff group chat, just like yours had been. 

Woah, maybe I can't

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

the bear masterlist :)

tortured poets department masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, marvel, top gun, challengers, obx+)

[hotluncheddie]

for @thefreakandthehair spring fanworks challenge! i chose the dialogue prompt “Listen, I’m a fern, okay? I need sunlight.” thanks so much lex for doing this again! so fun!!

(high school steddie, post s2 pre s3, 1.6k)

(now on Ao3 !)

🌱

Eddies Munson is the Marmite of middle ages female teachers. They either take his theatrics and short attention span in stride, seeing that yes he is trying he just needs things done a little differently. That he does genuinely think he’s funny when he spouts his little lines, the joke being aimed at the room and not at the teachers expense. That yes he is trying actually and does want to graduate, a lil’ help maybe? 

They either see that for what it is. Or, they hate his fucking guts. 

The theater teacher, much to his continued chagrin, seems to be in the latter. Which is abysmal, awful. Genuinely soul crushing for one Eddie munson.

Why? Because he needs to pass theater, with extra credit (for being ‘an integral and helpful part of the spring show’) in order to potentially scrape through and pass the year. Having to take senior year again you’d think some teachers would cut you a little slack, even to just see the back of you. But no, not in Eddie's experience. They fuck you over same as always. 

That's how he’s sitting out back on the theater building steps, dying for the cigarettes in his van. But he doesn’t wanna go over there. Can’t go over there, because he's dressed like a glorified shrub. 

‘Oof, what are you supposed to be?’

Oh how wonderful, beautiful, a truly glorious turn of events. Steve Harrinton is here. Eddie rests his face in his hands for a moment and resists the urge to scream. Steve Harrington in his stupid blue jeans and his new stupid glasses that he sometimes wears, which shouldn’t look as good as they do. Shouldn’t fit his stupid pretty face but they do. They do and Eddie wants to cry.  

Squinting up at Steve, who's haloed by sun rays because his giant, massive head is directly over the spring sunshine, Eddie sighs.    

‘I was supposed to be Puc, but noooo I'm the dry ass narrator with no creative freedom.’ He flings his arms up and glares down at the toes of his sneakers. Away from Harrington's big, stupid face. 

Because that's the real kicker. He likes theater, wants to be in the play, but whenever he tries to act the teacher just seems to think he's goofing off. And sure, maybe he took some creative liberties with the audition script. Maybe they’ve been in a sort of stalemate with the tone of voice the narrator should deliver certain lines in. But that's art, man! Interpretation! But the iron fisted Ms Farrel is having none of it. So Eddie has to take regular breaks to seeth.  

‘Puc? like hockey puck?’ Steve interrupts Eddie’s internal monologue, sounds actually confused. Oh to be pretty.

‘Listen, I’m a fern, okay? I need sunlight. so move outta the way would you. you're harshing my mellow.’ 

‘Geez sorry dude.’ Steve moves so he's next to Eddie, leaning up against the building wall. He messes with something in his jacket, moving it to the back of his jeans, then slips a pack and lighter out and lights up, talking out the corner of his mouth. ‘You want one? apology for the mellow? condolences for the outfit?’ 

Eddie rolls his eyes, fights down his smile. That was actually funny, maybe there were genuine reasons this guy was popular. Ones beyond generational wealth. 

‘Apology accepted Harrington.’ Eddie hums, plucks a smoke from Steve’s carton. Tries to steady his heart rate at Steve lighting if for him, leaning in and cupping his hand to protect the flame from the breeze and everything.  

Eddie inhales deep, closing his eyes to savor the taste. Feels a bit calmer now, less like screaming. ‘What are you doing here anyway? it’s Friday at 4, you not got fair maidens swooning for a romp with king Steve?’ Eddie peeks back over at him, sees Steve looking Eddies hand holding the smoke poised by his lips. 

‘Huh?’ Steve’s eyes snap up to meet Eddie’s eyes, ears tinting pink. Weird. 

‘You looking to score huh? Well, not right now, I’m wallowing.’ Eddie rubs at his eyes, glowers at the rustling of his costume.  

‘Oh nah, no, I needed some uh, extra credit. Had to talk to Ms. O’Donald.’ Steve pulls some rolled up papers out of his other back pocket and wiggles them. 

‘Ah a man after my own heart, I see.. Or are you just doing it to get into some Ivy League?’ Eddie cocks his head, sneers at the rich boy.

Steve just laughs, no anger. Scratches the back of his neck. ‘God no, I think I uh, missed the application deadline actually. Had, um, some health issues, so.’ He fiddles with his wire frames, looks embarrassed, maybe a little sad.

Eddie eyes him, The Fallen King. Steve Harrington. Eddie never really had that much of an issue with him. Always paid for his weed upfront and seemed to interact with Eddie with an air of vague boredom rather than, like, wishing Eddie was dead in a ditch. Plus there were those couple parties where Steve was wasted and spent some of the night just hanging around Eddie while he dealt. He was kind of a goofy drunk, kept asking Eddie what shampoo he used, refusing to take ‘whatever's cheapest’ for an answer. So, seeing him looking even slightly like a kicked puppy has Eddie’s “look out for people who know how cruel the world can be” radar going off. He doesn’t know the story but some shit went down with Harrington, you can't cover bruises like that.  

‘Well, don’t sweat it too much. Doubt anyones gonna start calling you four eyes. You’re still the cream of Hawkins crop dude, Ivy league or not.’ Eddie heaves himself up to stand, crushing the but of his cigarette out under his shoe. 

‘Plus, your extra credit looks like that.’ Eddie points at Steve's fist of papers. ‘While mine looks like this.’ Eddie holds his arms out, giving Steve a twirl and ending with a bow. ‘So cheer up buttercup.’

Steve dips his head and chuckles, looks up at Eddie through his lashes, grinning. It’s all sunshine and long days, sun warm skin and freckles. 

Eddie swallows and looks away. Bounces his shoulders against the brick. 

Steve clears his throat, mirrors Eddie’s positions against the wall. ‘Look, there is actually something I want to talk to you about. You run the D&D club right?’

Eddie hardens a little, see Harrington’s pretty chill, especially for the past year. But Hellfire is his baby. Eddie’s baby, full of Eddie’s people. 

‘I do.’ 

‘Right, so there's these kids I babysit and uh, they really like that game. They start highschool in the fall and I just wondered if you’d tell the other members to maybe keep an eye on them? Let them join and like, you know.’ Steve gestures vaguely to the school around them. 

Eddie can't help it, he moves so he’s back standing, facing Steve. Steve Harrington who just asked him to look out for kids, who he babysits for. Wearing glasses and looking like honey. While Eddie is covered in paper leaves and wearing what could honestly be argued as tights. What the fuck? 

‘Babysitter huh?’ Eddie smirks but sees the way Steve squares his shoulders and turns to face him, daring him to keep going. Eddie’s smirk softens to a smile. ‘I’ll let the guys know Harrington. Or, uh, recruit them myself if, you know, the extra credit doesn’t work out.’ And Steve smiles, understanding but there's no pity on his face. 

‘Thanks Eddie, appreciate it.’ Steve tugs on one of his leaves which makes Eddie blush because he's stupid and the straight boy in front of him is being nice. His name in Steve's mouth getting tucked away for a rainy day.  

‘Anytime.’ Eddie says quietly, finally noticing how close they’ve gotten. 

‘I’ll have to come see the play. Make sure to voice how “that narrator really puts on a show, truly spectacular”.’ Steve crosses his arms and brings a hand up to his chin, as if he's some snotty theater critic. Eddie snorts. ‘Butter up Ms Farrel for you.’ and Steve winks. Eddie's breath catching in his throat. 

‘I’d like that.’ Eddie rasps. Lame. Why is he so LAME. 

‘It’s settled then. See you front row.’ Steve smiles, boyish and charming. Eddie swears Steve's eyes flick down to his lips. But he's also willingly dressed as a tree so his judgment can't be trusted right now. 

‘Munson!!’ A voice calls from inside making Steve and Eddie jump, moving so they’re no longer standing almost toe to toe. Breaks over it seems. Eddie is definitely not looking forward to going back in there but, needs must. 

‘Well, uhm, duty calls.’ Eddie steps back. Giving Steve a little two finger salute, turning to go back up the steps. 

‘Break a leg’ Steve watches him go, a little amused glint to his smile. Eddie only trips over his feet a little ascending the stairs.  

Steve starts to walk backwards, towards the parking lot. He raises his voice slightly and Eddie stops in his tracks to listen. ‘Nice seeing you in a different outfit. You look a lot less scary.’ and that amused glint flashes in his eye, like he knows Eddie’s never really been scary at all. ‘I’ve been trying out a new look myself, sort of inspired by you.’ Steve winks again, turning on his heel and Eddie gets a full view of the light blue hanky shoved in Steve's right back pocket.

Eddie coughs, splutters, feels his brain fizzle and the blood in his body moves treacherously to one place. Sees Steve throw his head back and laugh as he walks away, must have heard Eddie choke on his own tongue. 

He needs a moment, slumping back down on the steps. Steve Harrington who babysits. Steve Harrington who's gonna come see his play. Steve harrington who might not be so straight after all. 

Maybe spring is his season.