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cupid-styles · 1 month

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scare (cheatrry)

word count: 1.9k

content warnings: slight mentions of smut, pregnancy scare, cheating plot, mentions of abortion, not suitable for ramadan

based on this blurb!

main masterlist

. . .

Harry’s not an oblivious man.

More often than not, he considers himself to be an empath, easily picking up on mood changes pertaining to those around him. With his ex-wife, he could tell if she’d had a bad day at work just by the way she walked through the front door. With Y/N, it’s much, much easier, because, for the first time ever, she’s clearly avoiding him.

When he texted for their weekly hookup, she churned out some bullshit excuse about landscapers being at the house all day. (There weren’t. Call him insane, but he drove by on her lunch break, and her front and back yards were so quiet, you’d be able to hear the sound of leaves falling.)

And while they normally don’t interact much at school pickup — usually Harry’s being swarmed by hungry MILFs who he politely rejects each and every time — she’s taken to wearing a large pair of sunglasses over her eyes, almost as if she’s physically attempting to hide from him. It’s odd and it makes him concerned, even if he’s the one that’s repeated the same sentiment regarding their situation a million times over (“no feelings, just sex”).

His brain launches itself into the worst places it could possibly go, so on Thursday afternoon, exactly one week and a day since they last slept together, Harry tries to casually mosey over to her car as she stands there, waiting for her kids to leave school. He watches as she visibly clenches her jaw and he clears his throat, standing next to her but refusing to give her eye contact. There’s a reason they don’t ever speak too much at pickup time, and it’s always to make sure no one suspects anything.

“You’re avoiding me.” he says through gritted teeth. She inhales through her nose and he peers down from the corner of his eye to see her expression. It’s difficult to tell when she’s wearing those ridiculously oversized sunglasses.

“I’m not avoiding you.” she mutters, leaning her hip against the bumper of her black SUV.

“Then why haven’t I seen you?”

Her nostrils flare as she runs her tongue over her teeth.

“It’s barely been two weeks, Harry. Don’t be dramatic.”

He resists the urge to snort and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well fuck me for wanting to make sure you’re alright.”

“Keep your voice down,” she grumbles, flashing a forced smile to a mom who passes by them. She clears her throat and pushes her sunglasses into her hair. Harry’s relieved to finally be able to see her eyes. “I might be… pregnant.”

Despite the drop in his stomach, he’s able to maintain a stoic expression. He’s no longer the foolish teenager he once was — he and Y/N are both fully capable adults and would know how to approach an unwanted pregnancy, need be. What scares him more is the prospect of her wanting to keep the baby.

His mind is whirring at a million miles per hour when she grits out his name, bringing him back down to earth. He coughs.

“My period is late but I haven’t had a chance to pick up a test yet, so don’t get your panties in a twist.” she replies lowly. They hear the school bell ring, signaling the official end to the day. They have about four minutes before the kids come running out through the front.

“I’ll pick you up tonight at 9. Tell your husband you’re having a baking emergency or some shit.”

Y/N doesn’t have a chance to fight him before he’s walking away, headed back in the direction of his car to wait for his twins.

. . .

Harry parks down the road from Y/N’s house at 9 pm on the dot.

He feels like some sort of shitty spy with the way he’s turned his car lights off as he waits for Y/N to get in. He texted her as soon as he got there — they used to have a secret code word for their rendezvouses but it’s been months since they started, and Harry thinks they could fuck right in front of her husband and he wouldn’t even notice.

He sighs as he takes a sip from his reusable water bottle. He glances up at the rearview mirror for the tenth time in the past minute, his stomach calming some when he recognizes Y/N’s frame hustling towards his SUV. He presses the ‘unlock’ button as she wordlessly climbs in the passenger’s seat. Harry doesn’t say anything when he shifts the gear back into drive to pull out of her cul-de-sac.

Finally, he asks: “Did your husband have an issue with you leaving?”

Y/N tries not to roll her eyes.

“No, but I also didn’t tell him I was having a ‘baking emergency’, like you so kindly suggested.”

“Oh, so you told him you have to go take a pregnancy test to make sure you’re not knocked up with some other guy’s kid?”

“Stop being a dick,” she mumbles, occupying her shaky hands by playing with the ends of her hair. “Where are we going?”

“Where do you think?”

When she doesn’t reply, he sighs.

“The twins are at their mom’s for the next few days so after I dropped them off, I got a few tests from the pharmacy a few towns over. We’re going to my place so you can take them.”

Her stomach tightens. While she’s mainly worried about the results of the impending pregnancy tests, she’s also never been to Harry’s before. He’s never actually offered.

Y/N hums in response — it’s apparent she doesn’t have much of a choice, and quite frankly, she’d rather take them there than go back to her own home and do it. A silence blankets them once again as he drives through their quiet suburban neighborhood.

Until Harry clears his throat.

She cranes her neck to look at him, quirking an eyebrow as a wordless encouragement to say whatever stupid thing he’s thinking.

“If it’s positive… you’re not… you’re not gonna have the kid, right?”

She sighs noisily. “Do I look like I’m in the position to deal with that? I already feel guilty enough fucking you behind his back.”

“He pays you no attention, Y/N. Your pussy is always completely depraved when we hook up. You shouldn’t feel bad.”

Y/N ignores the way her skin warms at the casual filth that falls from his lips.

“To answer your initial question, no, I wouldn’t keep them. I would get an abortion.”

He doesn’t respond to that, which leaves her to believe it’s a satisfactory reply.

It’s only a few more minutes before Harry’s pulling into the three-car garage attached to his house. They move silently and quickly, as if any one of his neighbors could come out and see them together — she supposes it’s a possibility, but their town is usually asleep by 8:30 at the latest. She follows him in through the side door, which apparently takes them into the kitchen. He flicks some lights on as he digs in his pocket, pulling three small boxes out and tossing them on the kitchen island.

“Take your pick,” he says before nudging his chin in the direction of the hallway. “There’s a bathroom down there.”

Somehow, she’s unsurprised that he got the most expensive options — the ones with the digital screens that spell out “you’re pregnant!” with a smiley face on it. She grabs the first one and follows the direction that Harry led her in. Despite the harshness of the interior design (everything feels pristine thanks to white marbled flooring and light gray walls), she notices that he has a plethora of family photos that line the hallway. None of the pictures include his ex-wife, who left Harry three or so years ago. She remembers it being a huge deal in their small community. They were both gorgeous, a completely picturesque family that seemed completely destined to be together. Rumors flew about the divorce — everything from Harry sleeping with his wife’s assistant to her running away to Aruba — but Y/N never cared to find out what really happened. In fact, she and Harry didn’t really speak until they started sleeping together.

Her mind wanders back to the task at hand when she closes the bathroom door behind her. She’s taken many pregnancy tests in her life — she has two kids, after all. It’s a straightforward process and she gently places the cap back on the stick, placing it on the sink as she waits for it to process. After flushing and washing her hands, she nibbles on her bottom lip, watching as the little bar loads.

. . .

Harry thinks he’s going to vomit as he waits for Y/N to emerge from the bathroom.

He hasn’t felt this way in years. Despite the twins being his entire life nowadays, when his ex first got pregnant with them, he spent months sick with worry. And although Y/N already assured him that she wouldn’t keep it if she is pregnant, the thought of her carrying his child still makes him woozy.

His head snaps up when he hears the bathroom door creak open. A few moments later, her sneaker-clad feet carry her back into the kitchen. She holds the stick in her hands and Harry’s eyes bulge at it.

“Negative,” she breathes, putting it down on the table, as if to prove it. “No baby.”

He sighs out in relief. “Thank fuck.”

She nods. “Just make sure you destroy this or whatever,” she mumbles, reaching up to run a hand through her hair. It’s only then that Harry realizes how exhausted she looks. She has deep bags under her eyes and her lips look worn from constantly biting them. “Listen, I’m fine if you want to stop messing around. This was scary.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “It was a pregnancy scare. It happens to everyone.”

“Yeah, but there’s more consequences for us.”

He shrugs. “We would’ve taken care of it.”

She’s too exhausted to fight him on his nonchalant nature, so she just sighs instead.

“I take it that you don’t want to stop, then?” she asks, pursing her lips at the male.

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“Okay,” she nods, “We’ll just need to be more careful, then.”

“Sure.”

She swallows, glancing past him to read the time on the stove. “I guess I’ll get going then.”

“I can drive you home.” he says quickly, grabbing his keys off the table.

She doesn’t reject his offer, especially now that the adrenaline from the evening has officially worn off. For the second time that night, she sits in the passenger’s seat of Harry’s car, allowing him to chauffeur her back to her house. He drives down to the spot he picked her up in, at the very end of her road so no one sees him dropping her off.

“Thank you,” she murmurs as she unbuckles her seatbelt. “Sorry about all this.”

“It’s fine, shit happens. You don’t have to go through it alone.”

It may be the nicest thing he’s ever said to her and she doesn’t know what to say. Instead, she simply flashes him a small smile before moving to open the car door.

“Wait—” Harry reaches out to press his hand to her knee. Y/N glances down at his touch and he quickly rips it away. “Are you around sometime next week? For me to come by?”

She doesn’t even consider what her schedule looks like before she turns to look at him.

“Yeah. Come over whenever you want.”

He sends her a wide grin as she climbs out of his car.

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kiwisbell · 3 months

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helen ; chapter one

dear joel

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the inciting incident.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, (retired) hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), blood + injuries, murder, cars, joel lifts reader once, reader has hair, oral sex (f receiving - aka munch!joel returns), married fluff, angst, threats of rape/SA, home invasion, disgusting awful men, childhood/religious trauma, the typical alcohol + smoking + profanity, erotic paintings, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 8.2k a/n: so i'm posting this and sprinting away because i'm terrified. that being said, this story means more to me than words can say and i sincerely hope you enjoy what i have to offer. thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!! gigantic thanks to @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter and being generally incredible throughout this whole process. i couldn't have done it without ya baby ❤️ next

PREFACE

“Love is my mover, source of all I say.”

— The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto II.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it.

Joel Miller grins as the punch rocks his jaw.

His opponent hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, the man stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears.

The man drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's about to take his life.

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last.

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of the man’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, the man drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves the man’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet.

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his own broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

Joel staggers backward to pick up the knife, clamping his hand over the curve of his opponent’s shoulder, and drives the blade down into his neck.

“Yeah.”

He leaves him slumped against the railing, choking on his own blood, and limps his way to one of the beaten-up Range Rovers whose front right bumper was totaled in the crash. Joel groans as he settles into the front seat, gnashing his teeth together as he lifts the hem of his dress shirt to inspect the damage.

The bullet has pierced the soft flesh of his stomach. Blood blossoms bright through the white fabric and spirals outward. Joel blinks away rainwater and pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen smeared with blood. He doesn’t know if it belongs to him.

He grits his teeth and makes a call.

In the back of his head, Joel vaguely recalls an old song of prayer. He used to watch others sing it while he lingered in the shadows at the back of the cathedral. He would memorise the shape of the words leaving their mouths and wonder how a benevolent God, who had shaped man—perfection—from red clay, could have made him.

He would lower his head as if swept up in a tide of repentance, examining the bones beneath his hands. The flickering of tendons. The bulge of veins as he delicately folded his fingers into a fist.

Red clay. Blood. The old dance of serpent and man.

He was fourteen when he escaped.

Joel looks down at his bloodied hands. They’ve grown since then. They’re stronger, thicker, scarred. There are no pictures of him as a young boy, but if he saw one, he knows he would not recognise himself. Not his eyes nor his hands nor the set of his jaw. God makes man makes boy. He is destined for Hell.

The call goes to voicemail.

Joel curls his hand into a fist and whispers a prayer.

Something cool and wet collides with Joel’s forehead as he stalks into the airport. It’s begun to rain.

His target gate is close, and he's early. The press of bodies begins to crowd him. Prickling body spray and sickly-sweet perfume and sunburned skin from Spring Break return flights. Joel shoves through them, unseen, unnoticed amid the rowdy din of reunions. The collar of his shirt sticks to the nape of his neck. It’s the sensation of being strangled, clammy palms slick against his own skin. He adjusts his jacket and tightens his grip on the black fabric dangling from his hand.

Joel waits by the gate, his eyes flitting between its apex and the people milling about him, reuniting with partners and parents and children. Nobody seems suspicious, but his fingers still dance upon the blade hidden in the inner lining of his leather jacket. Those performing wide berths around the scowling man try not to make eye contact. Most don't notice his presence at all.

He waits, flicking his sleeve up every couple minutes to check the time on the inside of his wrist. Every tick of the thin hand registers in the pulse of his heart against his ribs.

He hears the suitcase before he sees it—and it’s hard to miss. One wheel is wonky, and the case stutters in its path along the polished floor. It’s huge, pink, hideous.

His hand dropping from the blade in his pocket, Joel makes his move.

You see him approaching and drop the lopsided suitcase, shrieking as he takes you up in his arms.

He swings you around twice, holding you firm against him, your fingers grabbing desperately at the locks of his curly, brown-grey hair. Joel nestles his face in your throat and breathes in: vanilla and shampoo and the unmistakable scent of a you he can never shake. Home.

You shudder into him, your feet barely scraping the floor as he holds you around the waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. Joel lets his eyes close.

Daisies made of diamonds dangle from your wrist, connected by a fine golden chain. He can feel the faux petals dig into the back of his neck, etching their shape into the phantom pain of the ink peeking out from his collar. Sometimes, his skin would pull back with the needle, briefly protruding from his body like a tent made of flesh, as if grasping feebly onto some innocent time before the black hands of Dürer were permanently his. His to remember. His to loathe.

There is a slight in the way his gift to you, wrapped snugly around your wrist since the first anniversary, kisses the old wound, the tip of the cross, and all he feels is the echo of agony. He holds you tighter.

“Can’t breathe, honey,” you croak, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Joel mutters an apology, loosening his grip on you just enough to pull away and cup your face in his hands. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you beam up at him, smoothing back the hair you’d tousled with your fingers. A curl swoops back down over his forehead.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi,” says Joel, already on his way to kissing you, his mouth slanting over yours.

He tastes of mint and smells of his dark cologne, pine, Joel. Your Joel. And you kiss him like it—your hand cupping the nape of his neck, the other sliding up his strong, broad back, your lips meeting in a consuming kiss that knocks you off-kilter. He bends slightly over you, keeping you upright with a large hand on your lower back.

“Never leave again,” mumbles Joel, grinning against your mouth, his hand sliding down your arm to your left hand, where two glimmering bands rest on your third finger. Your hands intertwine, and he bumps his nose into yours.

You give him another short kiss. “Get me out of here.”

Joel slides your raincoat over your shoulders and you slip your arms through. He presses his lips to your forehead and closes his eyes, letting himself linger briefly in your space before he scoops up the handle to your affront of a suitcase and escorts you out back to the car.

He opens the passenger-side door to let you slide into your seat, securing your case in the back, and makes his way around the vehicle. You reach for the collar of his jacket and pull him toward you for a kiss, grasping his jaw between your thumb and forefinger. He grins crookedly when you pull away, bushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Missed you,” he says.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Yeah? How much?”

He reaches across the console and kisses you deeply, making you gasp into him as his hand slips underneath your silky little blouse and fits his fingers in the grooves between your ribs. Your skin prickles with goosebumps under his touch as his exploration migrates to your belly, sliding south, ever lower, his hand playing at the waistband of your panties—

“Okay,” you laugh, smacking his hand away. “Okay. You’re paying for parking, Miller.”

“I’ve got money,” he says plainly, dipping his head to kiss you again, his pupils fattening as he tries to gorge on all of you at once. You place a hand on his chest, enjoying the strong pulse of his heartbeat where you typically rest your head, and gently push him back.

“Take me home,” you coo, your gaze sweeping fondly over the face that hasn’t changed, that you cannot forget, “and show me how much you missed me.”

His wedding band coolly kisses your cheek as he retracts his hand, reluctantly turning his key in the ignition. “Yes, ma’am.”

He’s always been a meticulous driver, expert in the way he flattens his palm on the wheel, his other on the back of your headrest, turns the car out of the spot, and merges onto the freeway. When he no longer needs his other hand, he gives it to you, and you bring his long-scarred knuckles to your lips.

His hands are marked by years of use, of abuse, speckled with little white scars, freckles, divots, curves. You already know the lines in his palms, have traced them and painted them and put them under sensitive study with your body. But you turn his hand over nonetheless, your own fingertips careful in their examination, following their contours as if searching for a change. But they’re the same—he’s the same—and so you tuck your fingers between his and bring your palms together in a warm, awaited kiss.

It’s only been a month, but you study his profile as if years have passed. He’s still Joel, still surly, plush lips curved into a permanent pout, the space between his brows marked by a ponderous gash, the vein in his throat fluttering in silence when a driver cuts him off or he spots a car following too closely. He’s a good study, practised in his stoicism.

His nose is artful. Its convex slope, pronounced, strong, curves deliciously into his upper lip, the soft greying hairs in between a space of waiting. His mouth, soft, learned, often languageless, is what you know best of him. You know it like your own—can trace its shape in the dark, hands behind your back. The strong jawline, the slight wrinkles beside his eyes, ones he never had before you met him, the patches of skin disrupting the fullness of his beard: they’re the picture of the man you married, and there’s always something you’re disappointed in discovering you’ve missed. A something you’ve never noticed, a something you wish you could go back and add to all your canvases.

When you left him at the airport, it was a freckle just beneath the hollow of his throat. Now, it’s the frayed hairs just behind his ears, crimping in frizzy patterns that don’t match the languorous curls on the rest of his head. They look singed, as if he’d put a match to himself.

Maybe it’s making up for lost time, for all the days you’d missed being away from your Joel. But there’s a second, smaller something: the little round scar beneath those wild hairs. You lift your hand to it, and before your thumb can make a pass over the white, puckered skin, he speaks.

“It’s a burn.” Merging off the freeway, he pulls into a gas station. His fuel ticker is tapping gently at the E. “From a cigarette.”

Your heart tips off the edge of a yawning chasm, and your hand pulls back in a wary twitch of your fingers. Throat tightening, you feel a distinct pressure behind the T of your nose and forehead. “From the people who raised you?”

A muscle in his jaw spasms, and he lifts your joined hands to his mouth. “None of that,” he says softly, meeting your eyes that well with unshed tears.

No tears for me, he once said to you. Not until I’ve earned ‘em.

You sniffle, watching him nuzzle his cheek against the soft flesh of your wrist, his lips finding your vein and following it halfway up your forearm.

“Tell me about your show.”

You let him tuck your tears away in the grooves between his joints and smile. “Successful, but lonely. So many people knew my name, and I’m pretty sure I knew about a quarter of theirs. Made me feel like some snobbish pig.”

“Nah, that’s my job,” says Joel. “Everybody loves you, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “Either way, the gallery was a hit. The triptych sold for the highest at the auction.”

Joel smirks. “The nude ones?”

“Yeah, dirtbag. The nude ones.” Your smile is dry, still somehow saccharine.

“I liked those,” says Joel, fingers playing upon your upper thigh.

“Perv.”

He playfully smacks your thigh. “Goddamn right.”

“It was good. It was. But I missed you.” Your voice breaks, and Joel squeezes your fingers in response. “Could hardly sleep without you there.”

He nods like he knows. And you know he does; he barely sleeps, even if you’re on top of him. “I know everybody loves you,” he says, “but next time you go away, remember I love you most.”

You blink away the shimmer of tears so you can see him clearly. “Casanova.”

“That's right,” he says, nosing his way into another kiss. “Don't ever leave me again, baby. My heart can't take it.”

You shake your head, laughing into his mouth as your tears slip onto your tongue. “Never again,” you whisper, “unless the hotel food is good.”

He nods. “I’ll make an exception, long as I can go.”

You grin. “You know… if I’m at home all the time…”

“We’re not getting a puppy.”

“Joel—”

“No.”

“Don't you want to make your wife happy?”

He faux-snaps at you like a dog, catching his teeth around your earlobe. “As a goddamn clam.”

You gasp as you feel his mouth suckle gently at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I… I want… We should at least talk about…”

“Hmm?”

He’s playing with the hem of your blouse, deft fingers leaving warm imprints on the soft skin of your belly, fingers enveloping your precious heart when he places his hand on your upper back. The organ pounds under his touch, pouring its blood into his palms.

You haven’t felt his touch in so long.

“I want…”

Joel hums again, prompting, his pinky finger dipping under the strap of your bra and pulling back, snapping it against your skin.

“What was I talking about?”

He chuckles, bringing his lips back to yours. You grasp for him greedily, trying to fix him to you this time, your fingers bunching the fabric of his T-shirt. But he’s pulling back, his forehead falling against yours.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, “if you can convince me.”

Giddily, perhaps stupidly, you smile. “I’m very prepared to convince you.”

“Uh-huh. I don't doubt you, baby. How ‘bout you let me fill up the car first?”

The throbbing bass of house music Dopplers as another car approaches the gas station. Three men exit the vehicle, one of them already lighting a cigarette while the other two make for the convenience store. One is wearing a backwards cap and the other a pressed suit.

Nice move, you think, sinking back in your seat a little as Joel slides out of the car, smoking by a gas pump.

“Nice ride,” says the man at the opposite pump, puffing at his cigarette.

“Thanks,” says Joel with a polite smile, locking the nozzle in the fuel tank and folding his arms over his chest. He’s hovering by the passenger door, halfway to blocking you from view.

The man surveys the hood, his fingers gently tracing the cool silver. “Boss Mustang 429. She a ‘70?”

“‘69,” says Joel.

“Very nice,” muses the man, drumming his hands on the hood. You feel the crude vibrations in your spine and straighten in your seat. This man—this kid, all his puffing and grinning and loud music—is bad news. Your stomach coils taut when his gaze shifts from Joel to you, staring hard through the windshield.

“How much?” he asks Joel.

You notice the minute stiffening of the muscles in Joel’s shoulders. “What?”

“How much for the car?”

Joel pushes off the car and dislodges the pump, brushing the kid aside on his way back to the driver’s side. “It’s not for sale.”

The kid wanders to the passenger-side door before Joel can turn on the car and roll up the window. He leans his elbows just inside, his face mere inches from yours, and you can smell the sickly, cloying smoke of his cigarette as he blows it in your direction.

He says something to Joel in Spanish that makes your husband’s hand still on the wheel.

And your Joel, your courteous Joel, your never-the-shit-stirrer Joel, narrows his eyes at the kid and says something in kind, his voice a low scrape that shudders through you.

It’s too fast for you to hear, and you never learned Spanish, and you were under the assumption (until right fucking now) that Joel never did, either. But he starts the car and rolls up the window, and you’re peeling away from the gas station before the kid can reply.

“That was…” You cast around for the words and instead rest your eyes on Joel, whose jaw looks ready to snap. “Joel, honey, when did you learn Spanish?”

He’s silent for a long while, and you would assume that he didn’t hear you—if you didn't know that he has stellar hearing. When he pulls onto the long stretch of road, signalling your first firm tug away from the stifling noise of civilization, he finally speaks.

“Picked it up in the Marines.”

“What did he say to you?”

Joel’s skin is stretched taut over his knuckles. “Somethin’ stupid.”

You hum, letting him linger in silence for the remainder of the trip. Scenery, green and grey sky and the drizzle of rain, swoops by the window, and you're going home. It isn't much different from what you found in Vancouver, but it's familiar. It’s the smell of the air after the rain and the way your shared home comes into view the same way it always has.

It isn’t a modest home. You and Joel had it built before the wedding, both eager to get away from the city and exist in relative peace when your job allowed it. It sits low and broad, geometric pillars framing the front porch, sleek modern lines in black and white. Your compromise: he assumed responsibility for the exterior, and you took everything within. Joel pulls into the garage, next to your beige SUV, and helps you and your hot-pink luggage out of the car.

The walls are littered with canvases. Mostly, there are paintings of Joel. The first time you brought him to your studio, a few weeks into the relationship, he’d sat stone-still for hours. You don't recall even a twitch of a finger. He’s in shades of blue, red, green, grey. He’s sitting, standing, lounging, sleeping. His lashes lie in repose over his cheeks, eyes closed, sometimes open, often averted. You’ve captured him in bed, by the pool, in the kitchen, in your studio. Like a spider, you’ve ensnared his shyness, his care, his devotion, weaving it into a tapestry of oil, watercolour, pastel.

You’ve never sold a single one. This Joel—whose eyes are sometimes closed, sometimes open, often averted—is for your eyes only.

The curls at the nape of his neck are creeping under the collar of his jacket. Winding your finger around a rich brown lock, you give him a tug. “You haven't been taking good care of yourself.”

Joel brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the rings on your finger that bind you to him. “You told me you liked it long.”

“You told me it itches.” You shrug his jacket off his shoulders and trail your hands up his muscled arms. “It's not about me, honey.”

Joel hums, cradling the crown of your head in his palm and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “When will you learn”—another hand around your hip, tugging you forward by the small of your back—“that everything is about you?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That's a good answer, Mr. Miller.”

He grins crookedly, backing you against the kitchen counter. “Yeah?”

You scratch his scalp and feel his mouth descend on your jaw. “Mhm. You’ve been practising.”

“Didn't have much else to do,” he grumbles, fisting the fabric of your blouse and untucking it from the waistband of the old jeans sitting low on your hips. “My wife was gone.”

“You're getting whiny,” you chide, smacking his hand away from your fly.

“Is it working?”

“You really wanna make your wife happy?”

“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” He looks down at you like he's close to pleading.

“Then you'll let me cut your hair,” you purr.

His pout lasts as long as it takes for you to get his hair soapy and your fingers in his curls, massaging slow and sweet. You take your time ridding him of the excess length, chopping carefully, your hands assured of their strength. You tell him to tilt up and look down and to the side, honey, and he obeys because it's your hands, and your voice, and he's pliable as molten glass.

You get lost in the musical shhhick of the scissors cutting through hair, humming a tune that does not match, and he's reminded of ballet. Watching you in the mirror is like seeing the dance through a glass he cannot permeate. You may be touching him, but most times he's struggling to grasp you in your entirety.

He sees an angel in his sleep, reaching out with a hand made of gold to guide him up from hell.

You tell him more about the gallery. You tell him about whale-watching and being too seasick to take photos for him like he'd requested. Joel wants to shake his head but he stays still and tells you it’s okay, baby, all I wanted was to know you were happy.

And you tell him I was happy. But it would've been better with you.

And he's joking, telling you I’d be throwin' up on the other side of the boat, but his body feels cold when you set down the scissors and leave his side.

“How’s Tommy?” you ask, rubbing gel between your palms. This, he knows, is your favourite part: styling him up all pretty like your personal doll.

It’s his favourite part, too. He holds you around the waist while you work. “He’s panicking.”

“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “He's read every book on the shelves. And your brother doesn't read.”

“Books can't prepare you for the real thing,” says Joel. “‘Least, that's what Maria told him.”

“Maria’s probably right.” You thread your fingers through his locks and watch with a smile as he closes his eyes, his forehead dropping to your belly. “But that doesn't take away from the fact that Tommy will make a great dad.”

Joel hums, pressing a kiss to your belly. “He’s been askin’ after you to paint their nursery. Want me to tell him to fuck off?”

You're beaming, curling one lock of hair around your finger and dangling it teasingly over his forehead. “Tell Tommy I'd be delighted. Maria shouldn't be doing any of that, pregnant as she is. You should smack some sense into your brother.”

“I tried every day when we were little. Didn't take.”

You give his styled hair a finalistic tug and brush it back from his ears. “Such a good model for me,” you coo, dropping into his lap, “just like always.”

“And what do I get?” he says, watching his own hand cup your breast, thumb ghosting over the soft swell, obscured by layers of fabric.

Your wicked eyes feel heavy on his skin. “What you always get.”

You take his hand in yours and lead him to the bedroom. You’ve done this a thousand times, it seems, this methodical undressing, made new with every hour spent apart. The dance replenishes in the sunlight, coming alive as spring blossoms, never stale, never withered. There is something new to discover each time.

Joel kisses you, staggering backward until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. You climb onto his lap without breaking the kiss, your arms winding around his neck as he tucks you into him. His cock is a hard, heavy weight between your thighs, accustomed to the touch of his hand alone in the month you've been apart.

The revitalising warmth of skin-on-skin strikes him true, blooming like blood from his heart. He clutches you so close that your heartbeat skitters from your chest to his, your mouths exchanging breaths, your bodies sharing heat. He knows nothing but the shape, smell, sound of you.

He trails his knuckles up and down your spine and wonders if he can make certain that he will die like this. He doesn't want to know an afterlife. It will spoil the memory of his very last moment, when he brings you in close and kisses your soft cheek and lets the darkness gently pull him down.

The sisters at the orphanage would tell him things. You will never know peace until you know Him. You cannot know a person’s love until you know His. You will never understand, child, what it is to breathe, until every breath you take is in His name. Joel drags his open mouth up the column of your sternum, its golden pillar, his tongue dipping to taste the nectar that pools in the hollow of your throat. He tastes you instead, and he feels he has not cheated God.

You gasp his name as he licks molten salt from your skin, and he feels the golden hand curl around his heart. His lids grow heavy with every taste. Intoxicated, he seeks more, putting his mouth to the crook of your neck. Your back arches, your chest flush with his own, melting and moulding together. Every second of time spent apart withers and dies.

You have taken Joel to bed and felt him angry, happy, morose, insatiable—but the Joel you’re feeling now is tired. A drowning man finally cresting the surface, he touches you like he never will again. Your skin bunches and folds under his too-eager hands, rubbing you raw. Your muscles pull taut as you try to accommodate his frantic mouth. He bites you and your lips part in a silent scream. He pulls your hair and you gush, your chest hot, prickling with friction and sweat and heat.

There is anguish in the way he holds you. It feels deep as a wound, old enough to still ache when it rains, old enough that you were never around to know him when it was cut into his body. You want to rescue him from the wordless pain, the agony that has no name.

You want to know what has made him this way. Because there are times when you see your husband and it strikes you suddenly that a different person exists in the black of his eyes. Because there are parts he keeps hidden, for your sake or his. Because there is a little boy in his chest who's been hurt and you do not know how to save that sliver of him.

Leftover hairs from his trim sting as your bodies slide together. Your scalp prickles at the desperate way he holds you at the crown of your head. You whisper his name and he looks up at you in the darkness, and there is water brimming beneath his irises.

“Tell me what you need,” you say.

He brings his hand between your thighs and touches the wet, warm place he seeks. You nod, letting him roll you onto your back, his mouth trailing kisses down your navel. When you squirm, he pins you by your belly, his palm flat to your skin. When you mewl his name, your chest heaving, he nods his head in reply, dipping his head and sliding his hot tongue through your slit.

Joel is the prayer you chant. He kneels at the edge of the bed, bringing your thighs around his ears, closing his lips around your clit. You cry out, your hand flying to his hair, tugging him closer, eliciting a groan from his chest. It rumbles through you, his face buried in your pussy, his hands fastened around your thighs. He places searing kisses between your legs, lighting you ablaze, leaving scorch marks wherever his lips touch you.

“Tell me you're mine,” he says, and the fractured sound of his voice cuts into your skin. He's watching you, his pupils puffy and seeking, hands squeezing, desperate. “Please.”

You whimper at the sight of the kiss he places on your clit. “I’m yours,” you tell him, reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his. “I’m your wife, Joel. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours and I love you.”

He lowers his head, an apostate seeking redemption, and his tongue slides heavily over your clit. At the suction of his mouth around the slick pearl, you gasp, “Oh, God,” your head thrown back, your spine arching into his palm. The cut of the diamond on your finger is sharp against his skin.

Joel relishes the cool bite of the gem as he licks through your folds and his saliva mingles with your wetness. He kneels with fervour, presses his mouth to you as if whispering his confessions through the lattice, and makes you his.

The flat of his tongue is scalding, his palm a brand. He licks and sucks until you’re quivering, suffocating his hand in yours, and he wants to bare the imprint of your sigh forever. He should be the one submitting to you, and here you are, lending him your body to please, if only for another moment. Joel flicks his tongue over your clit, takes it into his mouth, and makes you sob his name.

I’m yours.

Yours.

And it sounds so permanent that, for a second, he believes it himself.

You come with your back curving and your hips grinding and your nails in his skin. Joel doesn’t stop until you’re begging him to, until you push yourself onto your elbows and tell him to come here.

You swing your leg over him and bring your mouth down to his. Joel squeezes his eyes shut and kisses you so deeply that it bruises him somewhere he cannot reach. His hands cupping your face. His cock heavy between your bodies. The sun lowering, casting you in bronze. He loses his grip on the world.

“Now,” you whisper in the growing dark, “it’s your turn to tell me.”

You lift yourself onto his cock and bring yourself down, and Joel’s fist opens against your back. “I’ve been yours since the restaurant,” he rasps.

You beam at him, and dusk ends.

There is a thumping beyond your bedroom door.

Joel hears it before you. In a flash, he hooks his leg under your knee and rolls you over, pinning you under his body. He reaches for the nightstand on his side, throws open the drawer, and pulls a gun.

You grasp his shoulders, nails digging into flesh. Eyes meet in the slippery darkness. Wide, careful. Words wordlessly exchanged.

Your fluttering heartbeat begins to pound in your ears. The noise migrates down the hall.

Footsteps.

In the kitchen, glass shatters, and your stomach swoops, down and back up, lodging in your throat.

“Joel,” you whisper, your own voice trembling out of you. He shakes his head, his finger coming to his lips. Your body begins to tremble. The chill digs a pick into each knob of your spine as it climbs up to your brain stem.

Your home begins to pound with its very own heartbeat. You can hear its tightly-wound tension in the walls. Nobody breathes except for your husband, slow and steady, hovering over you with a gun in his hand.

You hadn’t known he owned a gun.

His hips ground you against the bed and his fingers intertwine with yours, bringing your hand to his chest. His heart pounds strongly into your palm, his eyes narrowed, fixed to you. But you know his focus is split down the middle, divided between keeping you safe and listening.

Your breathing peters out until it’s silent as the breeze outside the window. A man’s voice carries from the kitchen, and another answers. Joel shifts slowly off the bed and brings you with him, handing you his T-shirt and boxers. He tucks himself into his jeans and pulls another shirt over his head while you silently dress. The fabric slips from your hand as your trembling fingers struggle for a purchase. Once you’re dressed, Joel pulls you into him, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“Under the bed,” he whispers.

Oh, fuck that.

“You want to go out there and confront them by yourself? Are you fucking crazy?”

He shuts you up by lowering his mouth to yours in a scorching kiss. “Do not fuckin’ argue with me,” he rasps, his teeth scraping against yours. You open your mouth to do exactly that, but another glass shatters, and you flinch away.

“Under. The. Bed.”

And he’s gone, leaving you alone, helpless, the predatory prowl of his gait something unfamiliar to you. It’s learned, utterly silent, the curve of his elbow guiding your gaze to the gun held behind his back. His head juts out before him, peeking around corners.

There are dust bunnies underneath the bed. You’re a better cleaner than Joel, but he makes an effort. He gets lost in it sometimes, sweeping his way through the house as if there’s a grid on the floor, precise in his methods. He doesn’t attend to the details, like the corners of the trim or the grooves in the floorboards. And yet, your floors are polished. Your plants are watered. He cares for you in quiet ways, when words fail.

Your heart thuds against the hardwood through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. It smells of rain and him. There are no more noises coming from the kitchen.

You drop your head into your folded arms and will yourself to breathe. The claustrophobic space between the bed frame and the floor edges in on you. The only light disrupting the vignette is the small lamp. You’re alone.

When you lift your head again, a pair of heavy black boots stares you right in the face.

You bite down on your scream as your heart swoops down into your stomach, pressed hard against the cold floor. Though you do not breathe, the thrum of your heart echoes in your throat as the sputtering of an engine in the dead of winter. The boots leave scuff marks on your floors, the boards groaning under the weight. The owner is heavyset, likely male from the size of his feet. And he's calling for you.

“Here, pretty kitty.” He pitches his octave high as he taunts you. “Come on out, sweet girl. Don't make me mad.”

You watch the path of his boots across the floor as he approaches the nightstand, throwing open the drawer and rummaging through your belongings.

Objects roll under the bed with you as he periodically drops them, careless in his vandalism. Your journal lands next to your head with a thunk, and you hear the low buzz of your vibrator in his hand. “Hmm, kitty likes to play.” And it lands on the floor, rolling to a cool stop in the groove between two boards.

Petrified, you can only watch him stalk across the room, his heavy footfalls thundering in your ears. He whistles a tune you don't recognise, and you wonder what's taking your husband so fucking long.

Joel, cries your heart as the man halts in his tracks, lowering himself to the ground, taking a knee. JoelJoelJoelplease—

And there's a spark of recognition when your eyes meet in the dark, like you've been acquainted with their black depths, before you're scrambling out from under the bed and kicking him square in the face with the heel of your foot.

He grunts, holding his nose, free hand grasping for you like wisps of smoke. You crawl to your feet and begin to run, only for him to wrap one cold hand around your ankle and pull.

You crumple back down to the floor with him, barely saving your own skull from cracking on the hardwood as you throw your hands in front of your eyes. The impact to your elbows radiates up to your neck, and you scream your throat raw, kicking out at your assailant, your blood roaring, weeping.

With a firm kick to his throat, you force him to let go, his hand flying instinctively to his windpipe. He wheezes something crude, probably, but you’re running—limping, mostly, slamming the bedroom door behind you with a shattering thud that quakes the frame.

“Joel!” you cry, turning the corner in the hall, feeling the walls as you go as if your own home has become foreign to you. What if he’s dead? What if you’re about to stumble over his body in the dark—the only body you’ve ever been able to know as something more than a vessel for art, for a painstaking study? That body, the body you could trace in the black with fingertips, not brushes, does not make itself known.

“JOEL—!”

A hand comes to rest on your cheek. It is not Joel’s hand. It is no hand at all, but the edge of a blade, a cool stinging thing that nicks the tender skin beneath your eye.

Blood from his nose drips down his mouth, staining his teeth red. You feel a small thrill of victory.

Joel is on the kitchen floor in a heap, vaguely stirring from the impact of a baseball bat to his ribs. The bat which a second intruder now uses to smash the framed pictures on your wall. Glass rains down on him. Shards have cut Joel’s soft belly, shredded the fabric of his shirt. Your captor holds you by the hair.

A third man smokes a cigarette, sitting on your countertop, swinging his feet back and forth, and it strikes you that he’s really only a kid. Twenty-five at most. You know young hands, young eyes. Your pencils and paper know them better.

“Nice of you to join us,” says the man from the gas station, making shapes of the cigarette smoke. You watch the way it curls around the low-hanging light.

“Joel,” you whisper, the salt of your tears stinging in the wound on your face. “Baby, please… get up…”

“He’s fine, chiquita,” says the kid. “Don’t waste your energy.”

Joel’s eyes peel open, his hands blindly grasping for something he does not have. He’s curled in on himself to protect himself from the inevitable next swing of the bat. You wonder if he’s been struck in the head, and you can feel pieces of your heart slowly wilting as petals untended.

His gun, you realise, your eyes dropping to the belt of the man who holds you hostage. It’s tucked into his waistband, but you cannot reach it with your arms trapped in front of you. His arm is a heavy band around your chest, glueing you to him, helpless. You’re fucking helpless and you cannot get to him and he will die.

Your Joel will die and he will know pain in the way you want him to know love.

“Let him go, please. You hurt him.”

The kid sniffs, tossing his cigarette to the floor beside Joel and jumping down from the counter to stomp it out with an expensive sneaker. “He disrespected me,” says the kid, leering down at your half-conscious husband like a speck of dirt on a polished glass. “But he doesn’t matter.”

You choke on your sobs, writhing in your captor’s grasp in a futile effort to feel not-so-suffocated, not-so-stuck. “You can have anything you want. Please, take anything. We have money, we have cars, we have paintings. They’re worth something, I promise you. Just—just look up my name. They’re worth a lot, please, just take them and leave us alone, please—”

The anger explodes through the gash in his face where he’d put the cigarette, that yawning maw eager to swallow blood and pain. “I don’t want your fucking paintings!” he screams, stalking toward you and yanking you free of the other man’s grasp.

Your stomach swoops as he shoves you, hard, to the floor. This time, your arms do not take the blow. It is your temple that absorbs the impact, striking hard on a floor already flecked with blood. Black seeps through paper. Your eyes darken. A man—you do not know which—is speaking.

“Go on, Emil, have some fun with the bitch,” he says. “We can put her up in the kennel when we’re done with them both.”

You hear the rustling of a belt as the man above you flicks open his fly, laughing all the while.

You're still blinking hard to clear the fog when you hear a growl rumble in your husband’s chest, the faraway noise of a fist meeting flesh, the scuffle of feet across your freshly-washed floors, the first gunshot.

Your cheek meets cool hardwood as you succumb, the shape of your Joel’s rage etched into your eyelids.

There’s a painting on the wall depicting two bodies in orgasm. Curved spines, feverish hands, dimples where fingers meet flesh. There is a hole in the canvas where the woman’s heart should be. A splatter of blood taints the image where the man drags his open palm down her back.

His face is obscured, but his mouth is on her throat, exposing the cut of his jaw. The scruff of his beard. Careful strokes of oil paint join their bodies in harmony. It’s knocked askew on the wall.

He’s rusty.

He can feel it in the taut pull of his shoulder as he brings his arm back for the death blow. The blade comes up against the rough skin beneath the man’s chin, slicing him open just beneath the scruff of his beard. Blood bruises the hardwood floors, and although the man is already dead, Joel grasps him by the hair at the crown of his head and brings him down against the wall.

His shoulder aches. His finger joints crackle. His knuckles are already bruised, his abdomen sore. He spits out pinkish saliva and turns his attention to his next job.

His gun now back in his hand and its thief dead, Joel puts a bullet between the eyes of the third man, and another in his chest. The baseball bat clatters to the floor.

He thinks of the first time he wanted to kill for you and couldn’t.

A man at the bar had groped you while you were out with friends. A little tipsy, you told Joel as he tucked you gently into the passenger’s seat, wrapped in a pretty black dress, and fell promptly asleep. He remembers the cool flutter of your hair from the air vent. He remembers the way your lashes spread like spider legs on your cheeks at every red light, the way the street lamps turned you golden.

He remembers the man’s name. His face. His address. Some of the little wrinkles in his brain still hold echoes of information he'll never need again. But he keeps it tucked up there anyway. Maybe it reminds him of what he could never do, now that he had you.

It seems the rules have been bent.

Glass crunches underfoot behind him. Joel turns just in time to see the retreating figure, the fucking coward, sprinting for the door. He fires a shot that chips a piece of drywall and goes nowhere significant. Cursing himself, Joel hears the roar of his Mustang come to life as the kid leaves with his fucking car.

Everything has a price, he'd said, blowing smoke in your face. Including your bitch.

Joel curls his hand around the hilt of the knife. Blood begins to crust along the edge. Some of the blood, he realises, has been stolen from your sacred body. There is a cut on your cheek.

And does your bitch have a price? Joel had replied, glancing behind the kid at the lackey he'd brought along. He seems to like you.

You teeter on your way to standing, and Joel rushes to catch you before you can hit the floor. He flicks on the safety and sets his gun aside, cupping your face in his bloodied hands.

Your eyes, blurred with tears, struggle to meet his. They're fixed to the man in a heap over Joel’s shoulder—the man who'd cut you.

“Baby,” he says.

Trancelike, you shake your head.

“Baby, I gotta see you're still with me. Don't look at him; he ain't important right now. You’re important. Hear me?”

His voice is gentle, guiding, his thumbs hooked just behind your ears, hard eyes flickering between each of yours.

“You killed them.”

“Yeah,” says Joel as the pad of his thumb traces the soft skin beneath the cut on your cheek. Your fingers curl around his wrists as if you’re trying to strangle him, temper him.

“You’re hurt.” Your soft cry inverts his ribs, sits heavy and wrong in his chest. When your glassy eyes slide to meet his at last, Joel remembers the second time he wanted to kill someone and couldn’t.

A man from your past had visited your apartment and told you he wanted to try again. You'd politely escorted him out and laughed it off. Terrible in bed, you’d joked.

Joel remembers kneeling in the cathedral, surrounded by the lick of a thousand votives coaxing sweat from his glands, as he tried and tried to find faith and only felt the agonising scrape of the floor against his kneecaps.

He remembers the first time devotion meant something to him. In the name of your second gallery showing. Paintings lined the walls depicting couples in embrace. “Which one is us?” he asked.

“I don't sell those,” you’d replied.

“Why not?”

“Because you're only for me,” you told him. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”

He’d ached to hear it. Even leaned in, a co-conspirator.

“There isn't any devotion in these paintings. They're all hired models.”

“Then why bother at all?” he'd asked. “Why call it that?”

“Because I like showing people that there’s love in the world. And because devotion means something to me now.” You’d looked up at him and tucked your hand in his and he knew what all those nights spent kneeling meant.

Faith, he thinks now, glaring at the shallow cut on your cheek, is knowing your purpose.

The wound is his purpose.

“I’m not hurt, baby girl. We need to pack a bag, okay? I have somewhere for us to stay.”

“Are they—are they coming back?” you ask, your bottom lip wobbling.

Joel swallows bile and a bit of blood. “No. No, they won't be comin’ back. But we need a safe place while I take care of things.”

“Take care of things.”

Your echo is ominous in his ears, and when your eyes leave him again to watch the way the blood trickles into the grooves between the floorboards, Joel knows what you will say next.

“Who are you?”

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #john wick au #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fic

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identifying-cars-in-posts · 4 months

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I GOT A NEW CAR

Everybody meet the new baby that i will never shut up about forever!

This is Clifford the Third, my new 1996 Nissan Pickup!! I probably paid too much for her but given that I live in Massachusetts and she has virtually no rust I’m okay with that lol.

So a brief history of the Nissan Pickup! These trucks were released in the US in 1985 and were sold through 1997, when they were replaced with the Frontier. They were the successor to the beloved Datsun 720, which had been in production since 1979. They are in fact just called the Pickup! They’re colloquially known as the D21 - their chassis code, and the Hardbody, because of the double walled durable construction of the trucks’ bed.

The D21 was available with a couple different engines and drivetrain layouts. Mine is a 4x4 with the KA24 motor (which it shared with the 240SX/Silvia). She’s also a King Cab, meaning she has a slightly elongated wheelbase to allow for two small inwards facing jump seats in the back of the cab. Still a two door though.

AND SHE’S A STICK! She has a 5-speed manual transmission, and it’s the best transmission i’ve ever personally had in a car. She’s my third manual, the other two being a 1999 Toyota Corolla and a 2004 Subaru WRX, both of which were great but the Corolla had a really sloppy gearbox that felt incredibly vague at times, whereas the WRX had a sportier transmission that was pretty unforgiving and stiff. This one is definitive about where each gear is, but also won’t get too jerky or loud if you shift a little early or late.

Nissan Hardbody trucks are known and loved for their durability, versatility, and simplicity. They’re super bare bones but what they do have is built remarkably well and meant to withstand lots of abuse. If they don’t rust and have basic maintenance kept up it’s not uncommon for them to go 300k+ miles with minimal issues. Mine has around 184k miles, high but manageable. She also has a few modifications from the previous owner, namely a straight piped exhaust (no muffler, just one big long aluminum tube), aftermarket bumpers and lights, locking hubs, and a small lift. The guy i bought it from had plans to make it an off-roader but had too many projects and needed to offload one to make space in his driveway.

While many people either take these off-roading or turn them into drift trucks, my plan is to bring her back to mostly stock. I’m in the process of tracking down OEM bumpers and a more typical cat-back (from the catalytic converter back) exhaust system so she’s a little less obnoxiously loud. Since i mostly just need reliable transport more than a toy and she is now my sole car, I want to just make her relatively normal. But I love her a lot and am happy to be able to share!

#not a car id #nissan #i put like 70 miles on her today alone and she did great

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murdrdocs · 6 months

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My favorite part about driving at night is when some dude in a big ass pickup truck (because he has to compensate for that tiny dick somehow) is like 3 inches from my rear bumper and he has his high beams on 😌🙃

Anyway, thinking about mike getting road head 🤤

-🍬

(that's so southern core it just fills me w sm joy /s)

mm in the shitty little accord. the heat is blasting, the radio playing a new britney spears song on a low volume, and mike has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your knee as he drives you home. it'd been a last minute thing, you on the other end of the phone politely asking him to pick you up from work as your car just gave out. he was quick to arrive, and even quicker to brush off your promises to repay him.

but no matter how selfless mike is, you feel like he needs some form of repayment and there's still another 15 minutes until you're home. so you at first bring mikes hand to your lips and press a kiss to the back of it. then you have a hand on his thigh, dragging your palm up from his knee cap and right back down in slow motions.

he senses that you have some sort of plan, eyebrows lifting as he casts a glance your way. but he doesn't say anything.

he's not saying anything at all until you have his cock pulled through the opening his zipper has created and pressed against your lips. at first, he's weakly protesting.

"baby, you really shouldn't. it's –– ah –– it's dangerous."

then you're looking up at him from your position, knees digging into the fabric of the seats, one hand pressed between his thighs and the other holding the base of his cock. "just keep your eyes on the road, mikey," you tell him, voice all sweet like it's the easiest thing.

which, to mike, it isn't. he loves watching you give him head, and he sneaks little glances down at you up until a car honks behind him and he realizes the light is green about three seconds later than he should have.

there's something about the thrill of being caught and the inappropriate setting that makes this one of the best head experiences of mike's life.

#mschmidtsworld!#mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt smut #celeste writes fnaf #fnaf movie #mike schmidt

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wonlovie · 7 months

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— RACING, BEATING PART II read part i here

Months after your fateful night with Heeseung, you ask him to teach you how to race. Instead, he asks you to cheer him on at his next race.

— starring. illegal-racer!heeseung x model!reader, very brief cameo of mingyu from seventeen

— tags. arranged-marriage!au, pre-established relationship, minor angst (if u squint??), reader gets objectified, smut [unprotected sex (be safe!!), public sex, hint of pussy drunk heeseung, oral (m. receiving), face fucking, vaginal fingering, degrading (use of whore, slut; another man is mentioned during sex, kind of mean-dom!heeseung, car sex [MINORS DNI])

— word count. 6.2k (oops this was meant to be like 4k)

— notes. writing hee smut to songs like blossom and off your face is such a weird vibe PAHAHAH // reading part i isn't really necessary for this one, but it gives u context :)

“Teach me how to race.”

Heeseung blinked at you slowly, squinting his eyes as he put down the rag. You tried your best not to eye the way his muscles looked under his black tank top. He stood to his full height, leaving you breathless at the way the fabric lined his toned chest so damn well under the poor lighting. A pair of baggy jeans hung low on his hips, letting you see a sliver of his stomach.

With his car half polished, Heeseung stepped toward you. “Do you even have your license?”

You stared at him, offended. “Of course I do!” you snapped, huffing in indignation. “I got it as soon as it was legal for me to.”

“Baby,” he chuckled, raising a brow at you. “You don’t drive, though. Your driver takes you everywhere. And if not him, it’s me.” Wiping his hands on his dirtied jeans, Heeseung walked closer. You let out a noise of surprise when he suddenly tugged your arm, bringing you chest to chest. You gulped, looking deeply into those eyes that stared just as intensely as they did when you first met him.

His hand splayed across the small of your back as he pressed you flat against him. “What brought this up?” he asked, leaning in and leaving behind fleeting kisses on your cheek. Your knees felt weak as he gently nibbled on your earlobe, tongue swiping across your sensitive skin as he whispered in your ear. “Is my driving not good enough for you, princess?”

Heeseung lips pulled up into a smirk when your breath hitched, only parting to leave open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “No,” you stammered. “Just…”

“Just what?” he mumbled against your skin before suckling at your neck. You mentally groaned at the thought of going into your next shoot, all marked up for the umpteenth time.

“Just wanted to try,” you murmured, gasping when he nipped at your jugular, his hand tightening on your waist. “That’s all.”

You could feel his stiffness pressing against your tummy, your fingers itching to take care of him. But when you moved to remove his belt, he smacked your hand away. You whined as he bit down on your shoulder, his hands actively groping your ass now. You sighed out his name, throwing your head back to give him more room.

The garage suddenly felt hotter than it was five minutes ago as Heeseung turned you around, pressing you against the front bumper of the cherry red car. He easily made room for himself, slotting his hips neatly between your thighs. He moved to kiss you, groaning into your mouth as you shifted your clothed cunt against his hardening length.

“Fuck,” he sighed out, kissing you again with fervour. A ringed hand wrapped itself around your neck, squeezing lightly as he pushed you to sit atop the car’s hood. Heeseung tugged at your shirt, pushing it up and over your breasts. He cupped you harshly, circling your nipples over the thin material of your sports bra.

You whimpered his name, arching your back into his palm. “So needy for me,” he moaned against your lips as he brought his hips to yours. You felt the roughness of his jeans easily through your thin leggings, whining as the material rubbed against your clothed clit. You had no doubt that if he were to cup your sex, Heeseung would be able to feel just how soaked you were without even stripping you. “You want me, baby?”

“Yes,” you gasped in pleasure as he ducked his head to suck on the tops of your breasts, angry red kisses scattered over your skin. “Yes, please, Hee. Need you so badly,” you cried out his name in a broken moan when he pulled your bra down and brought your nipple to his hot mouth. His tongue circled the sensitive bud, his teeth scraping against it sinfully.

As he toyed with you, his tongue sending your brain into a frenzied state of pure want, his hands busied themselves with the hem of your pants. He dipped his fingers beneath the waistband, slipping the offending material down the expanse of your legs. The flimsy fabric fell to the dirtied ground, something you would have complained about if you were in a sane state of mind. But the way Heeseung’s deft fingers danced across your thighs before stroking up your cunt left you speechless.

“Shit,” he breathed out, dropping his head on your shoulder as he pushed your legs open wider. You had no doubt that your slick was dripping onto the hood of his newly polished car. “‘S good for me,” hissing, he inserted two fingers into your heat, giving you no time to prepare. A wide grin stretched over his face when you sobbed out his name; his gaze trained on the slope of your neck as you threw your head back in pleasure. “So wet, all from a few kisses?”

You whined, hips twitching. “Shut up,” you mumbled behind shaking hands, covering your flushed cheeks in embarrassment. “It’s not like you’re any better…”

Heeseung clicked his tongue, though he didn’t deny your claim. His cock was weeping with need inside his boxers, the hard length pulsing with every thrust of his fingers into your sopping cunt. “If you keep giving me that attitude, I’ll stop right now.” It was an empty threat, one that made you clench around his fingers pathetically nonetheless. He chuckled a low sound that sent shivers down your back. “Do you want me to stop?”

When his fingers halted, you cried out his name in desperation. You snapped your head up, feeling your eyes swell with tears. “You’re so mean,” you pouted, shuddering when the cool air of the garage suddenly brushed against your bare skin. “Heeseung, come on—”

He sighed, pulling his fingers out of you. He avoided your begging gaze, instead opting to stare at the wetness that coated his fingers. Finally looking up at you, he kept eye contact as he slowly licked his digits clean, his tongue sliding over his knuckles. “You know that’s not what I want to hear from you, princess.”

You looked away, humiliated, as you felt your ears heat up. “Please,” you whispered into the silent room. “Please fuck me, Hee.”

He grinned at you, tugging you closer by hooking his hands underneath your knees. He pressed a soft kiss against your knee before moving to unbuckle his pants. “Good girl,” Heeseung sighed as he released his length from the confines of his boxers. “Just keep being good for me, yeah? You’re gonna take it all, right baby?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer as he pressed his tip against your folds, the two of you moaning in unison. He slid his length over your pussy, spreading your juices over his hard cock. Heeseung’s jaw was agape as he fucked against your clit, chest heaving from the sensitivity. You watched closely as he slowly stroked himself, using your slick as a lubricant, enchanted with the way his eyes seemed to glaze over in pleasure, brows pinched tightly as he sighed out a few curses.

“This is all mine,” he mumbled, leaning forward to latch his lips to yours in a messy kiss. Drool dribbled from the side of your mouth as you moaned into his mouth when he started easing himself into you. Despite how many times you’d had sex, his size never failed to leave you breathless.

Once he bottomed out, Heeseung murmured your name against your neck as he left behind more love bites. His cock twitched inside you as he urged himself not to fuck you relentlessly. The way your pussy clenched around him sporadically had his mouth parting in high moans. He bit down on your shoulder again as he shallowly thrusted, his arms wrapping around your middle tightly.

You moaned at the weight of his upper body pressing you against the hood of the car, the cool aluminum contrasting with his burning touch. Wrapping your legs around his slim waist, you silently urged him to go harder, faster.

Using his hold on you to keep you in place, he picked up his pace, pulling out until just the tip was left inside before harshly thrusting back into you. The sound of skin against skin echoed in the empty garage. If anyone were to come down to the parking garage, the unmistakable sound of your wet cunt being plowed into would have tipped them off right away.

“Hee,” you sobbed as he went faster, feeling every vein and curve of his dick rub against your gummy walls. “Fu-ck, baby, I’m so close,” your words slurred together as you clutched onto Heeseung’s wide shoulders, clawing down the fabric of his shirt.

“Already?” he panted, looking up at you through his bangs. He reached up, pushing your hair out of your face. His fingers grasped your chin, forcing you to hold your head up. He groaned, eyes fluttering shut when you clamped around him. “C’mon, babe,” he whispered, looking into your eyes as he went deeper. “I’m not done with you yet.”

His words didn’t match his actions as he reached down to thumb at your swollen clit, your hips instantly jutting upwards in overstimulation. You all but screamed his name, tears flowing down your cheeks. He let go of your face, only to push one of your legs up against your torso. The change in position lets him reach a spot deeper within you. Your name left his throat in a broken whisper, his eyes shutting tightly as he tried not to cum earlier than he wanted to.

When you heard the sound of a roaring engine coming closer, your eyes opened wide as you tried to find the source. However, when you turned your head, Heeseung made you look back at him. “What is it?” he asked breathlessly, raising a brow at you as he slowed his hips, grinding into you at a snail’s pace. “Don’t wanna get caught, huh? Don’t want my neighbours to see how much of a whore you are?”

With each word, he delivered a particularly harsh thrust. You bit your hand in a futile attempt to keep quiet, but the sound of his hips slamming against yours did little to hide the naughty position you were in.

Heeseung smiled almost sadistically as he watched you try to keep quiet, his ego inflating from the way you were utterly failing. You glared at him through teary eyes as you heard someone park and exit their car, the loud beep of the locking mechanism making you jump. Heeseung’s car was parked in the far corner, somewhere not many of the other residents liked to park due to the distance they’d have to walk. Though, if the person looked in your direction, there would be no hiding what you were doing.

As the steps got closer to the elevator and closer to you, Heeseung started to move faster, his hips just shy of slapping against yours. “Lee Heeseung,” you hissed, trying to push his hips away as you tried looking over his shoulder warily.

You heard the elevator doors open and close, the whirring noise of it moving upstairs making your heart race in anticipation. Once it was quiet for a few seconds, Heeseung abruptly continued fucking you relentlessly. His eyes were narrowed as he watched your face contort in pleasure, a frown tugging at his lips from your previous attempt at stopping him.

“Just try to stop me like that next time,” he spat, leaning back as he brought your legs over his shoulders. “See where it gets you.” Despite his cruel words, his thumbs rubbed gentle circles over your thighs, greatly contrasting his bruising thrusts.

He eyed you like a predator with his prey, gaze darting from your fucked out expression to the bounce of your breasts. He gripped your waist, groping at your sides as he felt his orgasm near. Heeseung’s head dropped, his hair sticking to his forehead from exertion. You blindly reached for him, eyes screwed closed in rapture.

He moved to take your hand in his, interlacing your fingers as he pressed them against the car, next to your head. His other hand dropped from your thigh back down to your clit as he rubbed circles again. “Cum,” Heeseung gasped, the drag of his cock against your tight core making him see stars. “Come on, baby. Want you to cum around my cock. You’ll do that for me, right? Be good,” he moaned.

You clenched around him, nails digging into the back of his hand that enclosed yours. “Close,” you whimpered.

Heeseung moved faster, causing incoherent babbles to fall from his hips as he neared overstimulation. His cock twitched, the first syllable of your name barely sounding from his pretty pink lips before he came. He moaned loudly, his hips faltering for only a second before he kept going. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whined, eyes tightly closed. His thumb moved faster over your clit, desperate to push you over the edge.

You came almost violently, your back arching as your thighs trembled. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream as you felt white hot lust wash over you, your gummy walls hugging him tightly as you milked him dry. Heeseung held the back of your head as he brought you in for a kiss, the both of you struggling to keep your lips locked as his hips stuttered into you.

He helped you ride through your orgasm, only stopping when you began to whine from the overstimulation, pushing his chest away weakly. Heeseung watched himself as he pulled out of you, sighing in ecstasy at the sight of his cum messily pooling out of you and onto the car.

You stayed there, breathless as Heeseung pulled his pants back up and quickly moved around to get something from the front seat. He returned with a few tissues, gently wiping at your sensitive cunt until you were mostly clean. Picking up your pants, he quickly shook off any dirt before helping you put them on.

“Let’s go up to my apartment,” he mumbled as he pressed a soft kiss against your temple. “We can take a bath together.” He held you tenderly as he eased you off the car, holding you up when your knees shook. He hurriedly put his supplies into the trunk before taking your hand and guiding you to the elevator, the loud beep of his car letting you know it was locked behind you.

“So?”’

He looked at you over his shoulder. “So, what?”

“Will you teach me?”

He looked at you in disbelief before laughing, turning his head from you to hide his wide grin. “Come watch me race first,” he proposed. “Then we’ll see about getting you behind the wheel.

Although you’ve known Heeseung for almost a year, you’ve never actually seen him race. Not if you excluded the first time he’d brought you to the race track, but that was nothing compared to the street race you found yourself at.

There were dozens of people gathered, bystanders excited to watch the long-awaited race. When Heeseung pulled up, you shivered at just how cold it was, the night air nipping at the skin beneath your short skirt. “Here,” Heeseung said quietly, handing you one of his hoodies from the back seat.

You took it gratefully, pulling it over your thin top and sighing when his smell invaded your senses. He smiled at the sight of you settling into his clothing, ruffling his hair before he walked off, telling you that he had to go prepare with the other drivers. “The guys are here somewhere,” he told you before he left. “I think Jungwon said he’d be waiting near the start line for you so you guys can watch together.”

You waved at his back, even though he couldn’t see you. Scanning the crowd, you spotted Jungwon rather quickly. His newly dyed red hair stood out like a sore thumb, something you silently thanked him for as you moved to rush closer. As you neared, you opened your mouth to call his name, but before you could, someone blocked your vision of him.

Pausing, you looked up at the person. He was tall, taller than Heeseung, and his eyes pierced into your soul uncomfortably. “Sorry,” you mumbled, dropping your gaze as you tried to move around him. The man, however, had no plans to let you leave as he side-stepped in front of you.

You looked back up at him with a slightly peeved look in your eye, a frown tugging at your lips impatiently. He paid no mind to your expression, instead smiling at you. “I’ve never seen you at a race,” he said, his deep voice making you feel uneasy. “Think you have the wrong place, princess.”

Hearing the nickname that you loved, only when it came from Heeseung, made you grimace. “I definitely don’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” You tried to move around him again, only for him to stand in front of you. “What is your problem?” you hissed, trying to keep your voice low.

He only laughed at you, raising his hands up in mock surrender. “Relax, princess. I just wanted to get to know you better.” He stepped closer to you, reaching out to grab your wrist before you could back up. “C’mon. After the race, I can show you back to my place and—”

“If you don’t get your hands off of her, I will run you over.”

Both you and the man snapped your heads in the direction of the voice, your eyes widening when you saw Heeseung standing there. He stood up straight, a glower overtaking his usually soft features. Ripping your hand out of the strange man’s grasp, you quickly moved to Heeseung’s side.

The man looked back and forth between you and Heeseung, realization coming to him when Heeseung grasped your hand and pulled you behind him. “I see,” he laughed loudly, though there was nothing jovial in his tone. “Didn’t know she was yours, Lee. You brought a hot girl for once.”

You could’ve sworn you heard Heeseung growl as his grip on you tightened. “What do you want, Mingyu? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the race?” He clearly didn’t expect an answer as he turned to you. His mouth opened to say something, but before he could voice his thoughts, the man, Mingyu, interrupted him.

“If I beat you tonight, I want her.”

You felt your blood run cold as you tensed, Heeseung’s eyes flitting over to you in concern before he glared at Mingyu. Taking hold of both of your shoulders, Heeseung pushed you further away from him to block you from Mingyu’s sight. “What?” he spat, glaring at the taller male with hatred pouring from his tongue. “Fuck off, Mingyu.”

He turned to you. “The race is starting soon. Jungwon’s waiting over there, so—”

Mingyu scoffed before gesturing to the crowd. “Hey, everyone!” he cupped his mouth as he spoke. In an instant, the chatter around you ceased, and people turned to look at the commotion. You made eye contact with Jungwon, who quickly assessed the situation and tried squeezing his way toward you. If it weren’t for the tense atmosphere, you would have laughed at the way his eyes bulged, his lips clearly mouthing an oh shit as he hurried.

Mingyu continued once he had everyone’s attention. “Your dear Heeseung here,” Mingyu pointed to Heeseung, who stood rigidly in front of you. “The one you all love to cheer for, he’s nothing but a coward—” Mingyu smirked, looking directly at you, “—who doesn’t think he can race well enough to keep his bitch.”

Heeseung seethed, fists clenching at his sides as he mentally willed himself to ignore Mingyu. He turned to you, pushing you toward Jungwon, who had finally reached you. “Go with him.”

You balked at him, eyes rounding in incredulity. “Uh, no, not until you fight for me?” You raised a brow at him, taking in his shocked expression. “Like, right now, Heeseung. I know you’ll win against that loser, so just…” you paused, looking over Heeseung’s shoulder at Mingyu, who stared in wait. “So just bet for his car or something. Ruin him for me, yeah?”

Heeseung gaped at you for a moment before his usual confidence seeped back into his expression. “You’re fucking crazy,” he mumbled, pulling you in for a deep kiss. His arm wrapped around your waist, tugging you impossibly close. “I like how you think.”

You heard the announcer calling for all drivers to meet at the start line with their vehicles and grinned at Heeseung as he kissed you one more time before walking off. You watched his back as he caught up to Mingyu, no doubt telling him about the bet. You could tell from the way Mingyu’s shoulders tensed, and he glanced over at you and then to his car.

Jungwon looked at you with an amused grin on his face. “You know, you and Heeseung are so right for each other sometimes.”

You rolled your eyes at him, tugging him back to where he waited for you before. “Come on, Wonnie. I don’t want to miss the race.”

The race was just as exhilarating as the race at the track, if not more. Your eyes trained on Heeseung’s red car as the five drivers lined up next to each other. It was deafening; between the loud cries of the souped-up cars and the cheering crowd, you knew your ears would be buzzing by the end of the night.

You barely registered that Mingyu was seated in the black car next to Heeseung’s, catching the way they glared at each other through their windows. You held your breath as the flag girl stood in front of the awaiting racers, both hands gripping onto a green flag. In a split second, she waved them, the green fabric fluttering in the cool night air; all five cars had zoomed away.

From where you stood, you couldn’t tell if any car had a lead on the others, the screech of tires against asphalt slowly quieting as they drove further and further away. Beside you, Jungwon tugged on your—Heeseung’s—hoodie sleeve. “Let’s go watch by the screens.”

You followed aimlessly, reaching an area where a few large screens had been set up. On them, you could see footage of the race as the cars were followed by what you presumed was a drone. Easily spotting Heeseung’s red vehicle, you watched attentively. You chewed on the inside of your cheek nervously as Heeseung and Mingyu’s cars easily overtook the other three.

“He’s going too fast,” Jungwon mumbled beside you in worry. “The route’s full of sharp turns. If he keeps that speed, he’s going to spin out really quickly.” You looked at Jungwon with concern before looking back at the screen.

Though you knew virtually nothing about racing, even you could tell that what Jungwon was saying was true. A map of the whole route was displayed alongside the drone footage, showing several turns before the racers would make their way back to the starting line. “Don’t be stupid, Hee,” you whispered into your palm, hugging the fabric of the hoodie closer.

At the first sharp turn, you winced as Heeseung’s car spun slightly, leaving angry black lines on the road before he zoomed off again. Mingyu wasn’t far behind, though he took the turn slower than Heeseung had. Heeseung’s drift halted his momentum, allowing Mingyu to pull ahead. Beside you, you heard Jungwon breathe in deeply, but you paid no heed to it.

By the second turn, Heeseung had caught up but was still slightly behind. As Mingyu turned, his back tire bumped against the curb, slowing him down ever so slightly. You didn’t let yourself relax, even when Heeseung drove ahead. It looked like he was going even faster than before, evident by the numerous track marks he was leaving at each turn.

The race went on similarly, with Heeseung pulling ahead only for Mingyu to overtake him and vice versa. As they neared the last turn, you were able to hear the sound of shifting gears and engines that roared impossibly louder. Suddenly, the crowd around you began dispersing, the people filtering through the nearby alleyways like rats.

You turned to Jungwon, who looked panicked. “Cops,” he ushered, turning to leave. “If they catch us here, we’re done for.” He grabbed at your arm. You hesitated, looking back at the screen just in time to see Heeseung spin out. Just then, you saw the flashing lights of a cop car near them.

“But, what about—”

Jungwon shook his head. “Heeseung knows what to do, don’t worry. But he will kill me if he finds out I let you get nabbed by the police, so let’s go.” You spared one last glance at the screen, relieved to see Heeseung get back onto the track. Biting your lip in worry, you allowed Jungwon to drag you away.

You hid in his car, parked a few blocks away. Jungwon was quick to pull up the drone feed onto his phone—how, you weren’t sure—but by the time he had it on, both Heeseung’s car and Mingyu’s car were nowhere to be seen. After a minute, the drone footage turned off completely, leaving you and Jungwon in the silence of his car. You could still hear the blaring police sirens in the distance.

“You think he’s okay?” you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jungwon offered you a kind smile, though it did nothing to ease your nerves. “Don’t worry about Heeseung. He’s been doing this longer than any of us have. If anyone knows how to win a race while evading the cops, it’s him.”

“But don’t you think he would’ve said something by now if he got away?” you asked, the results of the race far in the back of your mind. “What if they actually caught him and arrested him?”

Jungwon shrugged. He was worried about his friend, of course, but his worry seemed minute compared to yours. “You have money, don’t you? Bail him out.”

You resisted the urge to lunge at Jungwon with closed fists. “Won, if he goes to jail, his father will find out, and he—”

A knock at the passenger side window made you jump. You turned quickly, relief washing over your body as you met eyes with a smug-looking Heeseung. You quickly got out of the car, wrapping your arms around Heeseung’s neck as you hugged him tightly. “Never do that to me again,” you gasped, burying your face into his shirt.

Heeseung chuckled, pressing a kiss against your forehead. He looked at Jungwon through the windshield, smiling at him in quiet thanks. You ignored the sound of Jungwon’s car pulling away from the curb, never taking your face out from the nook of his neck.

“Were you worried about me or something?”

You finally moved back, glaring weakly at Heeseung. “Or something?” you echoed, scoffing. “Or something—the absolute gall of men. Of course, I was worried!” You smacked his shoulder, frowning at him as he held the area, pretending as though you had mortally wounded him. “Jungwon pulled me away just as you spun out near the end, and the cops were right behind you and—”

Heeseung interrupted you with a kiss, cupping your jaw tenderly as he moved closer. He rested on hand on your hip, rubbing shapes into your skin under the hoodie as he kissed you gently. You sighed, all the tension escaping your body as you kissed back, relishing in the way his lips caressed yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours. “I should have told you that happens sometimes. The guys and I have a protocol in case the cops show up, but with everything that happened before the show, I guess I forgot.”

You hummed. That must have been how he found you and Jungwon so quickly. “It’s fine. Just don’t… don’t ever scare me like that.”

Heeseung smiled at you, kissing your forehead lightly. “It’s like you love me or something,” he said jokingly. Something in his eyes said he cared more than he was letting on, his dark brown hues flitting back and forth as he tried to read your expression.

When you said nothing in response, only looking away bashfully, a wide grin overtook Heeseung’s features. Capturing you in one more deep kiss, he pulled away with a giddy expression. “I love you too, baby,” he whispered hoarsely. You felt like your heart was going to beat out of your chest, his intense yet loving gaze making you feel weak to the knees.

Pulling away, much to your displeasure, Heeseung straightened out your hoodie and flattened your tousled hair. “Come on, I have a surprise for you.”

You frowned, but you let him tug you along the empty streets. “Hee, I don’t know how many surprises I can stomach tonight.”

Heeseung only laughed, not replying to you as he pulled you down an alleyway. You were wary but trusted him enough that you didn’t say anything about the sketchy route he was taking you down. Once you emerged on the other side of the alley, you were shocked to see his red car. Behind it was Mingyu’s black Cadillac.

It took a second for you to process what you were seeing, but when you turned to look at Heeseeung, he held up a pair of keys that you knew didn’t belong to his car. “You won?” you gasped, grinning with pride as you inspected the keys closer.

Heeseung scoffed, pressing a button on the fob. Immediately, the headlights of Mingyu’s car flashed, confirming your thoughts. You squealed in excitement, hugging him tightly. “What,” he laughed, holding you with one arm. “You didn’t believe me?”

You stuck your tongue out at him, scrunching your nose. “Of course I did, but I was a little preoccupied.”

His gaze softened as he leaned in to peck your lips. You chased him as he pulled away, cheeks flushing warmly when Heeseung grinned shamelessly at you. “Get in the backseat.”

You paused. “The backseat? Why—”

Heeseung urged you backwards toward the car, taking your lips once more. “Just get in,” he rasped, opening the door for you. You were quick to follow his words, quickly bombarded with Heeseung’s deep and slow kisses as he closed the door behind him.

He crawled over you, moaning your name lowly as you dragged a nail down his front. Once you reached the belt buckle, you ran a finger over the cold metal slowly. “Stop teasing,” he gasped when you lightly traced over the outline in his pants.

For once, you listened, and quickly unbuckled the belt, flicking the button of his pants open and pushing them down enough for you to grab at his hardening length. He hissed, the vague sound of your name spilling from his lips as he lurched forward.

Gently, you pushed him back until he was sitting and got on your knees between his thick thighs. It wasn’t comfortable by any means, the back of the car left very little room for you to sit comfortably, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care with the way Heeseung’s cock twitched needily in your hand or the way his angry red tip oozed precum.

You looked up at him through your lashes as you leaned forward, licking at the mushroom tip lightly. He groaned, throwing his head back against the seat. Relishing in his reaction, you took his length between your lips, sucking him gently. His hips twitched, forcing his dick further into your mouth and making you gag.

“Shit, sorry,” he rushed, straightening to take himself out of your mouth. You quickly pushed his worrying hands away, taking him deeper in your mouth defiantly. His mouth fell as he let out a loud groan, your name on the tip of his tongue. He watched closely as you bobbed your head up and down, slowly thrusting to meet your movements.

You reached down to grab at his balls, massaging them in tandem with your head movements. The way you swirled your tongue around his length had Heeseung gasping for air. His thrusts grew more aggressive; a hand reached to cup the back of your head, keeping you in place as he fucked into your wet cavern relentlessly.

Heeseung caressed his knuckles against the length of your hollowed cheeks with a gentleness that contrasted his thrusts. Tears burned your eyes, the back of your throat sore from his abuse. The sound of wet slick and choking gasps almost rivalled your heartbeat as you stared up at the man.

“Fuck,” he breathed out in a whine, head thrown back against the leather seats as he groaned loudly. “Fuck, fuck, baby, you’re taking me so fucking well.” His lips parted, and ruby red lipstick smudged over his visage, staining the silver lip ring. Heeseung’s jaw dropped as you swallowed around his cock, a series of long, winded whines coming from the back of his throat.

“Shit, princess. Gonna make me cum,” he warned you, dropping his head down to look at you through hooded eyes. His newly dyed black hair fell over his irises, obscuring them from view. His face pinched in pleasure as he lifted his hips against your plush lips. “You’ll take it for me, yeah? Swallow every last drop like the good little whore you are.” His nails dug into your scalp.

You pressed your thighs together, the carpet floor of the backseat rubbing harshly against your bare knees. The dress you’d worn, a little black number that you picked out just for Heeseung, had ridden up to your waist. The fabric bunched prettily around your hips, showing off that you had forgone undergarments.

He watched you breathlessly, eyes darting from your teary eyes to the way your little mouth took him so well. He didn't miss the way you tried to covertly rub yourself, thighs moving slowly—a futile attempt to feel something against your aching clit.

His cock twitched against your tongue as you licked at a jutting vein, a perfectly manicured hand coming up to cup his aching balls. He watched tenderly as you switched from suckling on his angry red tip to taking his length fully, your nose tickling against his happy trail. His thrusts grew wild, a loss in rhythm suggesting he was close.

“Gonna paint your mouth white, baby,” he hissed, tugging at your matted strands. “God, you look so pretty covered in my cum. Wanna make a mess out of you so bad. You want that, don’t you? Want me to make you look messy, baby—fuck! You like getting fucked like this in another man’s car?” An almost pornographic moan escaped his throat as his grip on your hair tightened. “Such a little slut. Getting on your knees for me like this. I bet Mingyu couldn’t fuck you this well,” he thrust harshly into your mouth as he uttered the other man’s name, anger pulling his brows together tightly.

You whined, your muffled tone vibrating against his dick. He cried out your name, low moans tumbling from his pretty lips as he came, shooting hot and thick ropes of cum down your throat. You blinked away tears, a burning sensation left behind as he pulled his length out from your mouth. Spurts of cum spilled from his tip, and you lolled your tongue out as Heeseung dragged it over your face.

His chest heaved as he stared at you, adoringly as though he was admiring his art. “Fucking hell,” he hushed, tugging you impatiently onto his lap. You fell clumsily against him, legs bumbling to straddle his small waist. You moaned in unison when your dripping core rubbed against his cum and saliva-coated cock, your hips twitching in anticipation.

Heeseung sighed out your name against your lips as he cupped your cheek with a large hand, not caring that his release was getting everywhere. The coolness of his rings made you shiver as he pulled you in for a kiss. His mouth moved against yours slowly, his tongue flicking out against your lip. His kiss was hot and wet, his tongue caressing yours in a way that made you crumble atop his lap.

“Fuck, baby,” he spoke against your lips, a dazed look in his eyes as he bore into you. Heeseung’s hips weakly thrust upward, pressing his wet cock against your core. “I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

At his confession, not the first of the night, you teared up. He wiped away your tears, bringing you in for another kiss as he guided his sensitive length to your entrance. He cried out in a whimper against your lips as he felt your hot walls clench around him.

“I love you,” he whispered again drunkenly as you fully bottomed out, the stickiness of his previous orgasm coating the underside of your thighs. You kissed him desperately, uttering those three words back to him as he held your waist tightly.

Your night had just started, and with the way Heeseung wasted no time in fucking into you roughly, you knew it’d be a long one.

taglist ! @beomgyusonlywife @rbf-aceu @enhastolemyheart @jaeyunsleftnostril @deobitifull @jenowhere @moonchus @1-800shutthefuckup @lilriswife4life @ni-kisgf @fakeuwus @tya0 @chickenscoups @in-somnias-world

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loveshotzz · 11 months

Text

All I Really Want Is You

older!neighbor!widower! steve x fem!reader chap one/ten - a slow burn series of blurbs - updated every wednesday

Welcome To The Neighborhood

—> chapter two

summary: There’s a Bandit on the loose.

wc: 3.6k

warnings: 18+ series for eventual smut, 12 year age gap, reader is 30 and Steve is 42 otherwise none for this first installment :) it’s a meet cute baby.

author’s note: Here it is! chapter one of this little slow burn series with your painfully hot and confusing older!neighbor!widower!steve. This story will take place over the course of one summer, told in mostly blurbs of your chance encounters and run in’s with Steve. This series will have lots of pining, flirting, mild angst and eventual smut. Most chapters will range from 1-2k each except for a few. I hope you guys like reading about these two as much as I liked writing it & I hope to see you back next Wednesday! 🥹♥️

Series Masterlist // Playlist // The tune:

End of May —

Highways and state lines blur together like the buzzing of cicadas into busy Chicago streets. A fresh start. A new life. No plan - that was the promise you made to yourself ten years ago almost down to the date.

The excitement outweighs the embarrassment of how long it takes you to parallel park the Uhaul when you find that one in a million spot in front of your new home. Your hands are numb from the constant battle between the wind and your steering wheel. The breeze from the lake testing your strength for the last hour of your drive. The machine creaks loudly when you slam it into park, your legs wobbling like jello when your converse hit the pavement and out of your truck.

The city hits your ears like the humidity on your skin. The exposed parts of your thighs stick together when the thick air wraps around you like an unwanted blanket. Taking a deep breath, exhaust stings your lungs. Far away from the only place you’d ever known, it’s comforting the feeling that washes over you. You didn’t come here with an agenda. A fresh start with nothing to lose. You came here just to be you.

It seems like everyone is on their way to do something, going somewhere they have to be. They brush past you without even a glance in your direction, air pods buried deep in their ears caught up in their own little world. The sounds of dogs barking mingle with cars honking and loud conversations from patio bars the next block over. The city is alive with summer hanging fresh in the air.

The trees that line both sides of your street are lush and green from the moisture. They drape over phone lines, weeping under the heat of the sun. Bumper to bumper cars from all kinds of walks of life make the one way street even smaller. Mini gardens in front of mismatched houses only inches apart. This was your new home.

The three story townhouse is covered in dark green wooden paneling, the floors split up into separate apartments, and you managed to bag the top floor with protruding bay windows. Dumb luck mixed with being on craigslist minutes after they posted, you found the one mom and pop place in the city that fit your budget.

The chipped black metal gate that blocks off the front steps lands at your waist, and runs as a property line against an even nicer house next to yours. One that looks like it belongs to someone, not rented out to a bunch of someones. The bright red brick looks new, and the dark wood steps and patio freshly stained. An oriental rug that matches the house has chew toys with missing limbs littering the front entrance. A porch swing faces you and it sways gently with the wind. Your eyes catch the silhouette of someone on the other side of the stained glass in the middle of the thick mahogany door, and it reminds you to stop being so nosy.

Keys dangling in your hand, you take your first steps through the gate. The metal groans loudly before slamming closed behind you. You jog up the less polished, salt worn steps to your front door and the faint sound of a deep voice catches your ears from next door as you jiggle the lock open. Crossing through the threshold of the entryway you’re not surprised when there’s no reprieve to the heat, but disappointed just the same as you pull at our tank top that starts clinging to your skin. You eye the narrow staircase that curves up leading to your apartment, immediately regretting doing this alone.

It takes you less time to unload than it did to load up, at least that's what you tell yourself as you round to the back of the open trailer. Sweat is slick against your skin and you thank yourself for keeping the previous owner's couch even if you thought it was an ugly shade of green.You stare pointedly at the four heaviest boxes left and you swear they mock you while you try to catch your breath from pushing your mattress to your room. The words ‘winter clothes’ scribbled sloppily in bright red marker make your face twist up.

“God dammit,”you breathe out running the back of your hand across your forehead trying to rally. Your A/C was already in the window and the cool air inside becomes your motivation.

You aren’t expecting the abrupt shove forward or the feeling of paws on your butt, sharp nails digging into the soft material of your shorts. Then you hear it, his voice.

“Bandit! Bandit - no! Down!”

Your hands hit the metal of the trailer stopping your fall under the weight of what you’re now realizing is an over excited fully grown German Shepherd. Pink tongue out with spit flying everywhere, you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you when you turn around and he starts sniffing all over with a tail that wags a mile a minute. High pitched whines leave him when he realizes how much he wants you to play, but he accepts the scratches you offer behind his ears just the same. Body wiggling while also trying to stay still.

“Hi buddy!” you coo, your voice instantly slipping into the embarrassing one you only use for animals.

That’s when you see him.

He has a few years on you, that part is obvious with the pepper that spots the sides of his honey colored hair and the scruff that lines his sharp jaw, but it only makes him look better. His broad shoulders are wrapped up tight in a white undershirt, the thick cotton telling you it was the kind that cost more than your phone bill. The black shorts he wears have a hem high enough to almost be inappropriate when you swear you see the outline of what’s underneath. The Nike swoosh near the slit at the top of his hairy thighs. His shoes match the color of his shorts, the On Cloud symbol etched on the side flashes in the light. Two hundred dollars on just his feet.

The trained muscles in his arm flex when he runs a hand through his hair, catching the stray that flops over his forehead when he comes to a halt in front of you. The bright red leash clutched in his fist matches the color of his cheeks. Big hazel eyes meet yours after lingering on your curves a little too long, making you realize you’re showing off just as much skin as him. Clearing your throat, you tug at the bottom of your yoga shorts, willing them to grow just an inch longer with cheeks burning and not because of the sun.

“Sorry, I have a bad habit of getting him excited before I leash him up. I swear he’s friendly, are you okay? He didn’t scratch you or anything right?”

You’re too distracted by his hands to comprehend his words, tendons moving under taut skin as he hooks Bandit’s hardness. The heat, the move, and the man all getting the best of you.

“Hey -“

His voice brings you back to reality, his brows furrowing over perfect features when he looks at you with genuine concern.

“Yes! Sorry, I’m fine. Honestly! I love dogs. The move in the heat, I think, I think it’s just getting to me.” You smile doing your best to calm the worried look on his face, and you swear you see him flush deeper because of it.

It’s his turn to clear his throat, left hand flexing like he’s looking for a ring that isn’t there. The skin is a lighter shade than the rest of him like there used to be. There’s a beat and an awkward silence before he finally notices the mostly empty trailer behind you.

“Looks like you’re almost done though, top floor?” He questions rocking on his heels a little, pointing over his shoulder to your window. Your A/C is already dripping water onto the pavement.

“Yeah! You live in the building?” Please say yes.

“Me? No.” He coughs a little uncomfortable, while you fight to stop the disappointment from showing on your face. “I umm, I actually live next door.” He winces, almost like he’s embarrassed.

“Anyway, sorry about Bandit. Your boyfriend is probably wondering where you’re at.” You don’t miss the way he assumes with a secret hope he’s wrong hidden behind the mossy greens of his eyes.

“Probably,” you pause, ego boosting when you see him squirm, “If I had one.” You giggle and you hate the way your hips twist a little.

That’s when he does it, he smiles, with all of his teeth. It’s just as blinding as it is contagious, and it makes your skin tingle, giddiness dripping from your limbs. It’s short lived though, like pieces of a puzzle clicking together you watch it disappear. It’s replaced by the same concern from before only with a new layer of disbelief.

“Wait, honey, who’s helping you move in then?” He looks at you stunned like he can’t fathom the answer he knows you're gonna give.

“The same person that drove here - me.” You grin a little proud with your chin pushed up and it makes his lips twitch, the same smile from before itching to come back.

“Let me at least help with these last few.” He peeks behind you, eyes scanning over your messy writing, “They look like they might be heavy.”

He teases you just enough to earn a roll of your eyes, but the grin on your face makes him huff out a relieved laugh. Nerves like a first date twist in his gut when he sees the way you look at him from under your lashes.

“I mean, if you insist…?” you trail off, fishing for his name.

“Steve, sorry! It's Steve, Steve Harrington.” He runs one of his big hands through his hair again, a nervous tell of his you pick up on instantly, before offering it out for you to take.

“I don’t think I caught that, can you repeat your name one more time for me?” Biting your lip into a smile, he narrows his eyes playfully, cheeks blooming, flustered from your words.

Sliding your hand into his, it disappears completely when he wraps his fingers around yours. The softness of his palm is warm like the sun that beat down on you all day and it sends electric currents running through your veins, heart thumping loudly in your chest and you wonder if he can hear the way he can hear it. Minutes pass before either of you make the first move to let go, or at least that’s what it feels like. It’s not until Bandit whines at your feet that Steve finally caves.

“Let me go put him back inside real quick, it’s still a little too hot out anyway and I’ll help you bring the last of this up, tough girl.” He winks with the kind of casualness that makes you question whether you saw it at all and you have to hold in the sigh that begs to slip past your lips.

“I’ll be waiting,” your voice cracks, your confidence slowly disappearing like the sun behind the hazed skyline.

You try to cover it up by swooping down to give Bandit a kiss between the eyes. Only it backfires, making it worse when you realize how weirdly personal that was to do to someone else’s dog, despite the more than pleased wag of his tail.

“That - that was, oh god. I don’t know why I kissed your dog like I knew him. Or you. I’m - I’m sorry.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, embarrassment rolling off of you in waves.

It’s not until you hear his laugh, and god is it pretty too, that you finally look up.

“It’s understandable, he’s a handsome guy.” Steve smirks with flirty eyes and it makes you dizzy.

You can’t stop your giggle, the back of your hand doing little to hide your smile from him. Butterflies breaking from cocoons in your stomach as you watch him walk away to that big house right next to yours.

“What exactly do you have in these boxes?” Steve grunts as he follows you up the narrow staircase with two in tow despite your multiple warnings.

“Winter coats, sweaters, maybe some boots...” you trail off trying to think, your disorganization more than evident when you open up your front door to even more boxes and bags spread out in disarray.

“You packed your coats and your boots in the same box?” His voice is muffled behind cardboard as the cool air hits, sending goosebumps across sweat-kissed skin. The low hum does something to dull your nerves when you work up the courage to turn around and finally face him.

“Maybe! Who knows, I’ll find out tonight when I open it.”

He huffs out a breathy laugh as his broad shoulders almost brush the sides of your door frame. Stepping one expensive sneaker in front of the other into your more than humble apartment, there’s a fleeting moment of regret about taking him up on his offer when your eyes dart around the mess.

“Where am I puttin’ this boss?” His eyes meet yours from around the side of the boxes, playfulness filling the greens and browns like before.

The muscles in his arm flex when he re-establishes his hold on the box, the sleeves of his shirt getting tighter and the whites of his knuckles start to show. The simple brown leather band of his watch strains, and it makes your throat dry up.

“Ummm.” You shake your head, willing your brain to regain its normal function as you start a clumsy walk towards the direction of your bedroom. “We can put them in my -“

Your shoe hits something hard and you don’t have enough time to realize what’s happening until you're already on the ground. Palms flat against the scratched wooden floor and a sharp pain in your ankle. The culprit, an already half opened box labeled KITCHEN you must’ve left in the hallway when you got distracted by something else.

“Jesus, are you okay?” Steve sets the boxes down, pushing them against the wall and out of the way raking his hand through his hair again, it must be a stressed habit too.

“Yeah, yeah, my ego is a little bruised but I think I’m gonna survive.” You try to smile, but only end up wincing when you go to push yourself up.

“Here, let's get you on the couch, let me take a look.” He doesn’t wait for your reply, both of his hands coming out to you in an offering. Stubbornness losing for once, you take them.

He lifts you up like you’re weightless, moving you around with ease as he tucks you into his side. His fingers wrap around the curve of your hip to steady you. He’s warm, the pine of his body wash mixing with the spice of his cologne and it surrounds you in a strong hold. It's a short trip to your couch, his abs moving with each step, and you secretly wish it took just a little longer.

He’s gentle when he untangles himself from you. Soft palms on your elbows to hold your balance as you sit down. There’s a hint of his aftershave that hits your nose as your muscles melt into the softness of the cushions, the day quickly catching up to you. Eyelids going droopy.

“Sitting was a mistake Steve,” you groan with a light stretch of your limbs, and another subtle wince.

“Well good thing you conned me into helping you with the last of your boxes then.” He waits a second before meeting your eyes as he pulls one of your many boxes over to sit on, his lips twisting up when he sees the way you scoff.

“Conned you?! You practically begged me to let you help.” Your head bobs with attitude dripping from each word and it makes him grin. He nods furrowing his brows like he’s hearing you, but despite the limited time you’ve spent with him you knew whatever he was about to say was just going to egg you on more.

“I mean, if that’s what you need to tell yourself sweetheart. I remember it a little differently.” He can’t hold in his laugh when you roll your eyes hard at him trying to ignore the newest nickname.

His knees brush against yours when he finally takes his seat, the hem of his shorts rising higher, running tight against the muscle of his thigh. The cinnamon hair that covers his legs tickles you while the sun hits your bay window with just the right light to reveal an expanse of freckles and moles you didn’t see before under his five o’clock shadow and across the bridge of his nose. God, he’s handsome.

His eyes catch yours like he can hear your thoughts, and for a moment you wonder if he actually can.

“Do you mind?” The teasing edge is gone, his eyes a little more soft when the tips of his fingers tap against your leg.

Your voice is lost in the shift in energy, static filling in the air between you when you shake your head ‘no’.’’ His touch is feather light when his fingers wrap gingerly around your ankle bringing your foot to his lap. He makes quick work of your laces, using extra care when he pulls off your shoe. The pad of his thumb rubs over the bruising bone and you notice the way he licks his lips.

“Does this hurt?” He applies a little bit of pressure to the spot just below your calf, his gaze making you nervous as he gauges your reactions.

“No,” it comes out a little breathless and he exhales deep through his nose because of it.

“How about here?” He does the same thing as before, only this time closer to your heel and you wince. “There it is,” he hums to himself, rubbing soothing circles as an apology.

“Like on a pain scale of one to ten, I’d give it a three and a half or four” you tell him, when really you’re too proud to admit it’s actually a five.

“Three and a half? You can’t use that. Solid number only,” he scoffs meeting your eyes from under his lashes, the forest inside them turning black.

“I actually think I can do whatever I want,” you laugh incredulously, your toes wiggling under black socks in his lap.

“I guess it is your house, I stand corrected.” Steve admits defeat with an exaggerated sigh before showing you his teeth in a wide grin, his thumb still rubbing circles because it never actually stopped. “Do you have an ice pack?”

Your finger drums against your bottom lip as you think about everything you had packed, his eyes fixated on the way you lightly pull it down with each tap.

“I don’t remember and if I’m being completely honest I don’t think so.” You look sheepish when you admit your lack of first aid supplies to him.

He chuckles lightly, hot breath fanning against your skin with a shake of his head.

“I think I have one, I’ll grab it and bring those other two boxes up. Keep your foot elevated for me tonight tough girl. Unpack your chaos tomorrow.” He mocks the way your jaw drops at his teasing.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were tryin’ to take care of me Steve.” The joke is innocent, at least that’s what you thought.

Something clicks behind his eyes, the warmth draining from his smile when it falls. His brows furrow and he won’t look at you anymore, his thumb stops rubbing those circles, and your foot is placed gently back on the ground. He’s standing up faster than you can catch your breath, faster than you can comprehend. The energy shifts to something distant and the warm summer is replaced with frigid winter. He clears his throat with glassy eyes scratching the back of his neck, and you have no idea what you did.

“Hey I’m sorry if I -“

He cuts you off before you can finish.

“You didn’t do anything, It’s me - look, I’m just gonna go get those things. I’ll leave it at your door, please just elevate your foot. You should be okay by tomorrow.” He doesn’t let you respond, long legs taking him out of your place and leaving you to wonder what you did wrong.

Your head lulls against the back of the couch, staring fixated on the old popcorn ceiling of your living room for what feels like twenty minutes as you replay everything back. Over analyzing his tones and body language coming up empty every time. This was going to drive you crazy.

There’s three raps on your front door, one coming down hard followed by two quick knocks. When you stand up this time, it hurts less, more true to the pain level you gave him as you slightly hobble to answer.

When you open it, your two boxes are stacked where he promised. A dark blue ice pack with a yellow sticky note that says:

beta’d by @superblysubpar 💕 (also made the cute post it for me 🥹)

dividers by @newlips 💗

chapter two

#my wrtitng #all i really want is you series #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington angst #steve harrington slow burn #steve harrington fanfiction #older!steve #steve harrington x y/n

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