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emomanswhore · 2 years

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—♡ —SIMON SAYS . . . ❞

SIMON GHOST RILEY X FEM!READER

✯. !! Synopsis : so you like to play mind games with ghost? goodluck, cause hes got a few tricks of his own to beat these little charades of yours. when he comes home to remind you whos really the expert at games—simon says...your playtime is over

✯. !! WC : 8.3K

✯. !! Tags & CW : explicit content! (18+ mdni) - hard dom!Ghost (he’s rlly mean), bratty! reader, sex tapes, masturbation (male & fem), choking/asphyxiation play, creampie, mating press, squirting, rough sex, spanking, subtle sir kink, size kink/difference, degradation, manhandling, orgasm denial, praise/petname usage, dumbification, dirty talk, (maybe?) prey and predator play, the mask stays ON. <3

✯. !! A/N : first fic and guess what, i wrote with my pussy on this one. hope you enjoy !! lmk what y’all think <33

Maybe this wasn’t your smartest choice in life.

Whether it's the sobering reality of sitting in the after-guilt of praying for negativity, or a complete backfire that could've made things entirely worse—most times, an action made purely from spite and pettiness, never ends up well.

This was one of those times.

Where guilt and the possibility of a backfire merged into one—a single, enormous, dark mass of gut bubbling anxiety.

You were given very, very simple instructions only a few days prior to this moment. And yet, all because your last few messages to your boyfriend were being left unanswered and open on seen, your willingness to take matters into your own hands—to finally get his attention, brought you more than you bargained for.

You had no idea what was truly in store for you once you decided to misbehave and break one of his very simple rules.

You missed your boyfriend, and while he was technically home from work for the week, he still had to go into the city for a few days to handle some business. And of course, for about fifteen minutes at the doorway, you kept fussing at him for leaving when he just got back home.

While it was certainly endearing to see how much you wanted him to stay, this was very important business he had to take care of. So all he could do was offer you a kiss on that pout you put up on your puffed up face. And as usual, you ate up every little crumb of attention despite not showing it.

“Shouldn’t take me that long before I’m comin’ back,” he pauses and looks at you, already knowing that glint in your eyes means that little brain of yours is up to no good.

He couldn’t afford to be distracted by you and have shit go to all hell. Not until business was handled.

He moves in a little bit closer so you can really see the seriousness in his gaze, tilting your chin up a bit to meet eye to eye. “Just keep your manners in mind while I’m away for a bit. I will be back sooner than you think, so that means no funny business out of you.”

You wish you could deny the implication of him saying you don't respect his space while he was out at work. But truth be told, you did want him to stay home for as long as he could. And the mere fact that work was being put over you, made an ugly bile of jealousy creep up your throat.

Luckily, your boyfriend was smart enough for the both of you, so he already knew you’d throw a fit over him choosing work instead of being at home. To take the edge off the situation, he once again pressed a soft kiss to your pouty lips. Like clockwork, you immediately folded from the little gesture of intimacy he gave you and he could feel the pout dropping from your lips instantly.

“But you’re my good girl, aren't you? ‘Yknow how to behave till I see you again don’t you, little miss?”

And weak you were, as you tucked your lips into your mouth and nodded all doe eyed up at him. When he lifted an ashy eyebrow up at the lack of your vocal response, you blink up at him all pretty and promise a, “Yes sir, I understand.”

“Atta girl.” and that's the last thing he rasped, before turning the knob to your front door and exiting in total silence as if he were never even there.

That was two whole days ago.

You really missed him.

That reasoning alone is what you kept telling yourself was enough justification to tease him and send a very lengthy video of you masturbating while he was away from home.

A video you impulsively sent to your boyfriend, Simon Riley, or what most only knew to call him by, Ghost.

A mystery of a man and the textbook definition of an enigma, who only brought more questions than answers everywhere he went. No one knew too much about Ghost, not even what the man’s true identity was underneath the infamous skull balaclava he never left the house without. The very few people in his closest inner circle, or whom he had some sort of mutual trust and respect for, usually asked the same questions when it concerned you:

How did such a recluse man manage to get himself a woman?

Doesn’t it get tiring, trying to figure out what's really going on in his head?

Out of all the men you could’ve been in a relationship with, why choose a man who could possibly never come back home?

Well, it wasn’t an easy start to your relationship with Ghost. Like most people brought up, the man came from years of solitary and preferably worked independently. It took well over six years to get yourself where you are now with him, and there were plenty of times where you two experienced hardships in your relationship. Sometimes his straightforward and blunt attitude really infuriated you, and sometimes your stubbornness and hard-headed tendencies deeply vexed him.

But the two of you learned so much while spending time together and bonding. Eventually you both came to a mutual understanding, that communication and respect was the biggest key to keeping your relationship stable.

Ghost only demanded the utmost respect, and you could live with that as long as he talked to you and vocalized what was really on his mind. Sure, there were still plenty of things he wasn’t quite ready— or ever willing, to voice out loud about himself, but it never wavered the deep adoration and love he had for you.

He trusts you. You know he does when you’ve had late nights that you both lay in bed together, sharing stories and telling each other lame jokes as he gazes softly at you. Everyone knew who Ghost was, but you? You were the only one in the world who knew Simon, and earned all your rights to see just who the man under the mask was.

You are the light of his world, and as much as he hates to indulge into what you call your “Princess treatment”— or what he better calls “Bein’ a proper little rotten brat”, he almost always gave into your ways. It was all harmless fun and playful banter when you went out of your way to make things difficult for Simon. That was fine though, since it always only took one trip to the bedroom to remind you of where your place was.

Hell, you were one insatiable jezebel. You both knew that secretly, this little game of cat and mouse was just another way you kept yourselves entertained for years now.

That’s why you thought almost nothing of it, unlocking your phone as you rested your back against the polished quartz granite of your marble sink countertop. Humming the melody of a song that lowly vibrated out your living room’s speaker, nails making sharp click clicks while you played around with your device to get to the photo gallery app. Well, to a certain little part of your photo gallery that was only for Simon and your eyes.

You always did have an interest in film and photography, and you used that hobby of yours to make a few collections of sex tapes with your man. It was something you both found to be very entertaining and highly stimulating to your sex drives. Sometimes even shooting another movie while an older one played in the background on your TV.

Your leg started bouncing as you traced your bottom lip with your tongue, taking the time to look and reminisce on each and every little thumbnail of the videos. I miss him, you exhaled deeply out your nose, already feeling that heavy ache between your legs as you practically salivate like a dog in heat. Fixating your drooping eyes onto one particular thumbnail of just him— you remembered this, how could you forget?

A hard, grueling day at work, when Simon couldn’t even fake like he was completely nonchalant and able to disassociate from his own need for you. All he wanted was to come home to that pretty little face of yours and show you how much he missed you. So that day he let all shame and pride in his body leave, as he sent his own video for you… in its entirety of ten whole minutes.

Ten whole minutes of his phone’s camera slightly coming in and out of focus, as he sloppily fucked his own hand. Keeping an iron grip on the pounding base, so you could really see how much he wished you were there, without him releasing into his palm too early before he could make his message apparent to you.

"Fuuckk… Fuckin’ christ…" Simon hissed through his teeth, the egg shell skull plate stitched on top of the thick knitted mask slightly muffled his voice. If anything, the loudest thing in the room was the slick wet sounds of his hand roughly working on his shaft, completely coated in the pre-cum that leaked heavily from the flushed and angry tip.

"Fuckin’ need you, princess. Look at what you do to me… fuck— ‘m gonna show you—" He groans deep from his chest, tilting his head back so far that you catch a peak of his exposed thick neck. Dark veins bulging and pulsing through his skin, as he twists his hand tighter on his cock, "Show you what that pretty little pussy deserves. ‘Gonna treat it real fuckin’ good when I get my hands on you."

You felt your panties starting to stick against the twitching lips of your core, now whimpering at just the memory alone of what happened in the rest of that video.

It wasn’t fair.

How could he have so much power over you, to make you literally wet your panties from just the thumbnail of a video?

It's so not fair.

Not when you miss him, and want him so badly— but he still hasn’t come home yet or updated you on where he was. It’s almost like he wasn’t even thinking of you at all. Like he didn’t even miss you-

Wait.

Like in the scene of a child’s cartoon, you swore you heard a ding! And saw the hot flash of a lightbulb pop over your head. Yes. Yes, that's it!

Your fingers worked faster than the better judgment of your self conscious did, as it took you another few scrolls down to get to the most recent solo video that you made. The one you made only a few days before Simon came home. The one he never got the chance to see. And as humble of a person you believed you were, you couldn’t deny how enticing you looked in the thumbnail of the video.

It was perfect, too perfect for the little trick you had up your sleeve.

The camera propped up against the little fort you made out of your pillows, aimed perfectly to capture you lying on your back on the king sized mattress. A pillow— Simon’s pillow, under your lower back to lift your hips up. Just enough for the camera to focus solely on the dripping, wet heat between your widely spread thighs.

Your pussy practically leaking like a faucet, as you drag your ring and middle finger in and out your tight, gummy walls. Fucking yourself so sloppy that juices run out your gushing pussy, trailing down your hole, and all over simon’s pillow.

It’s a mess… from the little puddle you left on his pillow— that’ll surely stain, to your cum sticking like a web in between the tight trap of your messy cunt, and to the garbled whines you let out. A siren’s melody of your sweet voice, whimpering mixes of ‘simon’ , ‘miss you’ and unintelligible words that only make your soft cries all the more enchanting and hypnotic.

Even then as you rewatched the video, you couldn’t help but gaze in awe at how pretty your faces of pure pleasure were, and how good your pussy looked glistening in the low lighting.

Mhm, this’ll do alright. With more click clicks on your phone’s screen, you found yourself glaring down at your last message to Simon— still left as seen.

That was alright though. You could bet a million dollars on this next move of yours, and walk away with full confidence that this current plan is the right move to take. With that being said, you clicked the little plus symbol next to the text message box and scrolled through the attachment options until you found the ‘photos’ selection.

You clicked on your video and made quick work of attaching it to a message you also impulsively typed into the box. Not a single thought ran through your mind in that moment, the pounding of your heart and your pulse thumping in your throat blocking all second guesses. You couldn’t stop now.

Fuck it.

One more click, and the next thing you know… you were staring at the thumbnail of your head thrown back into your pink, plush pillow. Eyes rolled completely into the back of your skull, and fingers dug deep inside your soaked cunt with Simon's pillow mushed underneath your ass. It was saturated so deeply that the formally navy blue pillow took on a deeper, almost black shade.

And what sat at the bottom of your video, was only the icing on your tooth rotting cake.

sent: miss u baby <3 come home now or i’ll keep playing w out u

You must've been stuck so deep in some sort of trance— one that filled you with a sudden dark swirl of unease that curled its way up from your belly and all the way into your throat. This trance kept you still for a moment, until you jumped out of your skin and almost dropped your phone on the kitchen floor from a sharp buzz!

Blinking a few times and putting your hand on your chest to keep your heart from leaping out your body, you refocused your blearing eyes on the open message inbox. Except now, your text moved up a little to make room for the new one that just entered the chat.

Your message— no, your video was marked as seen.

But the message your boyfriend replied with left you feeling very ill from just it's three little words, you thought you were finally looking forward to see:

seen: stay right there.

You swallowed the saliva that sat heavy on your dry tongue. Feeling that familiar thump, and deep ache in your core start to resurface once again.

Maybe today wasn't the day for a silly little game with Simon.

No matter how long you spent your next few hours completing errands around the house, you couldn’t make enough distractions for your mind to stop thinking about what transpired earlier.

As much as you wanted to feel bad that your little video may have caused some trouble for Simon, while he was at work— the bubbling swell of pride inside you, made a cheshire-like grin curl on your face.

It was finally happening.

Damned work or the ‘business’ he had to go settle. You finally got him to look at his phone. To look at you, and without a single doubt in your mind you just knew that thumbnail alone must’ve thrown him off from whatever he was so busy doing.

But now you were the one that was stuck at home, lying in wait for him to come show you what was truly in store for you.

Stay right there.

What did that really mean?

Was it literal? Did he believe that you recorded that video in real time, and expected you to wait for him in that same lewd position ? Or was it a warning for you not to try running away from home, before he could finally make his grand appearance.

You doubted it was the latter, since you never ran from dick. So what could make him think you’d start now?

All you could think about for the rest of your afternoon was just what he was up to, and when he was coming to you. Sitting in the house alone only made your imagination run wilder and wilder.

You couldn’t live like this.

The anticipation was eating you alive. And it took every fiber of will and strength to not send him another one of your videos, so he’d get the message and hurry up. You already gave him enough power from almost coming in your panties from just the memory of him pleasuring himself. You were trying to prove that you always come out on top of these games of yours. And there was no chance you’d submit to the temptation of begging for an answer to his cryptic message.

So you figured the healthiest way to cope and keep your mind off things, was to cook. Not just any meal either— but some of Simon’s favorite dishes that you make for him. Even if you were still a little frustrated by him ignoring you the whole morning, you still wanted to cater to your man. After all the old saying does go, ‘the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’. And your endgame was to have a hot meal ready for him once he comes home, then finally get him to jump your bones after waiting for so long.

It was going to be another night that starts off with Simon showing you how big and bad he is, fucking the brattiness out of you, and ending it off with tender pillow talk. Even just fantasizing of how easy it is to make him drop everything to come running home to you, has your confidence sky rocketing through the roof.

As you prepped your ingredients, you plugged in earbuds and maxed the volume up to the highest it could go. Next to cooking, music was always the best way to stimulate your brain and keep your head full of happy thoughts. The two went perfectly together, and you sang outloud to yourself while concentrating on the strenuous task of slicing cabbage into slivers.

Your music was slowly lowering itself as it came to an end. And just before the volume died down completely and transitioned onto the next song–

You heard it before you could see it.

A set of heavy thump thumps making the floorboards creak and rumble, approaching fast from behind you.

Next thing you knew, a heavy and hot palm wrapped around the back of your neck and practically knocked the wind out of you, with how violently your whole body was whipped around backwards. Before your mind could register the sharp throb of your lower back hitting the edge of the sink, an audible gasp squeaked its way out your throat.

There he was. Simon was home.

The signature skull balaclava and smudged charcoal coating his face under the dim kitchen light, made him all the more terrifying. And with the way he towered over your much smaller form, all you could do was stare up at him as if you were some dumb little deer caught in headlights.

His eyes were casted down so low, so dark, so devoid of emotion that he almost seemed soulless. Here stood the empty husk of the same man who murmured a soft ‘you’re my good girl, aren't you?’ after pressing a slow, honeyed kiss against your lips.

You make a weak attempt to play off how excited you actually were. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing out loud in his presence. Mustering a shaky chuckle, as you tried to ignore the light press his finger tips made against your throat.

“H-hey baby. God, you scared the shit out of me. Y’know you can’t do that to me while I've got this knife in my hand.”

Obviously Simon could care less about your little rambing, his silence spoke the loudest between the two of you.

He continued to apply light pressure, steadily flexing his fingers deeper and deeper into your neck, so he could hear the way your stuttering voice hitched from the slight lack of oxygen. His eyes trailed down to your plush lips, and dragged even further down to shamelessly gaze at the enticing way your cleavage sat in that little lace camisole. You weren’t wearing a bra, and he could make out the perfect outline of your nipples pressing against the fabric of the dainty cloth.

And of course he saw it. The little lift of the corner of your mouth, then the way you crossed and pressed your inner thighs together.

All not-so subtle telltale signs, that you thought this was still some little game that you thought you were the genius mastermind of.

“Anyway, you ruined my surprise for you,” and you still kept your fucking mouth running. “I know you’re probably exhausted, so i started dinn-”

“Only thing you should be starting right now, is makin’ your way upstairs. Get everything you’ve got on, off. ‘Wanna see your ass up and ready for me, by the time i get my shoes off.”

Oh.

Oh. That shut your mouth up, real quick.

The abrupt way he cut you off completely, and the fact that those were the first words he’s said to you all night has you gaping up at him like fish.

He only stares back at you with blank indifference. You can only give him that stupid little look, before you snap out of being stunned and continue to try talking your shit and having some control over him.

“O-oh but i was just—”

“_____” The sudden boom of his baritone voice raising, knocked whatever rest of words you had sitting on your tongue. No princess or sweet girl— just your full name in its entirety, that sounded almost like a curse with how venomously he spat it out.

It was slowly starting to dawn on you, that this was becoming a very dangerous situation you got yourself into.

Your shock must’ve been extremely apparent to Simon, so he let the tension sit thick in the air of the room. Really making you feel the severity of the situation that was transpiring. All you could do was stare up at him, all doe eyed and pull your wobbling bottom lip into your mouth as he took two more steps forward. Somehow you were able to keep some of your courage in check, looking him up in the eye even as his head hung down to glare down at you.

“_____” he finally continued his words, again starting with your name, only in a lower guttural tone. “You are in no position to fuck around with me right now. Only ‘gonna say this to you one more time, before things get worse for you as it is— go upstairs, take off everythin’ you’ve got on and lay on the bed with your ass up. Don’t want another peep out your mouth, ‘less you wanna see what happens when you’ve thoroughly tested my temper. Wouldn’t want that now, would you, sweetheart.”

Simon drummed his fingers against your neck one more time, before he finally released it and watched you let out a soft wheeze of air. He looked over your body one more time before he turned his back to you, the heavy footsteps of his steel toed boots echoed dully in your ear.

Oh. Was that your cue to start making your trip upstairs?

Was that a test to see if you would even attempt to disobey him, when he has clearly had enough out of you for the night?

You loved a challenge. And even as you looked what seemed to be your demise in the eyes, you couldn’t help but feel a warm gush out of your core, come running down the side of your sleep shorts.

One step he took towards the doorway, was another stride you took as you practically hurled yourself up the stairs.

You skipped a few stairs on your way up, feeling your heartbeat hammering in your ear on the mad dash to your bedroom.

Flinging your top off haphazardly in the middle of the hallway, you couldn’t help but look back a few times to see if he was trailing behind you.

The pounding of your feet against the floor, deluded your ratting brain into thinking that it was actually Simon chasing you. The dull creaking of his heavy boots on the floorboards, still echoes in your head.

You nearly knocked the bedroom door off its hinges, with the way that you heedlessly flung it open. Your chest heavily rises and falls as you make quick work of getting rid of your soiled sleep shorts and panties.

Raw adrenaline courses its way through your veins, vibrating all the way from the bottom of your toes to the top of your tingling spine. You made it. You beat him.

Simon could challenge you all he wanted, but he could never beat the tenacity that ran through your whole body. You smile to yourself, thinking you won the battle and proved to him that he had no more control over your mind and what was between your legs–

You were very fast.

But Simon was even faster.

Boots be damned, he could catch up to you in an instant.

You let out a loud shrill shriek from the feeling of two hefty arms wrapping around your middle, and lifting you up into the air. Your world turns upside down— literally and physically, as you find yourself thrown over Simon’s strong bare shoulder, like you were some sort of light weighted object.

“Times up,” You feel the deep timber of his voice, while your body helplessly dangles onto him for dear life. “Told you to have your ass up on the bed, by the time I got my shoes off.”

You kick your feet in objection— but immediately cease your protest and squeal, when his heavy open hand comes down hard on your naked ass cheek.

“Seems like you can’t handle or understand instructions today, can you, honey?”

His taunting coo’s only make you dizzier, after he so carelessly drops you face first onto the bed. Your body bounces lightly off the mattress and you whip your head around to glare up at him.

“I can understand!” you stubbornly argue back, watching him scoff and shake his head. “You cheated, I got here on time but you picked me up before I could do anything.”

Your eyes take in his current appearance– other than the mask he kept on his face, he stood before you in all his mountain of a man glory.

He was so big.

From the wide, broad shoulders that just carried all your weight on it, down to the lean and toned torso, sculpted with hard, rippling abdominal muscles.

You practically whimpered at how big and thick his thighs were. Almost ready to give in and beg him to let you trace your tongue on the rigid V cut of his abs, all the way down to the wisps of the dirty blonde happy trail on his pelvis… and get a taste of what you’ve been craving for the last few days.

His thick cock stood tall in the air, curving up a bit against his stomach from the weight of the heavy, fat, dark tip. There was already a bead of precum running down the side, where a prominent blue vein stood out.

You drool just looking at it. Your mouth waters and jaw starts aching, as if you’re ready to feel that hefty press of the head on your tongue.

Simon knew exactly what you wanted. How could he not know, with the way your eyes grew heavy and your lips slightly parted.

“It's too bad, isn’t it?” he watches your lips part wider, as he uses the tip of his thumb to smear the little bead of precum across the length of the shaft. Fucking tease.

“Could’ve been feedin’ you this dick, and lettin’ you get full off of it. ‘s a damn shame, you act like you don’t know how to do what you’re told. And you keep running that fuckin’ mouth of yours.”

You puff your cheeks at him and kiss your teeth, “It’s ‘cus y-”

Before you could even think up an excuse, Simon cracks his open palm on top of your left ass cheek. Your loud gasp is like music to his ears, and he moves in closer to press that same palm down your lower back until you’ve made a perfect arch for him. He kisses his teeth back at you, looking at the drooling lips of your pussy already making your inner thighs wet and sticky.

Spanking isn’t an unfamiliar thing he’s done to you, but to this degree? The force in his hits did so much to you. The hot stinging pain of it makes you wetter by the second.

“Still seems like I’m not makin’ it clear enough for you, _____. Don’t even know how to take yourself upstairs and lay like i told you to. That’s the problem with you,”

He removes his palm from the small of your back. Winding his hand back far, just to bring it down on your right cheek this time. “Spoiled you and that sloppy little cunt of yours rotten. Can’t even get a fuckin’ job done without you fussing at me.”

Simon continues alternating heavy handed smacks on both sides of your ass, not taking a single break between his assault on your cheeks. Talking out loud to himself, as if you weren’t writhing around and whimpering from his merciless punishment.

“Know what happens— stay still, when you wanna act like a desperate little whore? ‘Get treated like one. ‘Wanna act like you can’t sit and wait like a good girl? i’ll bruise this ass so sore that you won’t be able to get out of bed.”

His ruthlessness almost seems endless, and you start to lose track of how many times he’s striked your cheeks.

Your whimpering turns into full on moans, fully turning your face into the sheets to try suppressing the loud sobs you let out.

But Simon pulls your head back by the back of your neck, squeezing the sides of your throat, and giving you an even deeper arch in your lower back. “Can’t hide from this, sweetheart. You’re gonna learn to take what’s given to you, and stop being so fuckin’ greedy all the time”

He finally shows mercy on your bruised and flaming hot cheeks, deciding he’ll let you off with twenty two this time. He should’ve taken you over his knee and made you count the spanks out loud, telling him why you deserved each and every one.

But the truth was, he was almost as desperate as you. Hasn’t even been anywhere near your cunt, but you soak the sheets as if that's the only thing he’s been playing with. His dick bobbed and twitched, at just the thought of your velvety walls wrapping around him.

“S-Simon,” you babble and blink away tears that sit on your lashes. “Please baby, ‘m so close. I need you.”

Again, he kisses his teeth at you before putting his hand in between your drenched inner thighs. Listening to you keen softly, as he uses his thick middle and ring fingers to spread your thick pussy lips open. Watching your hole spasm and clench over nothing. Your little clit sticks out all pretty and swollen, just aching to get some attention.

“And why’s that, baby, hm?” You’re so messy that he’s able to slip in his two fingers, immediately finding that little spot that has you squealing and pushing your ass back for more. He uses his other hand around your throat, squeezing it tight as a silent warning for you to lay still.

“Why should I let you cum, when you’ve been nothin’ but an ungrateful little slut?”

You could cry real tears from him edging you like this. It’s never taken this long for him to make you cum.

All this was so unfamiliar. Simon never dangled your orgasm in your face, and made you wait like this.

It was time to drop the tough girl act, and admit defeat. He won. If it was for the sake of needing this pounding ache in your tummy to be relieved, you’d do anything to prove you deserved it.

“Baby pleeaassee,” You’re unable to hold back the hot tears of frustration from running down your face. “I'm sorry, ‘m so sorry baby. Just please, g-god im sorry.”

You can practically hear the sneer in his next words, your hysterical sobs getting more and more pathetic by the moment—

“God? What’re you saying sorry to him for? God isn’t here to save you, silly girl.”

You feel the hot tip of his cock hovering over your twitching folds. He takes his sweet, leisure time to swipe the head through the sloppy mess of your pussy. Purposely avoiding the neglected little pearl, as he runs the tip up and down on your pussy. Getting it nice and wet before he’s pushing half of himself inside your sensitive, gushing walls.

“But i’ll show you what heaven looks like, since all that’s been on your pretty mind, is gettin’ this little cunt of yours beat raw.”

Simon starts off at a brutal pace, pulling himself all the way out of your tight heat, before slamming all the way in. When he bottoms out inside you, your ass jumps and slaps against his strong thighs, making a sloppy plap. The bed rocks and groans, from the sheer ferocity and force he uses to split open your soaking pussy.

Your voice belts out your throat, coming out as shrill squeals and moans. You go to reach your hand back to push yourself away from the deep strokes he gives you, but he grabs your wrist and pins it behind your back.

“Don’t fuckin’ move.” You never ran from dick before but this? It was too much. So much that you could hear the loud sloppy squishes of your contracting walls, working and squeezing around his length. The feeling of it all, sending you into hot waves of burning pleasure. Letting him have his way, and fuck you like he detested you.

“Yeah that’s right, don’t fuckin’ move, or speak. Y’hear that? Only thing I wanna hear is how good this slutty cunt talks to me.”

All you can do is lay there and take it. He lets go of your neck, to snatch your arm and pin your other wrist behind your back. His thick forearms flex, the veins in them protruding out his skin as he uses some strength to rock you back and forth by your arms. You fear your arms may pop out the sockets, with the way he uses both of your arms as leverage to keep your body up and ready to meet his deep strokes.

Your eyes nearly rolling into the back of your skull, with the way he fucks his fat cock into the depths of your core. You cry and sob a familiar melody that has Simon gritting his teeth, fucking into you at an even faster roll of his hips.

“Know what this reminds me of,” His voice comes out as a deep rasp. He bows and leans his weight over on top of your poor little body, so he can press your face into the bed. Turning your face to the side, so he could continue murmuring into your ear.

“Makes me think of that little video you sent. Reason why you’ve gotten yourself in so much trouble— ooh, naughty fuckin’ girl. Squeezin’ around me so nice. Y’like knowing I saw you act so sweet on camera for me? I was around my men when you sent it to me. Had to stop what I was doing, so I could see what you wanted from me so badly.”

You could barely understand what he was talking to you about. The deep rumbling of his voice, lulling you into an empty head and going dumb on his dick.

All your fucked out little mind could do was blindly whimper and nod, just trying to focus on how the vein on the underside of his dick rubbed so good against your walls. You were so fucking close, you just needed more.

“L-love you baby, mmm. I’m sorry,” You felt him lift a little off your body, and took the opportunity to turn your head more so you could keep eye contact with him. “Jus’ miss you so much, b-but i promise i won’t bother you. I won’t do it again. Swear baby, I swear.”

He only grunts in response, feeling his cock throb and get squeezed after he knocked the tip into your special little spot. “Only sayin’ all that because you need to cum. I can feel how close you are, princess. You’re gonna have to just wait ‘till I'm done having my fun.”

Despite that leaving his mouth, he grips your hips tightly before pulling all the way out. He shushes you as you let out another hysterical sob, and gets completely off the bed to go move closer to the edge.

Honestly, if he left you alone like this you wouldn’t even mind.

You thought a prayer to god for forgiveness. This abuse on your poor little pussy, was enough to make you ask for repentance. Never again would you make yourself go through this, and you silently begged that Simon would see the light too so you could be forgiven already.

But apparently, god was not on your side today.

You felt his strong hand grab your ankle, and drag you down by the end of the bed. You started to complain until you were roughly turned to lay on your back. Now, you could properly see your boyfriends face— well, mask and the exposed eye portion of the balaclava.

You could see some sweat from his exertion, had ended up smudging off even more of the charcoal on his face. He only stared down at you, before he put both hands on your thighs and pushed them up until your knees squished against your chest.

At this point you could only let him do whatever he wanted to your body. Not a single ounce of fight left in you as he settled between your folded legs, and started speaking to you.

“Remind me again now, sweet girl. Whose pussy is this? Hm?”

You blink once, then twice. Even with the question being asked again, in an even slower way for you to comprehend, you simply couldn’t. Your brain was short circuiting, completely burnt out and purely running on the raw dopamine buzzing in your mind. All it could manage in that moment, was the soft mewl of a mmm that let itself out from the depths of your throat.

Your mind so fuzzy, that the words ‘sweet girl’ coming from him only made you think of times of love and adoration. Times when Simon would make love to you; caressing your body, exploring and marking every single curve and inch, cooing praises into your ear.

That’s it, theres my sweet girl. ‘Look so good takin’ all of me like a champ. Want everyone to see how good i treat my princess, when she fucks me so well. Gonna fill you right up, just how you like it.

Only now, you weren’t being spoiled and made love to like his special girl would.

You were some filthy little whore, and getting the treatment a bitch in heat deserved the most. A dumb one at that, and all Simon could do is chuckle to himself, shaking his head at how sloppy and stupid you looked. Not even the damn mutts in heat at the base, got silly like you were at this moment.

“_____ ,” Simon slapped his open palm twice on the side of your cheek, listening to you whine softly before using the same hand to squeeze the sides of your cheeks until your lips puckered out. “_____ , focus right here— that’s it, right here. Listen to me baby, unless you don’t wanna cum tonight, you’re gonna stop wastin’ my time and talk to me nice.”

With what little brain fuzzy cells you had left to help you speak, you nodded and spread your thighs wider so he could see your swollen, glistening pussy and untouched clit.

“ ’s all yours, Simon. It all belongs to you, so please help me cum. Pleeasse baby, I-I need it so bad.”

That must’ve been what he wanted to hear.

Simon plunges right back into the heat of your walls that welcome him in with ease. Only with this new change of position, you get filled in even deeper now.

No running. You’re trapped and overwhelmed by the heat that radiates off his body, as he uses his heavy weight to fold you in half and press you deep into the creaking mattress. You can see over your tummy, just what he looked like when he battered the insides of your pussy. You’re forced to watch him dig his cock in and out of you. Hiccuping and sobbing at the sight of a creamy translucent ring made of your cum, completely coating the base of his length.

“That’s right baby,” His heavy balls slap sloppily against your ass. The sounds of your skin clapping together, and his baritone murmuring echo in your ears. “Pussy belongs to me. So you don’t tell me when it’s time to come home and play with it. You wait for me and behave, when I tell you to. Understand?”

You shake your head, not paying attention to a single word he utters. The only thing you can focus on is the way he drops his dick perfectly into the spot you need him the most.

“Ohh fuck- fuck, fuucckk,” You let out strings of curses, your legs already getting numb from being squeezed down so tightly against your tits. Drool fills your mouth and runs down the side of your lips. You can feel the bubbling sensation in your womb of your orgasm approaching. Your babbling gets sloppier and less coherent, as you feel his dick twitch inside of you.

“Fuck yeesss, yes S-Simon. ‘Understand, promise I’ll wait and be— oohh… uhuh, right there, b-be good for you. It’s only for Simon. Whatever Simon says, it’s all for you”

“Shit.. that's it. There’s a good girl,” He groans deep from the bottom of his chest at your words, grabbing you by the throat and pulling your head up off the mattress so he can look into your glossy eyes.

Simon pulls his mask up, just enough to where the top of the cupids-bow of his lips starts. He flicks his tongue over the bottom of his lip, before he leans in to press his mouth against your open one. He swallows the wanton moans that come squeaking out your lips, moving his hand up from gripping your throat to cup your jaw.

“Easy girl,” he mumbles inside the heat of your mouth, feeling your legs start to shake harder now. “Relax, you can take it. Take everythin’ I give to you and let me— shit ‘m close, let me fuckin’ fill you all the way up, princess.”

He reaches between your sweaty bodies to finally give your neglected swollen clit the attention it deserved. He uses the tip of his fat thumb to rub it in circles, grunting when he feels your pussy squeeze around cock. It was as if your body was trying to pull him all the way in, and never let him escape the gushing caverns of your walls.

Simon removed his hand from your jaw, using his now free hand to press down hard on your soft lower belly.

You shake your head in resistance, already knowing how messy you were gonna make this if he continued on like this. He must’ve known what you were thinking, shaking his head back at you and having no regard for your little babbles and sobs for mercy.

“Let it out _____. C’mon, show me what a sweet girl looks like when she knows how to make a mess all over this dick.”

The little band in your core snaps, and you swear you heard a little pop! from deep inside of you.

You both feel it before you see it. Lips practically sealed together, and you both let out guttural groans in each other’s mouths at the feeling of your pussy spraying cum and juices everywhere. You made it real messy, drenching Simon’s stomach and splattering your ecstasy on top of the comforter of the bed.

And at the same time, Simon snatches his lips from yours to let out a long series of curses. You feel his cock twitch violently from the depths of your insides, letting out a soft mewl when you feel the tip painting your walls and shooting out thick ropes of cum.

You nearly black out from the high you get from coming so hard. The whole room seems like it’s spinning, your hearing fades in and out, with static like white noise shrilling into your eardrums. All your senses are heightened, and you feel so overwhelmed by your vision getting blurred and fuzzy, that you decide it’s best to close and rest your eyes.

Apparently you did end up blacking out.

Jolting awake and blinking the blurriness from your eyes, you sit up from your position tucked underneath a new comforter set— you can’t even recall how you managed to make yourself comfortable in bed, or how you wound up in a new pair of clean underwear.

You think you get the answers to your state of confusion, when you see Simon sitting by the edge of the bed with his bare back turned towards you.

Oh, okay. He must’ve cleaned me up and changed the sheets after I fell asleep.

Without turning around and facing you, Simon calls for you and tells you to come closer to where he sat. You huff, begrudgingly pulling yourself from the cozy warmth of the cotton blanket and crawl across the bed to where he was.

“Baby, I’m so hungry” You pout, giving his bare shoulder a soft kiss before you go to roll yourself off the bed. “We should try ordering from that place Soap keeps talking about. I think the menu’s downst—”

“That can wait,” He grabs your wrist and pulls you back onto the bed, it’s so abrupt that you make a squeak of surprise when you tumble back down on your back. “Still got something we have to finish.”

He sees the utterly puzzled look you give him and can tell just how lost you were at this moment. Simon rises from the bed, towering over you and hums at the sight of you looking up at him with wide, expectant doe eyes.

Since this is the first time he’s actually facing you from the front, you notice he holds a sleek, black handheld camcorder. Where did he get that from ?

Again, Simon reads you like an open book and starts explaining just what he was up to.

“On my way home, this little thing here caught my eye and reminded me of something,” He turns it over on its side, inspecting it before he presses his thumb down on the power button to turn it on. “Made me think of how I had to leave from where I was at, and missed a vital proposal for work. Set back my plans, all because of the little video you decided to send to me.”

You gulped, already knowing where this conversation was leading to. You can feel a pounding in your core, your underwear starting to stick to your heat from the little bit of excitement that came gushing out of you.

“Since you do love your little films, you’re gonna make another one just for me. Somethin’ real nice, and a good reminder for what happens when you think about pullin’ another stunt like today.”

Simon pulls down the band of his grey sweatpants, his hard cock springing up and bobbing back and forth before it curls up against his navel. He sneers at how quick you are to roll off the bed, kneeling on the carpet to get on your knees before him.

There was no changing or fixing the insatiable little minx that lived inside your body.

“Now, eyes on me princess,” he aims the camera down at your face, flicking his eyes from your own half lidded ones down to the screen of the camera. “You’re gonna start off with ‘Simon says I’ve been a filthy little slut and been on my worst behavior’. Then, you can show the camera you know how to act like a good girl and apologize.”

You nod your head, already going dumb from the commands he rasps. When he tilts his head down and lifts a brow up, you give him an audible yes sir and rub your inner thighs together in anticipation for what you’re about to do.

“S-simon says–” you pause, dragging your eyes up from the camera and into Simon's own eyes.

You are a good girl. And as a good girl should, you made sure you kept your manners in mind, so he knew how sorry you really were.

“Simon says I've been a filthy lil’ slut, and on my worst behavior,” you lean in close to his cock, looking him in the eye as you plant a slow soft, short kiss on the tip. Greedily licking up the bead of precum that caught onto your lips, feeling the little jump his cock makes against your mouth.

“So ‘m gonna show him I'm a good girl, and apologize like his sweet girl should.”

/tagging\ . . . @touyyes(<3) @noriken @hellavile @munsonsins

#ghost smut #simon ghost riley smut #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty smut

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princessbrunette · 4 months

Note

rafe with a girlfriend that loves strays or animals in general and she's always petting them😭😭 he'll be so stern too "don't pet the cat sweetheart,it can have fleas" making her go all wide-eyed, because the kitty is alone and sad and they MUST bring it with them.

-🥞

₊˚🎧⊹♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖•ﻌ•༘⋆˚ ༘

you say fine, your boyfriend summoning you back over to him up ahead, phone pressed to his ear as he talks business on the go. he hangs up soon enough, stopping abruptly in his tracks to stare at you, astonished. “now why… is your bag moving? y’think i’m an idiot, huh?”

“i don’t know what you mean.” you barely whisper, wide eyed and tight lipped — clutching your tote bag to your side that apparently had a mind of its own. rafe says your name, as some kind of warning and you deflate, reaching inside and slowly revealing the scraggly stray kitten from a few minutes ago.

“baby.” he complains, disappointed.

“just— just let me take him to the emergency animal clinic. i can’t just leave him, he won’t survive!” you tear up, clutching the animal to your chest despite rafes previous warning of fleas and ticks. he tsks, running a frustrated hand over his jaw before holding it up in the air as if to cease you.

“alright, alright okay. just don’t fuckin’… cry on me, alright? we take it there and leave it. that things not comin’ into my home, you hear me?”

guess who ended up with a new kitten sharing the bed after a thorough de-fleaing?

₊˚🎧⊹♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖•ﻌ•༘⋆˚ ༘

#🥞 anon #rafe cameron prompt

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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 4 months

Text

The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.

Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.

A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!

***

The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.

A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre.

I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp.

Seems like the sort of place for him.

Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?”

Or somethin’ along those lines.

For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?

Whatever.

If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark.

If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in.

With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice.

I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor.

“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.

I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned.

I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone.

Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”

I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice.

He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up.

There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick.

Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.

And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep.

A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression.

“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly.

He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.

“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain.

My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread.

Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me.

I sigh. I ask him.

My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose.

Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it.

There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.

He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be.

It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.

The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.

Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?

“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.

“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”

I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”

“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.

White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.

Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.

Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.

There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.

His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile.

He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”

Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.

I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him.

His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.

He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.

“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.

I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.

I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”

Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”

“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”

Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.

“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”

I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.

Christ.

Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?

“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.

Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.

He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”

The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.

“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.

I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?

He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”

While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.

I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”

Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.

“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”

Asshole.

I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”

“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.

He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”

I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.

He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.

“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.

I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.

I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”

God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else.

Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me.

I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”

He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?”

Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.

“No,” I reply.

“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”

Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.

“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.”

He tilts his head away in dismissal.

I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”

For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.

I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.

He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest.

“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.

He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight.

Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too.

“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”

In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.

He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”

“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?

I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?”

I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”

And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits.

A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!”

“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.

As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”

He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices.

“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate.

Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow.

My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.

I want – my breath trembles with it.

“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up.

“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me.

Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down.

“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .

My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work.

When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.

I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”

A pause.

Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought.

Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen; Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night.

I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes.

When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.

Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter.

I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger.

Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.

I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.

He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.

“No,” he contradicts.

“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”

He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”

“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it.

I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.

He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.

And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face.

“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.

He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.

Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.

I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin.

But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.

“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”

“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”

I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.

“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”

He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.

“I can feel you against my leg.”

He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing.

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently.

Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving.

Give me strength. Give me strength.

That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe.

Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly.

I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.

Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.

Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.

My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me.

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact.

He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive.

But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation.

My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?”

I can feel him swallow.

“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace.

“Kiss me again, then.”

And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth.

I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second.

The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.

Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid.

This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own.

A switch in his brain must flick on.

It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt.

I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable.

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt.

“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.

My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return.

“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?”

He kisses the hollow of my neck.

His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this.

A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me.

I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.

Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”

I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.”

I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”

How unlike him.

A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.”

His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton.

I sigh, try not to squirm.

“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing.

I nod. “Yeah.”

Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.

As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering.

His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips.

Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back.

I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world.

Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine.

I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra.

His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.

My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut.

“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip.

He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper.

He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead.

After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl.

I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.

Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point.

Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.

As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else.

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me.

My cunt flexes.

I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.”

Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.

“Said lie back, didn’t I?”

Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager.

“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter.

I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.

“Can—?”

“Yes.”

He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.

“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.

“Lie back.”

He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.

I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.

Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.

Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth.

Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger.

Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit. My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.

I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.

I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.

Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse.

He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.

He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers.

We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.

I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.

When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.

So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.

Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.

Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.

His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here.

Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away.

For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see.

In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.

I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him.

His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders.

Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him.

I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.

Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside.

I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.

His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound.

I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out.

“It’s okay,” I reply.

He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver.

Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.

#true detective #rust cohle #marty hart #rust cohle x reader #rust cohle x reader smut #okay cool this is a bit niche hope you liked it #this show made me question my life's purpose #the first season at least #thanks matthew mcconaughey #anybody else here like Fiona apple or what

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thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch · 1 month

Text

w.count: 2k - wanderer finally got his name and he feels like he's gotta tell someone... (bet yall never saw this comin)

there was a humming in his head. and it felt heavy. like he had been dunked in a bin of well water and had only just resurfaced. regaining a whole past life of memories on top of immediately being thrown into combat with the past life god version of yourself... it certain had a kick to it. that kick being the biggest headache the nameless wanderer has ever experienced... past or present.

the wanderer had only just recovered all his past memories through simulations provided graciously by the dendro archon. trying to separate the dull, mindlessly kind life he had been living in this lifetime from the one he had just remembered where he was anything but? the whiplash was enough to make anyone second guess pretty much everything.

in the background of his emotional recollection the nameless mechanical puppet could hear the traveler and paimon talk back and forth with the small buer herself. just because he could hear them though, didn't mean he was listening.

wanderer's back turned away from them for a moment and his hand lifts up to pinch between his eyes, palm resting on the tip of his nose as he swallows back a sigh. they were talking about him following nahida's guidance, and he had no qualms with it, really. he just felt overwhelmed... not that he could say so aloud.

the trio continued talking and soon decided to grant him a new name. if it didn't have any connection to that insufferable man who was the root cause of all his suffering to begin with he didn't have a preference anyway-

"are you sure?" the nameless doll asked the blond traveler who had just spoken the new name he would eventually be using. "...ah, alright, if you say so."

-at least... he thought he had no preference.

wanderer had no issue with the name itself. it was given to him by someone who- foolishly- help him regain his memories and set him straighter. a debt he would have to eventually repay somehow since even he was capable of being grateful to someone. but, the way it sounded coming out of the traveler's mouth felt... wrong. like they weren't the right person to say it first; which made absolutely no sense as they're the one who came up with it in the first place. paimon had also not yet come up with an 'ugly nickname', but that wasn't his problem to begin with.

there was this digging in the back of his mind, like he had some other place to be. his legs were itching to move, feet ready to take him out of the sanctuary of surasthana. so, without much resistance, he listened to the silent cries of his mechanical body.

"goodbye, wise deity, and you two."

even if his jumbled up mind didn't process where his body was taking him, he trusted it to take him where he thought he ought to be. besides, with his new vision in hand even if he walked into some place dangerous to the common person- he could handle it.

its crazy that just this morning he was walking through these same streets of sumeru city as virtually a whole different person. the mild-mannered boy who would return the smallest favors just to keep himself occupied. now he was different, but not the same as the 'him' who's memories he had regained. a combination of the two, just messy and unbalanced right now.

the sun was setting and casting the city in shadows and orange hues. mindlessly, wanderer had meandered down and out of the city gates. walking and casting glances to and fro before a small hut had entered his peripherals. his auto-piloted body stopped just short of a full step before kicking up speed. his easy gait turned rushed and before he knew it, he was jogging to the hut.

it was a tea hut. just a small one. a couple bench tables out front, a small chimey in the roof and what seemed like hardly enough room inside for five people and a stove to fit comfortably. still, the smell of boiled tea leaves hung in the air like invisible ribbons. just standing in front of the closed-up shop filled him with familiarity.

the memories that had been muddled started to separate into clearer views the longer he stood in the dirt just looking around at the lackluster area.

wanderer's shoulders jumped when the door that had been closed to the tea hut creaked open. a body carrying a small wicker basket with a cloth over it had pushed it open with their back, rolling it onto their shoulder before stepping out and letting it swing shut at their back.

"ah!" they- you- jolt. the sun was setting and normally people don't fancy a cup of tea at late hours where your little humble hut stood, so seeing the feet of someone in front of the building spooked you. the wicker basket had dropped to the dirt, causing small plumes of dust to breathe over your ankles. "you scared me- oh!" the stranger in which had scared you, was no stranger to you at all. "i didn't think i'd be seeing you again so soon."

"yeah..." the wanderer's voice was practically a whisper only carried by the wind. he knew you- the previous mild-mannered boy did anyway.

among his wandering, he had happened upon your hut and with nothing better to do had ordered tea from you. you were a chatter box. easily conversing and holding all sort of topics of discussion with your customers- as few as they may be.

he couldn't remember if it was because of your tea that was somehow exactly to his liking or if it was because, back then, he enjoyed the company, but he did remember frequently returning to this tea hut.

he had come several times and as embarrassing as it was to admit, he had built a sort of bond with you. to the point where he had explained to you that he had no name and always felt like he was missing something in his life. of course he didn't disclose everything there is to him, but just enough to ease the weight in his chest just ever so slightly.

'maybe you lost your memory or something? i've heard lesser lord kusanali can do all sorts of things, so maybe she could help!'

you had pitched that to him one time. probably just to try and cheer him up or something. who knew that you'd end up being right on the mark.

"is something the matter?" you had disregarded the basket at your feet- it was empty anyway- and came a bit closer to the nameless boy.

"no, it's nothing." he told you. something in his tone immediately gave him away. it wasn't the soft tone you had grown used to. it sounded choked, like he was trying to act. you think for a moment before twisting halfway around back towards the hut's door.

"you stay put here," you tell him. his gaze moves to finally look you in the eyes and his own twitch and burn when they connect. he's always hated eye contact, but yours felt so comfortable. "i'll go and make a cup of tea for you. since you like it black, it won't take long."

the feeling that drops into his gut when your eyes break away from his and you back stares to his gaze instead was akin to a type of panic.

"hold on-!" his voice was quiet, clogged in his throat and he felt pretty pathetic when it left his lips. his body again moves all on its own and before he could reel himself in, his hands grab onto you.

with your back to him, his hands grasp both of your biceps and keeps you in place like a shield between him and the rigidity ol' hut. you could feel the tips of his sandals at the back of your heels and the presence of his body behind you signaling how close he really was. his forehead rests on the back of your neck, just under the dip of your skull. the tip of his nose tickles your neck when your shoulders raise with each intake of breath.

"uhm," you have no idea what's gotten into him or why he's acting so strange, but it's not like you really had time to ask before he was spilling his guts.

"i got my memories back." he sounded so solemn, as he feels your shoulder's jolt.

"really?!" your voice was loud as it echoed in the empty space around. it sounded excited, curious too. "I bet that's a loud off your shoulders, huh?" you light heartedly say.

"in a way." he couldn't admit his past wrongs to you- even if all of that was in a whole other timeline. he still did so many awful things and he wouldn't deny it. "i might act differently towards you now that i know... who i am."

"that's alright, isn't it?" against the crown of his bowed head that made a home against your neck, he feels your head tilt back. your arms shifted too, like they had moved to cup your chin. he could picture it perfectly in his head when he closes his eyes.

"its complicated."

"well, that's alright too."

"is it?" his jaw clenches as your arms go lax again.

"can i turn around?"

"not yet."

"why not?"

"because i said so." his eyebrow twitches.

"oh, so you're demanding now?" you tease.

"that a problem?" he teases back, a chuckle brushing your neck as he does. he knows what you're doing and he's thankful for it. the banter is relaxing.

"not at all."

it's a while before he's finally dropping his hands from your arms, and letting you turn around. your hands on your hips as you look at him in the face again. he's calmed down, feels tired, and a little embarrassed at how his body impulsively moved in such a mushy, romantic-coded way. if he had a gag reflex, he probably would've gagged at such a cliche action of his own limbs.

"so, do you still like your tea black?"

wanderer's arms came to cross over his chest, his stern face relaxing into what was probably a bit more of a harsh tone than you were used to in the past. you didn't say it out loud, but this version of him would take some getting used to.

"of course i do. sweets are sickening." you burst out into laughter at his words and the disgusted tone accompanying them. in the past he would've politely stated that they 'weren't to his liking' or something. not outright rejected the idea of sweets.

"that's good. i was worried i'd have to relearn your usual cup of tea." you pop your fist into your opposing hand before your changing the subject away from tea preferences. "oh yeah! since you remember things, do you remember your name?"

"i've had several," he states curtly. "none of them i use anymore." he watched your face twist in confusion before falling into something like disappointment. were you really that excited to finally get to put a name to his face? he sighs. "a... friend," he grits, "technically gave me a new one. since i have nothing else to go by right now, i'll probably be using that for the time being." your eyes relit in excitement. he feels his insides get hot.

"that's great! what is it? i want to know!" you were pushy and he scoffs amusedly at it. the traveler's voice echoed in his memory, his new name bouncing around in his mind. then it all made sense with you in front of him.

reaching up, he pulled on your cheek. you squawk and whine as he stretches the soft flesh, pinching it between his fingertips. no wonder it sounded wrong coming out of that meddler's mouth. it's because it wasn't you and his subconscious knew it before he did. gross, he hisses to himself internally again.

"i'm only going to tell you once, so you better pay attention." the not-so-nameless boy released your cheek, watching bemusedly as you rubbed the sore piece of your face. his stance shifts, relaxes with his arms crossing comfortably over his chest. and with direct eye contact and an easy, yet almost smug smile on his face, he told you...

"my name is..."

a/n: okay this is kinda sorta really messy and i apologize for that

#genshin impact #wanderer x reader #wanderer fluff #genshin impact x reader #wanderer x y/n #wanderer x you #genshin impact wanderer #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche fluff #wanderer #scaramouche #wanderer headcanons #wanderer scenarios #wanderer genshin #genshin wanderer #wanderer fic #wanderer blurb

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heavysoldat · 2 years

Text

lemonade

neighbor!bucky barnes x housewife!reader

devastated by the spreading talk of your husband’s affair, you’re desperate to find a way to get back at him— and who to do it with.

warnings: smut (cunnilingus, unprotected sex, dirty talk, manhandling, praise & light degradation, creampie, breeding) mutual cheating, insecurities, hints to abusive relationships

(highly inspired by this song)

“How is it?”

The incessant whirring of the washing machine is tunneling in your head, adding to the stress induced migraine you’ve already received. But the man in front of you is more than chipper, smiling as he takes in more of the pie you’ve prepared.

“Amazing.” James compliments, mouth full of cherries and crust.

You give him a smile; weak, barely breaching your smile lines- but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You just seemed hungry.” You muse. “Working outside all morning has gotta make you starved.”

“Well, I won’t turn down a fresh pie, that’s for sure.” He says, washing his mouth down with the lemonade you generously whipped up.

“Your husbands gonna be one happy man, comin’ home to this.” James wipes his face down with a patterned napkin, leaning back into the oakwood dining chair.

You stare ahead blankly, trying to push away the anxiety that’s eating into your stomach like termites— but nothing goes. You can’t explain what you’re feeling, what you’ve been hearing. The secret your husband has been keeping of his affair had no longer been kept, revealed to you by your best friend in town.

She told you about how she saw him, heard him with one of his female colleagues, noticed how much time they spend together daily. How often they both seem to be working late.

The pain you had felt had eaten at you rabidly. You spent days festering, barely able to clean the house without breaking down in sobs, thankful that your husband worked a nine to five and didn’t see the way he made you ache.

You couldn’t give him that. You wouldn’t.

“He’s working late today.” You say, smile deteriorating. “Probably won’t be home until I’m asleep. He’s not that big of a fan of my cooking, anyway.”

James’ eyebrows furrow, “Does he not have tastebuds? You’re a genius in the kitchen, I swear.”

That makes your cheeks heat up, adding to the warmth of the summer weather. “Well, thank you, James.”

“Friends call me Bucky.” He winks, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Bucky it is.” You say.

Bucky is a well-dressed, hard working man from across the street, always tending to his yard or making the exterior of his house fresh. You had always found him attractive. From the day he moved in a few months back he had been in the back of your mind, swirling.

You kept pushing it back, determined to be a faithful doting wife— but it seems that ideal was one-sided.

That gave you an excuse, and excuse to make your vaulted desires come forward. You won’t let your husband see you suffer, but you will let him see you thrive.

You even put on your nicest dress.

“You don’t work?” Bucky asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Oh, no.” You say, “I’m a homemaker.”

“You should be a chef.” He jokes, picking at his plate with a fork.

You giggle, “I don’t have the time.”

“Eh, well,” He says, cleaning off the rest of his dish, “Guess I’ll have to be your pie test subject, then.”

That makes you smile, but more genuine- a spread of butterflies flowing inside your stomach.

You stand up to grab his plate, picking it up and carrying it to the sink to wash.

“Oh, I would’ve gotten that.” Bucky says, sitting up.

“No, no, it’s fine!” You say. “You’ve been working. I got it.”

You bend down to get dish soap, making a show of letting your dress skirt ride up to air your white, lace panties. You linger for just a second too long, before coming back up and actually washing his plate.

As you head back, you wipe off your skirt, dusting off anything that had gotten on it. You don’t miss the way he stares at your thighs, nor the way his eyes drift to your chest as you lean forward.

“I should probably go. Gotta lot to work on.”

As he stands, you grasp his arm, stopping him. “So soon? I could make you some more lemonade.”

You watch as he eyes your hand on his arm, thumbing his flannel with rubbed circles, then gazing back at you.

“As much as I’d love that, I’m pretty behind. I’ll definitely be back, sweets.”

You smile, reaching to paw at his other arm. “I like your company. It gets lonely here, without my husband… having you around is nice.”

“I’m glad.” Bucky says, staring down at you. “I like your company, too, doll.”

You bite down on your lip, playing at the strings of his flannel. “Then why don’t you stay? Just for a little while longer?”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, taking a long, considerate pause.

“If I didn’t know any better-“ He notes, speaking slowly, “I’d say you had ulterior motives for invitin’ me over.”

You give him your best doe-eyed look, letting him sit in the silence.

Of course you did. You got up early, dawned on your nicest matching lingerie set and prettiest dress- just to bake a pie and lemonade for him. It’s pathetic, it’s desperate, but you haven’t felt this giddy since you first started dating your husband.

Bucky’s eyes widen just enough to expose the whites of it. He doesn’t know what to say, really, eyes flickering from to every point he can, debating every option that’s being presented to him on fucking porcelain.

“Your husband…” He trails.

“He’s not here.” You note. “He won’t be for a while. I told you he’s working late.”

“Doll…”

“Yeah?”

“What are you playin’ at here, exactly?”

You contemplate what to say, how to say it. You’re unsure if it’s even a good idea, if you’re more motivated by revenge or desire— but both are clouding your head.

“I want you to fuck me like he never could.”

Bucky can’t help the way his mouth opens. He can feel his cock throb in his jeans, already half hard since he saw you in that godforsaken dress. You’re like the devil.

“I don’t wanna be the guy who ruins a marriage.” He objects, despite his own desires.

“Trust me,” Your hand rises up to grip his face, “It’s already been ruined.”

Bucky’s hands move almost against his will. Sliding down your back, hovering over your ass under your dress, his breathing shaky.

“He doesn’t fuck you right? That it?”

“He doesn’t fuck me at all, cause he’s too busy fucking another woman.”

That settles it for him.

His mouth practically swallows yours, hands grabbing your ass with force while his tongue invades your mouth. You can do nothing but moan, whining into his throat as you hold onto him.

He turns, picking you up and placing you on the kitchen table. You clatter against silverware, but he pushes them off before they stab into your skin- letting them clammer onto the tiled floor.

He moves to press open mouth kisses on your neck, already pulling the cups of your dress down, followed by your bra to reveal your breasts. He wraps a hardened nipple into his mouth, sucking as he massages the other one, reveling in the way you moan above him.

Bucky’s pushing up your skirt, pressing kisses down your stomach and your legs. He mouths around your inner thighs, teasing to where you need him most.

“Please,” You pant, pinching at your own nipples.

Bucky sliiiiides your panties down your legs, letting them fall to the ground beneath you. He lets out a grunt at the sight of your pussy, glistening and wet. Just for him.

“Your husband make you this wet?”

“Mm-mm,” You hum, “Never.”

That makes him grin. A shit-eating, cocky, son-of-a-bitch grin, but god, is it sexy.

He presses kisses to your mound, before licking a broad stripe up your folds. That has you moaning, legs squirming- but he’s quick to hold you back down.

You’re gasping while he sucks around your clit, fingers catching in your wet hole and sliding in and out. He’s moaning at your taste, sending vibrations against your clit that have you reeling.

He’s practically buried himself inside your cunt, devouring you like cherry pie. His mouth moves to suck down, before his tongue slides into your hole, his fingers replacing his tongues previous placement at your clit.

“I’m- I’m close,” You whine, pulling at his dark hair.

You feel his movements get faster, urging you to teeter off that edge. The high he’s building is unlike one you’ve felt— it’s cold, lighting inside your legs and stomach, building up so tight you can feel it about to snap.

And when it finally does, Bucky has to hold you still. He’s moaning with you, letting you ride out your orgasm by using his face.

When you come down, you’re panting, watching as he comes back up with a glistening mouth. He wipes off the sides, sucking around his fingers to get the last of your taste.

You reach out for him, which he gladly accepts. He brings you in for another kiss, reaching down to unbuckle his belt and pull down his jeans.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Mhm,” You moan, legs still tingling with a post-orgasmic haze.

“Say it, honey.” Bucky grunts, pulling down his boxers and stroking at his cock. You whimper at the sight— it’s thick, bigger than your husband’s, tip practically weeping.

“I need you to fuck me, please, I want it so fucking bad.” You beg, watching as he slides the head of his cock around your folds. “Please.”

Bucky’s cock catches in your hole, sliding into your wet heat with ease. You both whine at the feeling of him bottoming out, pressing kisses around every piece of skin on the other you can reach.

“Fuck,” He moans. “So fuckin’ tight, honey— he really doesn’t fuck ya, does he? This was all you needed, a good fuck, someone to make you cum hard, treat ya like the little slut you are. Well I’m here, honey, and I’m fuckin’- shit, I’m not leaving.”

He starts to fuck into you, balls slapping against your ass with the furious pace he’s already set. He’s grunting, groaning at the feeling of your warm cunt, head thrown back in pleasure.

“Yeah,” You moan, whining at the feeling of him using your pussy, “Fuck, just like that, please!”

“Yeah? You like that?” He moans, “Like me fuckin’ using your pussy?”

You can’t reply- too fucked out. You just moan, mumbling incoherently, pussy clenching around his moving length.

Bucky slaps at one of your tits; making you yelp, but then he sucks the nipple into his mouth with a groan. You tug at his hair, reveling in how it makes him borderline whimper.

You rub circles around your clit, desperate to get off, despite already coming so recently. He grunts at the sight, pulling off your nipple with a pop—

“Fuck, you gonna cum again?” Bucky groans, grabbing your hips to fuck into you harder, “It feels that good? Fuck, Wanna see you cream on my cock, be a good girl. C’mon.”

Another orgasm washes over you. It’s not as intense as the first one, but still leg twitching, making you curl into yourself.

“Oh god, that’s fuckin’ it,” Bucky groans, gasping, “Feels so good, baby, you have no idea.”

You whine in overstimulation as he keeps fucking you, whimpering when he reaches down to start rubbing your clit again.

“Need you to give me one more.”

“I can’t,” You whine.

“You can.” He rasps, “You fuckin’ will. Be a good girl, doll, gimme one more. Fuck, I need it.”

You’re clawing at his back, wetness practically drenching his cock. You know you’re leaving scratch marks, probably even drawing blood- but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, it spurs him on.

“I’m coming,” You whine, “Oh god, I can’t-“

Your third orgasm rips through you sharper than the others, leaving you trembling under his hold. All you can hear his harsh groans and grunts, praising you for how good you did for him.

“Shit,” Bucky grunts, sweat dripping down his face, “I’m so fuckin’ close.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, bringing him in closer and locking him inside.

“Fuck, honey-“ He stutters, “I gotta pull out, I can’t- you gotta let go, I can’t pull out.”

You shake your head, whining, “Cum in me, please.”

That makes him whine. “You want me to come in you? Fill up that slutty pussy?”

You nod rapidly, clenching your legs around him tighter. You can tell he’s close by how his thrusts stutter, cock throbbing inside your cunt.

“Your husbands gonna come home today, not knowing his pretty little wife has a pussy full of another man’s cum,” Bucky taunts, “But you love that, don’t you?”

“Yeah- yes, I love it.” You moan, grabbing onto him.

“Oh god- beg me for it.”

“Please cum inside me.”

“Fuck, you can do better than that,”

“Please!” You shout, “Cum inside me, I want it- I want it so fucking bad. I need you to fill up my pussy, please, Bucky.”

With one last, loud, bellowing groan, he stills above you, pumping you full of every last drop he has. He almost fully collapses, both of you left panting and spent.

After a moment, he stands up, wiping the sweat off his forehead before helping you correct your clothing malfunctions.

“Hey, uh,” Bucky says, pushing your hair back out of your face. “You ever make another pie that needs testing, you know where to find me.”

#sebastian stan #bucky barnes #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #sebastian stan smut #my writing #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction

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proxima-writes · 7 months

Text

pairing: tommy miller x waitress!female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 2.9k

summary: what if joel didn’t answer tommy’s call from jail? and what if the waitress he’d been defending that night bailed him out instead?

author’s note: a brief tommy interlude inspired by a line from taylor swift’s song “slut!”. i hope you enjoy and if you do, please consider reblogging or commenting! 🩵

tags/warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), no outbreak au, no use of y/n, reader gets harassed by a drunk bar patron and physically grabbed, bar fights, mentions of alcohol, friends to lovers, tommy smoking cigarettes, i gave tommy an insane amount of game and for what reason, thigh riding, semi-public sex, car sex, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, pet names, creampie. if i’ve missed any, please let me know!

“You’ve reached Joel Miller. Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now…”

“Son of a bitch,” Tommy hisses. The voicemail tone beeps and he continues with, “Joel, answer your goddamn phone. I’m at county. And no, it ain’t my fault. Just…get here when you can, I guess.”

He hangs up the receiver, head low. The officer watching him clears his throat.

“C’mon, Miller. Back to the tank,” he says. Tommy sighs.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’, Chuck.”

Tommy drags his feet across the dingy linoleum. His jaw aches from a sloppy right hook that managed to hit its mark and his eyes burn thanks to the unforgiving drunk tank fluorescent lights. There are two other people in the cell with him this evening — a man who reeks of vodka slumped in the corner in a wrinkled suit and another man who is staring solemnly at a spot on the floor as he tries not to topple over.

Tommy takes a seat on the long concrete bench and stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankles and folding his hands over his stomach. He might as well get comfortable, there’s no telling when his brother might check his voicemails. As he sits his thoughts drift to what even landed him here in the first place.

Tommy watches you as you approach the bar, a frown tugging at the corners of your lips. You tap the service machine, entering an order with more force than strictly necessary.

“Everythin’ alright?” He asks. You glance at him.

“Yeah, just some group of assholes over by the darts table that think cleavage is an invitation,” you reply. “It’s an invitation for tips. Not hands.”

“You need me to step in?” He offers. You wave a hand at him but your frown turns into a bright smile.

“No, no, I can handle it. Thank you, though, Tommy.” You slide another bottle of beer across the bar. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, darlin’,” he says with a wink. “You let me know if you need savin’.”

“Always such a gentleman.”

The bell to the kitchen window rings and you leave to pick up the order. Tommy watches the sway of your hips in your low rise jeans that hug your ass just right, wondering what it would be like to peel them off and get his hands on the soft skin underneath.

He’s watching the fight on the TV above the bar when he hears a glass shatter behind him. He turns toward the sound, thinking that maybe someone had gotten too rowdy and knocked their glass off the table, but instead he sees you struggling against the hold of a man who’s pulled you onto his lap.

“Let go!” You shout, kicking your legs.

“Come on, sweetheart,” the brute says, arms wrapped around your waist. “Just one lil kiss is all I’m askin’ for!”

Tommy is out of his seat with red in his vision, hands curled into fists that are begging for a target. Other patrons watch with interest, and he’s not sure if he’s angrier at the man putting his hands on you or the crowded room of people not bothering to help.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off of her,” he barks, the same tone he developed after years of service in the Army.

The man releases you, the sudden loss of support causing you to slide to the ground with a shout of surprise. Tommy moves to help you up but the asshole stands, blocking him and shoving his shoulders.

“This don’t involve you, pretty boy,” the man snarls. Behind him, you’ve managed to get up and you hurry away from the scene. “Mind your fuckin’ business.”

“It became my fuckin’ business as soon as she said no and you didn’t listen,” Tommy says, straightening his shoulders. The man laughs and looks back at his friends.

“This fuckin’ guy,” he slurs. “Defendin’ some whore waitress.”

Throw the first punch, Tommy thinks. Come on, asshole.

The man focuses his attention back on Tommy, stepping close enough that they’re toe-to-toe now. He’s maybe an inch taller and he tilts his chin to stretch that inch as far as it will go and he’s breathing through his nose like a bull about to be released from its holding.

“Get out of my fuckin’ face,” Tommy says. The man laughs, the stench of beer pouring from him. A fist cracks across Tommy’s jaw and he stumbles backwards from the force of it.

Showtime, he thinks.

“Miller!” An officer calls out, yanking Tommy from his thoughts. He looks up and the officer jerks his head towards the door. “You made bond. Come get your stuff.”

Tommy stands, relief flooding him. Joel must have finally check his voicemail. At least he won’t have to spend the whole night in here.

“‘Bout time you showed up,” he says as he enters the lobby while he tries to thread his belt through his jeans at the same time.

“Sorry, had to finish my shift,” you reply. His head snaps up in surprise, task forgotten as you wave your fingers at him.

“What’re you doin’ here?” He asks.

“You said your brother was busy tonight, so I was worried you might not have someone to bail you out,” you tell him with a shrug. “Besides, you’re in here because of me. It’s the least I could do.”

Tommy laughs. “Ain’t your fault, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, by the way. Guess I did need saving, after all.”

“You could’a handled him fine. I just sped up the process.”

He’s staring at you now, gaze caught with yours as you give him a soft smile. Tommy spots the time on the clock hanging on the wall above your head.

2:32 a.m.

“You wanna get breakfast?”

The diner Tommy directs you to boasts a neon sign that advertises twenty-four hour breakfast. The booths have cracked red vinyl and the menus are faded from use but you can read it well enough to order French toast while he orders chocolate chip pancakes with a side of hash browns. He builds pyramids out of the coffee creamer cups while you talk and talk and talk. You laugh as he drowns his food in syrup and you steal a bite of them despite giving him a hard time about it.

Afterwards, as you walk together to your car, your palms are a little clammy and your heart pounds the slightest bit faster. You’ve had the biggest crush on Tommy since the first time he slid onto a bar stool at your shitty bar and ordered a Miller Lite (“It’s funny ‘cause it’s my last name!”). He’s always polite, never leaves a mess, and makes you laugh even when you’re having a tough night.

"You alright? You got quiet," Tommy says. You swallow nervously.

"Yeah, I'm totally fine," you reply. He looks like he doesn't want to believe you but he doesn't press for more.

"You mind if I have a smoke before we go?"

"That's fine."

He digs a crumpled box of Camels from his back pocket, sliding a cigarette out and bringing it to his lips. He pats his thighs and then his chest in search of his lighter, finding it in the pocket of his button up shirt. Metal Zippo lighter finally in hand, he flicks it open and brings it closer to his face, flickering flame casting an orange glow over his features.

He breathes in as the cigarette catches the flame and closes the lighter with a quick snap, exhaling the smoke with the cigarette still held between his lips. Lighter tucked away, he inhales again and pinches the filter of the cigarette between two fingers to pull it away and exhale the smoke into the air.

“You gotta quit lookin’ at me like that,” he says. “You keep watchin’ my mouth and it makes me want to do somethin’ real stupid.”

You lean against your car and he steps close. He smells like a mix of smoke and syrup and sweat, three things that shouldn’t have your pulse pounding and yet combined with the way Tommy’s dark eyes focus on you and the dimple in his cheek as he smirks, you don’t stand a chance.

“More stupid than getting in a bar fight?” You finally ask.

“That wasn’t stupid. Got me here with you, didn’t it?” He inhales another lungful of smoke and tips his head back to exhale. “You gonna let me kiss you?”

You smile at him, lifting your hands to smooth your palms over his chest. His cheeks turn a faint shade of pink that trails down his neck, disappearing beneath the white tank top he wore beneath an unbuttoned pink shirt.

“That’s your big stupid idea? Just kissing me?”

Another drag from his cigarette, another smirk, a hand on your hip as he shuffles closer. “Mm, to start.” He brings his lips close to your ear, warm breath tickling your skin as he murmurs, “You didn’t answer the question.”

“What question?”

“You—“ a kiss beneath your ear “—gonna—“ another to your jaw “—let me—“ a third to your cheekbone “—kiss you?”

“Yeah, Tommy. You can kiss me,” you whisper. He wastes no time, greedy lips pressed to yours as soon as he gets the green light. His tongue explores your mouth and tangles with yours, leaving behind the taste of pancakes and smoke.

A thigh presses between your legs, a new pressure and friction that you explore with a tentative roll of your hips. That hand on your waist urges your movements — forward and back at a slow and steady pace. He pulls back from your kiss and brings the cigarette to his lips.

“So goddamn pretty,” he whispers, smoke spilling from his mouth and disappearing into the night air. “Pretty as a fuckin’ picture.”

He flicks the butt of his cigarette to the ground and then he’s on you with renewed purpose, kissing you deeply with a broad palm to your cheek, tilting your face to the best angle to devour you. When he’s gotten his fill of your mouth, his hungry lips slide across your jaw and down your neck, teeth digging in roughly against your pounding pulse and making you gasp.

“Hush, sugar,” he says, a reprimand with little heat as he smiles against your skin. That hand on your waist has found the fly of your jeans, deft fingers working the button open and the zipper down. “You want a little more attention?”

“Mhm,” you reply, nodding your head quickly. He slips his hand beneath the elastic of your panties, quickly swirling over your needy clit. He lets out a deep groan, one that has you clenching on nothing and desperate for more.

“God, you’re fuckin’ soaked,” he says. He presses two thick fingers to your tight entrance. “You can take it, right?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before pressing them inside, the tight pressure making you rise up on your toes in surprise. He’s got a limited range of movement thanks to your jeans but he still manages a sloppy grind of his palm to your clit and curl of his fingers that has you squirming as your release builds inside of you.

“You want more, baby?” Tommy asks, dark eyes a little wild and desperate. “You feel so good in my fingers, I just know you’d take my cock so fuckin’ good.”

“Tommy,” you pant, your hands clutching at his shoulders. “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

He yanks his hand from your jeans and before you can complain, he’s opening the back passenger door and urging you into the back seat of your sedan.

“Pants off,” he demands as you shuffle across the seats. He sits beside you and starts to unbuckle his belt. “If you’re gonna cum, it’s gonna be on my cock.”

His words have you scrambling to remove your boots and pants, graceless movements in the cramped space. Your elbow connects with his ribs and he hisses as you giggle, wiggling your pants and underwear off. It’s dark in the car, dim light from the parking lot filtering in the windows enough for you to catch the smile on Tommy’s face.

“C’mere,” he drawls, patting his thighs. He’s freed his cock from his jeans and you admire the thick length of him for a brief moment before obeying, straddling his lap. You drag your wet pussy over him, twin groans filling the still air of the car as you do. His hands flex against your thighs and his head tips back against the seat. “Fuck, you feel so damn good.”

It’s not the most comfortable encounter you’ve ever had, with your neck bent so that you don’t hit your head and your skin already slick with sweat from the cramped space and the Texas heat but, heaven help you, the look on Tommy’s face makes it worth it. You reach between your bodies and wrap your hand around him, holding him still as you position him at your entrance.

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss as you lower yourself, your eager cunt adjusting to him with only the slightest pinch of pain that quickly transforms into a delicious fullness. “Oh my god,” you whimper.

“You can just call me Tommy,” he teases, but his voice is just as wrecked as yours. You rise up slightly on your knees and drop down sharply, a satisfied smile on your face when his laughter morphs into a choked curse and his hands grip your hips tightly.

His fingers find the hem of your shirt and lift it up only enough to expose your bra, the cups of which he roughly pulls down until he’s able to get his hands on your breasts, groping you roughly. You moan as his lips wrap around one pert nipple, tongue swirling over the sensitive flesh and light dragging his teeth across it.

The windows grow foggy and your skin starts to get slick with sweat the longer you work yourself over his cock. It’s messy and dirty and uncomfortable, your thighs burn and your neck aches, but Tommy’s making it his goal to get his lips on any skin he can reach, whispered praises between each bite and kiss that has your head growing fuzzy and your core getting tight.

“Feel so good, darlin’,” he groans. “Goddamn, I need you to cum, baby. You were so close before, weren’t ya? I can get you there again, right?”

You nod, mouth open in a silent moan. He presses his thumb to your bottom lip, slipping it experimentally over your teeth until it presses against your tongue. You suck on the digit, reveling in the way his eyes roll back and he groans, hips flexing to meet yours and making you cry out.

“‘M so close, Tommy,” you whisper when he withdraws his thumb from your mouth.

“Yeah, I can feel it, sweetheart,” he growls. When you lift up he holds your hips steady, suspended above his lap. He pounds into you from below, rough slaps of his hips that make you press a hand to the ceiling of the car to steady yourself against the onslaught of sensation. “Come on, baby, come on,” he says through gritted teeth.

It’s the dark look in his eye and the flex of his jaw, the shimmer of sweat on his light tan skin and the feel of his fingers digging bruises into your hips, the lewd noises and the desperate moans against each others mouths that all combine to shove you over an edge you’d been balancing on since, if you’re being honest, he rushed over to help you back at the bar. You bite into his lip as your orgasm crashes over you, his sloppy thrusts and the heat blooming inside of you telling you he reached his peak as well.

You slump forward, panting heavily against Tommy’s neck. His head tips back against the seat, chest heaving with his own labored breaths. His fingers draw patterns against your sweaty back.

“I feel gross,” you groan. Tommy laughs.

“Sure know how to make a guy feel good about himself, don’t ya?” He teases.

“I just meant I’m all sticky.”

“Mm, don’t worry. You can take a shower at my place.”

You pull back to look him in the eye. He’s sporting a satisfied grin as you raise your eyebrows at him. “Oh yeah? You taking me home, Miller?”

“Sure am.” His confident look falters the slightest bit. “I mean, if you want.”

You kiss him, slow and sweet.

“Yeah. I want that.”

The loud ringing of a phone breaks through Tommy’s slumber. He reaches out a hand from beneath the sheets and blindly finds the offensive device amongst the clutter on his nightstand.

“What,” he groans when he’s managed to flip it open.

“Tommy! What the hell, man,” Joel snaps. “I just got your voicemail. Left my phone upstairs and fell asleep on the couch. Are you alright?”

“What?” Tommy asks again. Joel sighs.

“You called from county and said you’d gotten arrested. I called ‘em this morning and they said you got bailed out. One of your friends come by or somethin’?”

Tommy glances over to you, where your bare shoulder peeks out from the sheets, the fabric draped across your curves. He smiles.

“Yeah, a real good friend. Guardian angel, even,” he says.

Another sigh from Joel, this time one of relief. “Well, good. Quit gettin’ into trouble after ten, I can’t stay up that late anymore.”

“Sure,” Tommy agrees. You turn over, sleepy eyes blinking up at him. “I gotta go.”

He hangs up without waiting for a goodbye. You scooch closer and lay your head on his chest.

“A guardian angel, huh?” You ask. He kisses the top of your head.

“Yep. Saved my ass from the wrong place at the right time.”

Masterlists available here!

#tommy miller x female reader #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller #tommy miller tlou #tommy miller x you #tommy tlou #tommy miller x f!reader #tommy miller x y/n

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lovebugism · 1 year

Note

forgive me for what is likely a basic ass request but... steve has a crush on eddie's best friend? smut optional but encouraged :) (love, j.d. aka mypoisonedvine)

✶ ┄ LOVE YOU, ON PURPOSE (i)

part one | part two

summary: steve harrington took extra care to avoid the local freaks of hawkins. having shared custody of a fourteen-year-old forced him into a bitter friendship with one, he's steadfast in his refusal to befriend the other. that is, until you start working at the groove beside family video. steve claims he only fell for you because you tripped him. (17k)

pairing: steve harrington / eddie's bff!reader

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, protective eddie, canon divergence TW swearing, bullying, some smooching, talks of insecurities, reader is doubtful of steve's intentions because steve used to be a dick <3

a/n: this request has been sitting in my inbox for ages. ages, i tell you! i wrote the outline the day it was sent in and ended up turning the blurb request into a full on 30k+ word fic. i'm sorry for the wait j.d. (and to everyone else who's been waiting patiently for me to put this out). i quite literally put my heart, soul, pussy, and so, so many hours into this. please enjoy! feedback is always appreciated! xoxo

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Something happens and I'm head over heels.

It would be a total disservice to call you Eddie’s best friend.

It wouldn’t even feel right to call you his platonic soulmate or his sister from another dimension. Not when the two of you are essentially an extension of the same human being. It’s a twin flame on steroids — your mirrored souls make the rest of Hawkins believe in some sort of higher power. There’s no way it wasn’t destiny that placed the two of you together at exactly the right place, at exactly the right time.

Your entwined spirits could’ve been a beautiful thing.

It’s too bad you’re both total fucking freaks.

Unfortunately, being a couple of metalheads who spend their free time creating fantastical worlds in silly little board games hasn’t become cool yet — for some sad, strange reason. It leaves you and Eddie as the town’s token social pariahs. The kind of misfits you only spot when you care enough to look — laughing too loudly at the lunch table or sharing a cigarette in the alleyway between school buildings.

The kind of weirdos who get your attention without trying. The kind that people only look at when they need something to make fun of.

With that being said, everything Steve knew about you came from the people that hated you.

Tommy Hagan said that you and Eddie had been fucking since the seventh grade, that the two of you had gotten close between blowjobs and fingerbangs in the old chemistry classroom. No one’s quite sure where it came from, but they believed him without thinking twice. You and Eddie tried to squash the rumor for years before leaning into it full throttle.

“And these are the freaks,” Tommy announced when he approached your lunch table. He was giving Billy Hargrove a grand tour of the high school, or rather the shithole, and detoured like you and Eddie were some kind of sideshow attraction. Him and his goons ogled at you like zoo animals.

Steve idled some feet away, not as interested in the bit as the rest of them. He was even less interested in entertaining the new kid on the block thateveryone else seemed to be obsessed with.

“Hey, Tommy...” Eddie sing-songed through a mouthful of PB&J. You’d given him the other half of your sandwich, because you always give him the other half of your sandwich. “Hope you’re not comin’ back to ask for a handy again. I already turned you down, remember?”

A dumb grin took over the boy’s freckled face. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned over to the California boy. “I wouldn’t get too close to them. Don’t know where their hands have been, you know? If I had to guess, I think Punchy got Munson’s rocks off in the janitor’s closet before lunch period.”

Neither of you were particularly fazed by the laughter that erupted all at once and threatened to swallow you whole. Instead, you smiled with bits of grape jelly smeared on your chin. “I bet you think about it a lot, don’t you, Tommy?”

You really lived up to the nickname. Punchy. You weren’t entirely sure where it came from — your fierce temper, perhaps, or maybe your intense personality. Either way, it suited you.

Vicki Carmichael once said that you bit a guy on a date one time. Barry Jenkins, a tennis douchebag who thought the world revolved around him because his dad owned a string of local laundromats. He took you on a date in his mom’s Impala and assumed making out in the backseat gave him free rein to stick his hand up your skirt.

The asshole sported a red mark on his neck the next day.

When people asked you about it, you smiled with all your teeth in place of any real answer.

Carol Perkins loved to comment on the state of your wardrobe, telling anyone who would listen about the time she caught you rifling through the $1 bargain bins outside the thrift store. She liked to joke that you were stealing from them. “Because she can’t even afford a couple measly dollars. It’s kinda sad, honestly. I feel a little bad for her,” you overheard her saying once.

You were smoking a cigarette in the stall and watching through the crack of it while her and her friends touched up their lip gloss.

“Wait, really?” Tina wondered, stopping mid-swipe of mascara through her long lashes to gape at the girl beside her. Because, god forbid, they don’t have someone to make fun of.

Carol snapped bright pink bubblegum between her teeth. She looked offended, almost — manicured brows furrowed and shiny lips snarled — like the idea of her taking pity on you was insulting. “No,” she snapped in response.

You’re pretty sure it’s the only rumor about you that’s got any bit of truth to it. Or any rumor of hers, really. The thrift store was great and all, but you firmly believe that your best pieces come remanufactured straight from Eddie Munson’s closet.

So it isn’t any wonder why the two of you seem to dress so similarly — all leather jackets and distressed jeans and hand-me-down t-shirts that are either too big or too small. The both of you take little care in your appearance, wearing only what you feel good in. And sometimes that means wild hair and baggy clothes that swallow you whole.

To make it worse, you and Eddie even talk the same. You’re both loud and brash and have very little awareness of personal space. You aren’t scared to make a scene or use your voice when you think it’s being stifled. And when you love someone, they know it, because you won’t leave them the hell alone.

These are all the things that Steve hated about Eddie. So he hasn’t quite figured out why he’s so damn in love with you.

But he is.

Quite dreadfully so.

Head over heels and stumbling since the day he met you for a second time.

It was the spring of 1986 and The Groove had just opened up. Steve had heard murmurings of a record shop taking over the empty outlet adjacent to Family Video but had no idea it would nearly run them out of business. The shiny, new music store attracted all of their usual customers. People were more excited to buy new cassettes than rent movies they’d seen a thousand times already.

Steve didn’t mind, though. He liked it best when the store was empty. But all of his friends — a closeted lesbian, a basket case, and a couple of fourteen-year-olds — seemed to have the same affliction that was plaguing the rest of the town.

He tried not to be offended when Robin said she was going to spend her break next door and not with him in the closet-sized break room.

He failed.

Robin spent her half-hour and then some meeting you. She returned forty-five minutes later with a blushing face and a bleeding heart. Suddenly, there were two people in Steve’s life that couldn’t seem to shut up about you. As much as it annoyed him, he let her gush about you anyway, because that’s what best friends do, after all.

But Steve knew you once upon a time. Or he thought he did.

You were a loudmouthed metalhead who wore all black to blend in to Eddie’s shadow. You created fictional characters because it was easier than making friends with real people. You were strange and awkward and mean and gauche — the total opposite of this heavenly, mystical creature Robin was making you out to be.

But then it became this whole… thing.

With Robin and Eddie constantly talking over him about you, the rest of the kids were as confused as Steve was. And as they so often tend to do, the group decided to take matters into their own hands and make the short trek to meet you formally. Steve figured that their answer would be final. When those teenagers hate you, you know it. He learned that the hard way

They’re gone for a little over an hour and come back with a thousand stories and various tapes they say you gave to them for free.

Lucas has got a new Beastie Boys cassette and a proud smile on his face as he recounts the promise you’d made him about catching his next basketball game. “And she said she really liked my ranger,” he brags less than humbly, telling the older teens about how you’d heard stories about his track record in Hellfire campaigns. There’s a sudden suaveness to his voice as he bounces his brows up and down at them.

Max scrunches her face in disgust. She clutches a Kate Bush tape close to her chest, like it’s a prized possession she never wants to let go of. She rolls her eyes at her boyfriend (or maybe ex-boyfriend, but Steve can never keep up these days) and makes her own conversation with Robin. The two girls are the only ones with more than half a brain cell between them, or so they claim.

The redhead tells her that she plans on bringing her broken skateboard over to your store soon. She says the thing’s been wobbly for days, and Robin nods along like she knows all about it. “Well, apparently, she has some tools and knows how to fix it. Said the trucks just needed to be reinforced or some shit, I don’t know, I’m just glad it’s getting fixed.”

“Wait, why didn’t you tell me?” Steve asks her, confusion contorting his words along with his features. He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “I could’ve fixed it.”

“You don’t know anything about skateboards,” Max monotones.

“Okay, but you don’t even know this girl! She’s a total stranger, Max. That’s dangerous.”

She rolls her eyes. “She’s nice, Steve. Way nicer than you—”

That makes him scoff.

“—And you’d know that if you got to know her.”

It’s Dustin’s turn to gush about you next. His opinion, for a reason Steve has never been able to place, arguably means the most to him. And the kid is just absolutely fucking beaming about you. He holds a Star Wars orchestral vinyl in his hand — the brand new one he’s been talking about for weeks but couldn’t afford.

He talks of the collection of DnD figurines you were painting behind the counter and the promise you made to make one for his bard come the next campaign.

Dustin gazes at Steve, wide-eyed and nodding like he’s as amazed by the revelation as Steve is. “She’s cool, Steve. Like… really cool.”

The boy thought that Robin just had a crush, that Eddie was just being Eddie and overdramatizing all of his stories about you. But you’re everything they said you’d be and then some. The kind of stranger you meet that takes your breath away, that makes you sad in the understanding that you’ll never see them again. Dustin is grateful you don’t have to be a stranger anymore.

You sounded… nice. More than nice. They painted you out to be a fucking angel, the way you took care of a bunch of kids you barely knew for the better part of an hour. You weren’t the freak everyone made you out to be all that time ago.

They talk a great deal about your looks, too. Dustin, mostly. Lucas had received a glare and a half-hearted punch on the arm from Max when he said how pretty you were — even though she ultimately agreed with him. The curly-headed boy uses too big words to describe the renaissance painting you are, all heavenly morose and beautifully strange.

“Hey,” Eddie scolds from the sidelines, mostly playful. “That’s my sister you’re talking about. Bring it down a few notches, ‘kay?”

Steve is silent for the rest of the day after that. He’s not pouting about it like Robin keeps saying he is, just reserved in his reminiscence.

He can’t tell if he’s intrigued or annoyed. They talk about you the way people used to talk about King Steve — with a borderline obsession for someone they don’t really know. And deep down, he knows he’s just jealous. Jealous that no one talks about him that way anymore. Jealous that none of the kids have ever talked about him that way.

It leaves him skeptical and wanting to see the real thing for himself.

Steve opts to meet you on his lunch break the next day with a tight chest and sweaty palms, like a part of him knew it was going to change the trajectory of his life for the foreseeable future.

The door dings with his arrival. The record store smells like earth and nostalgia, a bit like flipping through the pages of an old book. Vinyls sit in rows and in towers that rise to the ceilings. Colorful cassettes, of which there are thousands, have nooks and crannies of their own. Posters decorate the walls along with various patterned records — there’s hardly a blank spot in the entire store.

And when Steve sees you for the first time, he only sees the back of you.

You’re in all black, just like he imagined you’d be. A sliver of skin at your midriff is showing from where your too small shirt has ridden up your torso. And your hair is as wild as ever, though a little longer than he remembers. You’ve haphazardly pinned back the ornery strings with a sparkly pin, but it doesn’t do much to tame them.

A breeze of warm wistfulness washes over him at the sight of you. A reminder of a life that used to be his, that you were a part of only passively.

It’s your smile that does him in. Maybe because you’ve never looked at him with it. As far as Steve’s concerned, no one’s ever smiled at him the way you do, and you barely even know him. You hadn’t seen him in over a year and if you shared any words in the past, it wasn’t anything more than snarky one-liners. But here you are, looking at him with sunshine anyway.

“Hi,” you beam with the warmest grin he’s ever seen, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Welcome in.”

He’s too stunned by the sight of you to respond. He just stands in the doorway, all wide-eyed and gaping, like he’s the first to see an angel on earth. And it’s strange because you’re far from perfect.

You’re blousy and a little disheveled, like you’d been running late that morning. The lack of makeup allows your imperfections to shine through in a way that makes you somehow more alluring. And you’ve got paint splattered like freckles on your cheeks, the culprit being the figurines you’re painting behind the counter. If you know you’re dotted with shades of red, blue, and green, you don’t show it.

“Can I help you find anything?” you ask him, still kind even though he’s acting like a fucking weirdo. That’s supposed to be your thing, not his.

Steve grasps for something to say but comes up short. His lips part and then close again in an embarrassing pattern that resembles a fish out of water. It makes sense, though; it’s a bit how you’ve made him feel just now.

When he realizes he can’t make out anything intelligible, he shakes his head. “Uh… nope.”

He’s leaving before he even realizes he’s leaving. The door dings again and he’s on the other side of it, long legs carrying him the short distance to Family Video at record speed.

He swings and slams the egress shut in quick succession, as though the ghost of you had been chasing him. He leans against the glass pane and exhales a heaving sigh, eyes squeezing shut as he recoils at what he’d just done.

He always knew that King Steve had died some time ago, but this was a new low.

Robin watches from the front counter with wide eyes. “…Did you forget something?”

Steve sighs a big, hopeless sigh, then peeks his eyes open. “My dignity.”

“She’s cute, right?” she asks, already knowing the answer. Her brows bounce in time with the smirk on her painted lips.

“Yeah, she’s cute,” he answers, all mad because it’s obvious. “She’s fucking— she’s beautiful.”

“Aw. Look at you,” she sing-songs and tilts her head to her shoulder. “I think your heart grew three sizes today, Stevie.”

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

I never find out 'til I'm head over heels.

Steve, all caught up in his boyish misery, has no idea that he’s enraptured you in a similar way.

You hadn’t cared very much for the guy in high school. You didn’t really know him then, and you didn’t particularly want to. King Steve was rich. King Steve was pretty — too pretty. King Steve got attention from pretty cheerleaders and overaggressive douchebags alike.

King Steve didn’t need any affection from the local freakshow.

But, by some strange turn of events, he’d managed to make nice with your best friend.

The way Eddie talks about Steve, his words always dripping with a distant venom, it sounds like they still hate each other. Maybe they do. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit that they hang out far too often not to be friends.

If you were still in school, you probably would’ve judged him for it. Being friends with the boy whose buddies made your life hell certainly warranted some degree of ridicule. But now, having graduated and trying to move on from it all, you can’t find it in yourself to.

High school might as well have been a lifetime now. There’s no use in holding onto old ghosts.

If Eddie could let that shit go, so could you.

He drops by after school to keep you company like he always does when he doesn’t have a campaign to prep for. It’s his favorite pastime, perhaps a close second to Dungeons and Dragons. He gets to hang out with his best friend and swim in an ocean of music while he does it. As far as freaks go, Eddie Munson considers himself the luckiest.

He likes to hear you talk about everything new you’ve gotten in while he rifles through the old stuff that isn’t selling as well. You happily let him take what he wants for free. And what he doesn’t take, he doesn’t pay for either, because you cheat the system with your employee discount and then wipe the record from inventory. Just to be safe.

“I love having a criminal for a best friend,” he jokes every time, without fail.

Eddie stays by your side until the sun sets. He parts only to flip the sign at the door to closingfor you, then plops himself back on the counter again. His legs hang off the side of it, sneakers occasionally thudding against the wood when he kicks them back and forth too hard. He scans the back of an old Lynyrd Skynyrd vinyl and bobs his head to the rhythmic bass as the song fills the empty store. He’ll take this one home, he decides.

You keep on painting like you have been all day, breaking only to assist customers or stretch your aching spine. The forest dragon had been far more work than you expected — made of pretty purple leaves instead of scales and blowing blush-colored flowers instead of fire. The little piece of clay has resulted in a day of back-breaking work.

You’ll be damned if Eddie’s next campaign isn’t the most stellar looking one yet.

Focusing on that makes it easier not to bring up Steve.

You want to. You just don’t know how.

Eddie’s friends were Eddie’s, and you don’t get involved where it doesn’t concern you. Besides, you did sort of give him shit for hanging out with The Hair way back when. The last thing you want is him taking the piss out of you about it.

You don’t want to sound like you care too much. Even more, you don’t want it to be obvious that you’ve been thinking about the boy all day — making yourself sick as you stew in what could’ve run him out like he did.

“Saw your friend today,” you remark, feigning a sort of absentmindedness, as you swipe your brush along the petals of your dragon. “King Steve.”

“Oh, you met him?” Eddie wonders, more intrigued by your words than you expected he’d be. He says it like you didn’t already know the guy — like this new Steve was a totally different person you needed to be reacquainted with to really know.

“I wouldn’t say met him exactly. He just, like, popped in for half a second and ran out.”

With your back facing him, you don’t see the shit-eating grin that pulls at the corners of his mouth.

Eddie was waiting for Steve to crack and finally see you. He knew he’d bite after the way the kids had talked about you — Dustin, especially. Because even though he claims he doesn’t have favorites, he’s got a very obvious soft spot for the boy. And he knew Steve would like you because everyone likes you. When they’re not clouded by judgment and high school hierarchies, at least.

He’s still got no idea how a guy that trips all over himself at the sight of a pretty girl could’ve ruled Hawkins once upon a time.

“Fucking idiot,” Eddie laughs to himself, already gearing up for the shit he was going to give Steve the next time he saw him.

But you see the boy before Eddie does. Steve comes back the next day, an hour or more after opening, less frazzled than the day before. The nearly twenty-four hours he had to prepare himself for the angel he was going to see allowed him not to make a total fool of himself when he stepped into the store again.

And you wouldn’t say it out loud — hell, it’s not even something you want to admit to yourself — but you’d been hoping he’d stop by again.

You thought Robin would come by and drag him with her, or that Dustin and his friends would come around before Steve dropped them all home. Frankly, you didn’t really care what brought him back. You just wanted to see him again.

Steve’s different than the boy he used to be. Enough that it was obvious from a measly thirty-second interaction. He used to be a charmer who could talk his way out of anything. Not to you, of course, he wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to you. But then he stops by out of nowhere, in rare form, stumbling all over himself and looking like he didn’t recognize you at all.

You’re still trying to figure out if that was a good thing or not.

He’s mystified you in a way he probably isn’t used to. Most girls like the hair and the arms — the super buff, super strong arms that fit so nicely in his uniform — or the fact that he’s got money and a reputation that precedes him. But you’ve never given a shit about any of that.

You’re more enchanted by the way nothing could even begin to conceal the soft, shy boy that King Steve had apparently turned into.

The door chimes above his head when he enters. The scent of earthy nostalgia is already familiar to him — lavender, sage, and something deeper. Steve considers it progress when he plants himself a few feet away from the door this time. If he runs out again, he’ll have to make an embarrassingly longer escape.

You turn away from your nearly finished figurine to greet the new customer. The practiced smile unconsciously widens at the sight of him. “Hi!”

“Hey,” he smiles with a curt nod. He regrets the half-wave he gives you the second his hand shoots up.

“You gonna run off on me again?” you tease and swivel in your chair to face him completely.

You’re wearing a Hellfire shirt that’s just slightly too big for you. It probably belonged to Eddie before it belonged to you. And you wear a corset-looking thing over top of it, a sheer number with a lace embroidery and a ribbon that’s tied in a bow at your belly. It doesn’t cinch you in the slightest, though, more for decoration than practicality.

“No that was… I just—” Steve huffs out a laugh as he tries and fails to come up with an excuse. He figures anything is better than the truth — that he saw how pretty you were and his brain forgot how to work because he’s the lamest person on the planet.

So he chucks a thumb over his shoulder and fibs. “I left something back at Family Video. Had to run back.”

“It’s okay. I was just teasing,” you assure. “Uh— Are you looking for anything specific?”

“No. Not really. Just… new records to add to my collection, you know?”

“Oh, you collect vinyls?”

He doesn’t realize that’s what he’s just said until you repeat the words back to him.

He’s kind of just talking out of his ass and hoping something sticks. That line does, apparently, because you’re beaming at him instantly. He’s scared to say no because then you’ll stop smiling. And he can’t have that.

“Yep,” he answers with a nod. The stack of records collecting dust in his den has to count for something, right?

He can’t find it in himself to regret his little white lie when it has you lighting up like a christmas tree.

You toss your paintbrush down when you rush from behind the counter to meet him. You seem to have forgotten that you’d just dipped the thing in purple paint. The thing splatters shades of lilac all over the limestone bench. And, in your haste, you nearly smack yourself with the leaden slab as you raise it to pass by.

Steve’s eyes widen when you narrowly dodge the weighty thing — then jumps, startled by the dense thwap that echoes through the small store when it slams back down again. He’s almost worried that it might’ve busted the hinge.

You cower at the loud sound but move on with a commendable finesse, too focused on him to care about anything else.

“That’s so cool! I’ve always wanted to collect, but records are so expensive, it’s crazy,” you ramble as you walk up to him, totally unthinking in the way you grab his forearm and usher him to the back of the store.

Your sheer black skirt swishes at your ankles as you walk. The dainty fabric is patterned with sparkly stars and crescent moons. He notices you wear a pair of dark shorts underneath for modesty. Steve tries his best not to stare at your ass. He almost succeeds.

“We actually just got in a couple of Dio records — The Holy Diver, you know, the one that just came out. I’m pretty sure there’s only, like, a couple thousand of these things in the whole world — which is totally fucking bonkers if you think about it,” you explain in one breath, laughing, before stopping abruptly in your tracks. Steve nearly runs into you when you turn around to face him.

You laugh again, a sadder one, this time at yourself, as you bring your palm to your forehead. “Sorry. I don’t— I don’t even know if you like Dio. I mean, of course, you don’t, right? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… rambled like that.”

You’d just been so excited and Steve had just been so different that you forgot who you were talking to. Hawkins High Royalty, Prom King, Biggest Flirt and Life of the Party in the yearbook.

As far as you’re concerned, Eddie Munson is your only friend. He’s the only person in the whole world you can be yourself around and never get self-conscious about any of it.

But sometimes you have moments like this one with a total stranger. Moments where you lose yourself in the conversation and your own jumbled thoughts. Moments where you talk and talk and talk until something thumps you on the head and you realize how annoying you’re being. This time, it’s the musky smell of his cologne that knocks you back to Ms. Click’s history class. The crisp breeze of bitter nostalgia makes you shiver.

Steve can see the way you get so suddenly aware of yourself and how the cognizance of the moment makes you writhe. He tries to bat away the lingering insecurities with a smile.

“Love ‘em,” he responds with a nod. He raises his brows and scoffs, grins and crosses his arms over his chest. “I mean, Dio? God, they’re like… top ten bands of all time, at least. Maybe even five.”

That isn’t totally true. He doesn’t know much about the band to have an opinion, but he’s pretty sure he might’ve said he hated them once. That was only because Eddie wouldn’t stop talking about them, though. Steve could learn to like them, if it means so much to you.

That’s exactly how he justifies spending $60 on four records.

He tells himself that he’ll listen to them and think of you, that it’ll be a solid conversation starter the next time he sees you.

You had a whole damn rack dedicated to all your favorite bands — “I put it together myself,” you’d bragged with a proud smile. S it’s a wonder Steve didn’t walk out with the entire damn store. Because you just kept on smiling and talking, so happy to have someone to care about what you had to say, and he ate up every second of it.

He’ll have to work overtime to keep his pockets from hurting, but it’ll be worth it. Because he’ll get to keep talking to you and indulging in all the things you seem to love more than life itself.

You’re still rambling as you ring him up. Steve notices you haven’t stopped yourself like you did before. His lack of dismissal has made you more comfortable, it seems. He likes that.

“I think we’re also gonna get a couple cases of Def Leppard cassettes tomorrow, which is super sick. I think I might have to start collecting, honestly. Tapes are whole lot cheaper than records, you know,” you tell him as you scan and bag all his vinyls. “And it’s also, like, a fucking stellar album. I don’t think I’ve stopped listening to Photograph since it came out.”

“Photograph. Right. Love that one,” Steve nods with a kind smile as he props his elbows on the counter. He doesn’t particularly care that he’s not entirely sure what you’re talking about, or that he’s never actually heard the song. He’s starting to realize you could talk for hours and he wouldn’t get bored.

“Oh, is that your favorite too? Eddie’s more of a Foolin’ kinda guy.”

Despite the fact that he’s never heard the song or this album in his life, he nods anyway.

He sort of spent the first eighteen years of his life faking just about everything — it kind of came with being the King of Hawkins High. It’s a talent that hasn’t yet left him, it seems, lying through his teeth to impress people. It’s almost become a second nature to him.

“Foolin’s good, yeah, but I think Photograph is obviously better.”

“Obviously, right!” you exclaim with a sunshine-coated laugh. “That’s exactly what I told him! But he’s way too hard-headed to be wrong about anything, so…”

“Well, I’d like to put it on the record that I firmly agree with you,” Steve replies so smoothly that his tongue must be dripping with honey. It’s so easy for him to fall into King Steve mode — when he isn’t forgetting how to speak and running off, that is.

You’ve learned a lot Steve in the past half hour. He likes metal, but leans more toward rock. Particularly all the metal and rock that you like. He hasn’t once had a differing opinion than you, besides telling you he heard Eddie playing a Metallica song once that he didn’t particularly care for. The second you tell him it’s one of your favorites, he backtracks instantly, blaming the Munson boy for being too sloshed to play it properly.

And you don’t miss the way he’s looking at you just now either, with his chin toward his chest as he peers up at you with warm amber eyes. He’s the charmer that he always was. It makes you remember, again, just who you’re talking to.

“We have a lot in common, King Steve,” you lilt with a playful grin.

He deflates at the use of the old nickname. You see the light in his eyes flicker for a just moment before he’s ducking his gaze away from you completely. He tries to brush it off with a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not— I’m not really King Steve anymore…”

“No?”

“Nope. Just… Just Steve these days.”

When he looks back at you, he finds you nodding at him, almost in approval.

Most people are upset to find that he’s changed so much. They hate that he’s no longer the recklessly stupid dumbass they used to get drunk with.

Not you, though.

“Cool,” you mumble, smiling softly, as you hand him his bag and receipt.

“Uh, I’d love to, you know, come take a look at those tapes when you get ‘em in,” he says as he walks backward towards the door, finally making the brash offer he’s been thinking about this whole time. “Maybe I can bring lunch and we can—”

“Well, Hellfire’s been doing campaigns during lunch recently. And Gareth’s out sick, so I’ve been subbing for him, you know, so…” you interject awkwardly, shifting your weight on your feet. You hate to turn him down, but Eddie might just kill you if he has to get a substitute for the substitute.

“Oh…” he nods, softly puckering his plump pink lips that you can’t seem to stop staring at.

“But I don’t think they’re coming in until late, anyway,” you add quickly. “So, you can stop by at closing, if you want?”

“No, yeah, that’s cool. So cool,” he replies, a little more flustered than he’d been just moments before. He’s just happy that your rejection wasn’t a total refusal.

You try to bite back the wide grin threatening to take over your mouth. “Okay… I’ll catch you later, then, Just Steve.”

“See you,” he waves right before startling himself when he backs into the basket of clearance tapes sitting just beside the door. He barely catches the thing before it tips over completely. He flashes you a shaking smile afterward and finds you covering your mouth with your hand while you try not to laugh too loudly.

He wishes you’d just went ahead and laughed at him. He wouldn’t have even cared that you were laughing at him, if it meant he got to see you smile.

And even though he’d just gotten done making the biggest fool of himself, he walks back to work feeling like the coolest man alive. There’s a foreign strut in his step that hadn’t been there before he saw you. It doesn’t leave him when he realizes he’s gone slightly over his break and that Keith is manning the counter in his absence.

The man mumbles a monotoned goodbye to the customer he’d just checked out.

She turns around and Steve realizes he recognizes this girl — Mindy or Mandy or maybe Monica — from Mr. Kaminsky’s class way back when. She did all of his homework for him before and after letting him fuck her on her twin-sized bed in her all pink room. That’s when Steve was conquering girls like they were Mount Everest, way before Nancy, when King was a title he wore with pride.

But he’s still so stuck in his head with thoughts of you that he doesn’t even see Mindy-Mandy-Monica or the flirtatious wave she throws his way.

“You’re ten minutes late,” Keith scolds, with his dead tone and his deader eyes.

Steve only shrugs, uncaring if it came out of his paycheck because — “I just got a date with the hottest woman on the planet,” he boasts with a puffed out chest and too smug smile.

It doesn’t lessen Keith’s anger, just diverts it. Because he knows exactly who he’s talking about. And so does Robin, as she pops her head out from behind the man from where she sits at the computer. “No way,” they chorus in disbelief at his words.

Steve nods. “Yes way.”

“Eddie’s gonna kill you,” Robin remarks with the shake of her head.

He knows she’s right. He just doesn’t care.

Eddie’s always been protective of you. Everyone knows that. But the two of them were friends now — or somewhat good-natured acquaintances, at the very least. He would’ve been mad about a year or more ago, if King Steve had decided to suddenly woo his best friend.

But it’s different now. He’s different now. Eddie knows how much everything’s changed, it’s just a question of if he’s willing to rehash old wounds.

It’s a good thing Steve knows how to take a punch.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Don't take my heart, don't break my heart.

Steve finds you again the next day less happy than he’s gotten used to.

The record store is dim and the red sign at the entrance has been flipped to closed, but the door is left unlocked — for him. The warm scent is a distinct contrast to the frigid spring night, a cozy high hemp and lavender, but your absence is noticeable and terribly heavy.

Steve lingers in the doorway, his shadow looming like a giant before him from the moonlight streaming in from outside.

He calls for you in the emptiness.

“Uh… Punchy?”

He’s relieved when you answer. The “back here!” you shout to him is muffled and far away. He follows the sound of your voice, filled suddenly with a childlike consolation.

The yellow fairy lights dangling over his head guide him through the aisles of cassettes and closer to you. Through a cluttered backroom, Steve finds you standing just outside an opened door — left ajar, for him.

The smile you flash when you see him is as dim as the closed-down store. It lacks all the sunshine you usually look at him with, shades of stormy gray rather than the usual yellows.

A look of concern flashes across his features — furrowed brows and inquisitive twinkling eyes — as you take a drag from the lit cigarette caught between your pointer and middle finger. You muster your best grin, but it flickers like a shoddy radio signal.

“Punchy, huh?” you tease.

Steve’s brows pinch together as confusion floods his features. It takes him a moment to realize what he’d said and the nickname he’d used — and he doesn’t want to be dramatic or anything, but he kinda wants to die. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to hold on to an old high school monicker. And, fuck, if you hate it half as bad as he hates being called king, he deserves a slap to the face right about now.

You laugh instead of ball your first. He’s able to smile meekly in relief. “Oh. Shit. Sorry, I… I don’t think I even realized it came out.”

“No, it’s okay,” you assure when you see him getting all apologetic. “Eddie still calls me that all the time, so… Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Steve tries to move on, but it’s hard to when you’re so obviously gloomy. He hates how reserved you’ve gone in your quiet, not talking up a storm like you had been the last time he saw you. Now you’re just… a storm. It’s a little like sitting next to a rumbling rain cloud.

The rumbling rain cloud beside him takes a drag of her cigarette.

“You okay?” he asks and sounds like he really cares.

You didn’t think King Steve was capable of caring about anything other than his hair, but he looks down at you like he can feel every blue bolt of your doom and gloom. He makes you feel seen in the void of your sadness despite all the years you spent being invisible to him.

“Uh, yeah. It’s just the tapes. They didn’t come in,” you answer with a shrug. Smokes leaves your mouth and lingers in white clouds in the air. “So I’m a little bummed.”

“Oh…” is all Steve says and his pink mouth forms a too pretty ‘o’ shape that you can’t draw your gaze from.

The following silence makes you momentarily cautious. Insecurity runs cold over you because no sane person gets this about upset over a broken promise of a couple cassettes. It’s stupid, you know it is, but you were really looking forward to them. It’s like promising a kid the most metal present ever and then snatching it out of their bare hands.

Now, over the course of a couple hours, you’ve managed to convince yourself you won’t remember happiness until you get those stupid tapes.

“Sorry,” you apologize to him for a reason he can’t place. You shift your weight on your feet and peer at him from beneath your lashes. “I know you were looking forward to them, too.”

You extend your hand and offer him the cigarette between your fingers like it’s an olive branch. He takes it from you with a distant smile, then opts to laze against the brick wall like you are. He stays a respectful distance on the other side of the entryway.

“It’s okay. They’ll come. If I’m being honest, you know, I was kinda more excited to see you.”

His admission is brazen and a tad bit brash, even for a certified ex-douchebag. It lacks all of the usual honey-coated flirtation that usually tints his tone when he’s talking to a pretty girl. Because he wasn’t trying to make you swoon — though he certainly wouldn’t have minded if you had. This wasn’t some romantic advance, just a proclamation of his own personal truth.

A flash of shock contorts your features. “Really?”

“Of course,” he answers, breathing out a laugh that exits along with the smoke in his lungs. “I love talking to you. You’re… You’re cool, you know? S— Super cool.”

His face screws up at his stuttering, and he shakes his head at how the words sound leaving his mouth. His cheeks glow cherry red beneath an orange street lamp.

“Super cool, huh?” you repeat with a giggle that’s bright enough to illuminate the velvet night. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before.”

Steve scoffs when he passes the cigarette back to you. Because, lately, that’s all he’s been hearing about you. From Eddie, from Robin, from Dustin — every good thing a person could say about someone else, they all say about you.

He’s starting to understand why.

Because you’re sweet. Like, pure sugar poured on the tip of his tongue kind of sweet. You’re bright like sunshine and soft like summer rain. You’re a shot of pure espresso for a boy who thought his life was at a dead end. He’s not entirely sure how he ever could’ve thought you were some deep, dark, devil-worshipping freak.

“I don’t believe that,” he dismisses with the shake of his head.

You breathe out a sharp exhale and a puff of nicotine-coated smoke. “I’ve been the town pariah since I was eleven, Steve. Everyone thinks I’m some kinda delinquent who’s in a cult because I play a dumb board game. So, no. No one’s ever thought I was cool before.”

“Still?” Steve wonders with a twisted face. “You graduated, like, a year ago. Are... Are people really still on your ass about that?”

“A little,” you answer with a shrug, trying your best not to look as affected by it all as you feel.

Steve feels his chest swell with the fiery urge to protect you. The same one he gets when Dustin tells him about the assholes at school that are bothering him. He wants to defend you from the same sort of assholes that he used to be. The impulse is borderline primal, rooted somewhere deep and far within himself, because god knows he’s got a terrible track record when it comes to winning fights.

“Shit, Punchy… I’m— I’m sorry.”

You sputter out a laugh at the apology, louder when you realize he’s using the nickname again.

He can’t relate to any of this. The trials and tribulations of being persona non grata everywhere you went were certainly lost on him. Steve might’ve lost his touch somewhere down the road, but he’ll always be crown royalty — the kind of guy you think fondly of when your wonderyears are long gone. But you? You’re lucky if people don’t cross to the other side of the street when they spot you coming.

Perhaps that’s why his words warm you so much. Because, despite all that, he’s trying to make you feel better anyway.

You give him a tender smile and a dwindling cigarette.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s whatever, you know? I think it’s because I still hang out with Eddie all the time. Like, people see us and remember what fucking freaks we used to be,” you say with a laugh, then start to ramble without thinking. “We saw Tommy Hagan at Melvald’s the other day, and he looked at us like we caused him severe PTSD or something, like, he looked terrified. I honestly felt a little bad.”

Steve smiles, wide-eyed, equal parts intrigued and unsettled by the reminiscent glimmer in your eye and the daunting giggle that spills from your lips.

“But I wouldn’t leave Eddie, you know?” you blurt, suddenly serious, like you’ve taken offense at the very thought. “Not even if it meant people stopped being so mean. ‘Cause I love him and everything… Even though he’s a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, he’s a total pain in the ass,” Steve agrees and flicks the butt of the cig between his fingers. “He loves you too, though. I can tell. The asshole never shuts up about you.”

“He talks about me?” you ask, voice fragile and pitched higher than normal.

Steve doesn’t like the way you say it. He hates how you look at him even more, with a scrunched up face and eyes that flicker with embers of shock. Like you don’t believe it, like you think yourself unworthy of it.

“You’re all he talks about,” the boy assures, feeling so suddenly brave and wanting to make you feel brave too. He hands the cigarette back to you. “I don’t blame him. If I were him, I’d never shut up about you either.”

The contorted look of confusion on your face untwists itself, and your features fall flat with disbelief. A smile pulls slow at your mouth. Your eyes glitter an orange gold beneath the streetlight. They flit over to the boy beside you just long enough to take the stick from him.

“Steve Harrington…” you lilt, almost scoldingly so.

It makes him smile. “What?”

“Stop flirting with me.”

“Well, that’s very presumptuous of you,” he retorts playfully. “Who’s to say I was flirting?”

“So you weren’t then?”

“Maybe a little,” he shrugs with a knowing, practiced smirk. “Can you blame me?”

You don’t seem impressed by his not-so-subtle attempt at flirting, and he isn’t at all used to that. The bravado and the puppy dog eyes are his one-two punch — any other time, he’d have a phone number tucked safely in his pocket by now. But you’re not biting.

“I’m so not your type,” you dismiss with the shake of your head.

“Yeah?” he challenges, shoving himself off the brick wall with his shoulder and making the short trek over to you. He plants himself next to you, leans with one sneaker crossed over the other, and smiles with a playful twinkle in his eye. “And what’s my type?”

“Nancy Wheeler,” you answer without missing a beat. “Pretty girls.”

“Well, I think you’re very pretty—”

“Not like her,” you interject with a foreign firmness that Steve hasn’t seen from you until now. You’re still smiling at him, though, still kind but looking like you don’t believe him. Like you think this must be some kind of sick joke that he’s taking too far.

You can entertain Steve. You like Steve. Mostly because he’s totally different from the douchebag you remember him being — the douchebag you were expecting him to be.

You find that he’s terribly clumsy and not overtly good with words. He says dumb jokes that don’t come out right and smiles in relief when they make you laugh anyway. He’s soft like peach fuzz or a fluffy cloud, mushy like warm chocolatey gooey goodness, and not at all like you remember him.

But then he does this. He morphs into something else, changes shape right in front of you. He smiles at you with little of his dumbassery behind it — all smirks and faux longing gazes with the intent of making you swoon at his feet. He grins down at you and all you see is the teenage boy who would’ve never looked at you that way four years ago. Hell, not even one.

It reminds you of who he is, who he used to be, and who you are now.

You haven’t changed so much since high school. You’ve matured a little, sure, but there was never an asshole exterior that you felt the need to outgrow. You’re still loud at times, unaware and ignorant of the world around you. You still play lightsabers outside Eddie’s trailer in between lengthy Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. You still pretend like the lingering glares from all the people you used to know don’t bother you.

They do, though. They always have.

You look at Steve and you see this butterfly — someone made of rainbow colors and mostly mature. He’s growing, and you’re stuck in the same cocoon you’ve been wrapped in since freshman year, still fumbling around and trying to figure out where you fit.

He’ll always be the pretty butterfly he always was, with his pretty little iridescent wings that catch the light and all the attention. He’ll feed off the applause he gets while you’re sitting on the sidelines. The girl who’s destined to stay bundled in her cocoon forever only hears all of his praise — never watches, never receives.

“You and I are completely different people, Steve Harrington,” you declare with a grin that tells him you’ve already made up your mind.

The boy doesn’t get it, though, why you seem so upset by the idea. Him and Robin were completely different people. Him and Dustin were, too. The two people he adored — tolerated — most in the entire world weren’t a single thing like him, and it was better that way.

You don’t seem to share a similar philosophy, though. You take a drag from your mostly gone cigarette and mourn what could have been; if only he had been the town freak or you had been born the pretty girl next door.

“That doesn’t have to be such a bad thing—”

He’s abruptly cut off by the sound of muffled rock music and the bright yellow headlights of Eddie Munson’s van. The two of you shield your eyes when he whips into the desolate parking lot and parks in front of you. The sudden intrusion feels like being blinding like the sun after you’ve found such comfort within each other in the dead of night.

The stifled Def Leppard song — or maybe Poison, Steve can never quite tell the difference — is brought to a sharp halt when the engine shuts off. The headlights dim. The metallic slam of the driver’s side door sounds so much louder in the darkness.

Eddie rounds the front of his van and eyes the two of you rather suspiciously. The boy inhales deeply, puffing out his chest and splaying his hands on his hips. “…What’s going on here?” he squints at you.

You give him a terribly manufactured sunshine smile and bat your lashes his way, like you’re pretending to be un-innocent. “Nothing…” you sing-song.

Eddie rolls his eyes at you, then turns his attention to Steve. They’re not really strangers anymore, but he still feels the need to treat him like an outsider anyway.

“Harrington,” he says in the place of any real greeting. “Don’t you have other shit to do? Like, I don’t know, a shift as the mannequin at the GAP or something?”

Steve can’t find it in himself to get self-conscious about his fitted-sweatshirt, khaki-slack combo when the insult comes from a guy in a decade-old leather jacket, unwashed t-shirt, and ripped jeans.

“Very funny,” the brunette monotones.

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” you ask when you turn and walk backwards towards Eddie, like there’s a gravitational pull dragging you to him.

You say it to be polite mostly, but you’re hoping for an affirmative — a promise that you’ll have another night like this one, where he sees you just to be seeing you. Hell, you’ll even take a nod if that’s all he’ll give you. And when he does, he gives you a tiny smile that almost makes you trip over yourself.

Fuck, you think to yourself, like your brain is talking to your heart. We just agreed not to do that.

Before you get in the van, you walk by Eddie and bring your cigarette up to his mouth. You coax the stick between his lips with your pointer and middle finger, opting to let him take the last couple of hits because he never turns down a free smoke.

The passenger door shuts once you’re tucked into the seat of it. The sound it makes punctuates your absence. Steve feels all of its emptiness.

He eyes Eddie from the distance, immediately noticing the darkened skepticism dancing in his dark eyes.

The boy’s always felt the need to protect you. When the entire town got spooked about stories of some satanic panic and started treating you like monsters, he wanted to shield you from the boogeyman everyone turned into.

Steve wasn’t one of them, the bad men. But Eddie loves you and it’s made him doubtful.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Steve feels the need to say, as though he’d been caught with his pants down and not just sharing an innocent cigarette with a friend.

Eddie takes the final few puffs of it and exhales rather dramatically, lips pursing to blow it in his direction though it’s too far away to hit him. The boy throws the filter to the concrete and extinguishes the ashes with the toe of his dirty sneakers.

He waits until the white smoke has fully dissipated to speak.

“Damn right, it isn’t.”

That’s all he says. He doesn’t even look at Steve when he says it, or when he rounds the van and hops into the driver’s seat next to you. Steve squints when the too bright headlights come alive again in time with the roaring engine and dated rock music. His tires screech when he speeds out of the back parking lot.

The tin can he drives nearly tips over when he turns too sharply onto Main Street.

Steve doesn’t get a chance to get a good look at you before you’re gone completely. It makes him all boyishly upset, knowing the hours without you will be most agonizing, but the empty feeling is eclipsed by the warm relief of not getting clock cleaned by Eddie Munson.

Damn right, it isn’t. Four words. That’s all he gets. But they’re daunting and coated with a lingering foreboding that feels almost like a threat.

So, by all accounts, Steve probably should’ve known there was no way Munson was ever going to back down that easily.

Eddie comes back the next day, a thundering storm cloud of the boy he usually is, head wild with curly hair and a million thoughts.

The door dings far too gently for such an aggressive arrival. Metal bangs against metal as the handle collides with the window pane. He stomps to the counter in several quick strides, dark eyes darting around the half-empty store — obviously searching for something.

Robin, manning the front counter, is entirely unable to be threatened by him. The all black, chunky metal rings, and crazy hair stopped being so intimidating when she found out you called him Eddie Spaghetti. Now, it’s all she can think about when she sees him.

Even as he stands ahead of her, obviously upset, all she sees is a very cartoonishly angry Eddie Spaghetti, and it takes everything in her not to laugh.

“Where’s Steve?” the boy finally wonders when he realizes the boy’s not in the front.

“Uh, he’s in the back, I think. Why?”

Eddie doesn’t humor her with an answer. He just storms past the counter and makes a b-line for the break room.

Robin watches him over her shoulder. “You’re not supposed to go back there!” she half-heartedly shouts, but makes no further effort to stop him from doing so.

He finds Steve working beneath the dim yellow light of the back room. There’s a warmed-up container of leftovers on the small round table on one side of the room and a stack of unorganized tapes on the counter on the other. Steve multitasks between both and hums something summery under his breath — The Beach Boys, maybe.

He’s too distracted to notice Eddie’s abrupt appearance. It’s the subtle click of the shut door that gets his attention.

Steve’s confused at first. His head snaps over his shoulder like a ghost must’ve closed the door on him. He realizes that it’s just Eddie, and he’s so innocently relieved that it’s almost humorous, then confused all over again. His brows pinch together and through the chicken tender jutting out his check, he mumbles: “You’re not supposed to be back here—”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Eddie interrupts in a monotone.

He swallows. It’s as thick as the tension that settles between the two of them, made heavier by the lengthy silence. He crosses his arms over his chest, stands up a little straighter, and bares his neck when he lifts his chin. “I want you to leave her alone.”

Steve scoffs and chews through his mouthful. “Leave who alone?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” Eddie squints with an unusual sort of seriousness. “I don’t want you messing around with her anymore, man. I’m, fucking— I’m so fucking serious right now.”

The clarification makes Steve laugh. He shakes his head and goes back to piling the myriad of tapes into organized stacks on the counter. “We were just talking, Eddie. I don’t need the lecture, okay?”

“We both know it’s never just talking with you.”

“What? Are you in love with her or something?” he retorts, trying to make a joke of it.

Eddie, for the first time in his life, isn’t amused. “Oh, god, get over yourself, dude. I know what kinda guy you are, alright? I’m not gonna let you hurt her.”

His words hit Steve like a pot of boiling water. It prickles his skin, leaving blisters and burning red blotches in its wake. He’s all but on fire with his anger, less offended by the accusation than by the person it comes from.

Steve and Eddie aren’t friends by any means. They’re just two guys with shared custody of a bunch of teenagers, bonded in their want to keep them all safe. But through their lighthearted animosity, is a sort of understanding: neither of them are the assholes the entire town claims them to be. Eddie isn’t apart of some satanic cult. Steve isn’t a douchebag that uses women as accessories. And that’s just a silent agreement they’ve both come to on their own terms.

But now here they are, talking like it’s 1984 all over again and they’re strangers who hate each other’s guts.

“No. I’m not gonna hurt her. Because we’re just friends, Eddie.”

The boy just shakes his head. He scrunches his nose like he’s wincing, then laughs — a big, dramatic laugh that fills the tiny break room. He begins to pace, waving an accusatory ringed finger Steve’s way. “No, see… That’s the thing. I don’t think King Steve is capable of being ‘just friends’ with a pretty girl.”

Steve rolls his eyes with a heavy huff. He comes to the conclusion that Eddie’s just projecting and that there’s no use in arguing his case. He shoves a black VHS tape into its designated sleeve and slots it in with the rest of them, muttering under his breath, “I’m not King Steve anymore…”

“What?”

“I said, I’m not King Steve anymore!” he yells, a bit louder than he intended to.

He drives a tape onto the pile with an unexpected aggression. It hits the wall with a resounding thud. His arms flail wildly at his sides when he turns to face Eddie again. “God, you guys act like people can’t change! I’m not the asshole I used to be, alright? Jeez…”

Eddie exhales sharply through his nose in the place of any real reply. Deep down, he knows all that. He knows it’s all true because he would’ve never befriended him otherwise. Steve Harrington — the king, the rich kid, the douchebag — turned out to be a pretty damn good guy.

And maybe if Eddie didn’t love you so much, he’d be able to wrap his head around all that.

But does. So he can’t.

He saw you two together the night before, sharing a cigarette behind The Groove — albeit a little too close for his liking — and suddenly, it was junior year all over again.

You’re stressed out about the ACT and college acceptance rates, none of your clothes quite fit you, and you’re trying out bold things with your makeup that don’t quite fit you either. You grin wildly up at Eddie through the vibrant lipstick smeared on your lips, laughing at his half-hearted attempt to cheer you up.

And Steve is a senior, standing on the other side of the hallway — with his pretty clothes and prettier hair — and he lets all of his friends laugh at you. They make fun of your un-styled hair and the way your shirt makes your boobs look, and Steve doesn’t find any of it particularly funny but he lets them mock you anyway.

Eddie sees you together and forgets about the man Steve is now. All he sees is a boy who never stuck up for you, for either of you, who let his best friends make your lives hell because his reputation mattered more.

And it wasn’t like it was his job to defend you, because it wasn’t. Not really. It’s just that you would’ve done it for him, if the roles were reversed. Eddie, too. Neither of you would’ve let a lamb be led to the slaughter quite like that. It was the Hellfire motto, after all — to protect the little sheep from the creeping wolves.

That’s where the difference lies. It’s where the mistrust settles deep and where the root of all of Eddie’s worries lingers.

But Steve has done more to prove himself than Eddie likes to give him credit for.

He takes care of a bunch of kids like it’s his job. He runs Robin to and from school most days out of the week, on time each morning — which, for a guy who showed up late every day for four years, was definitely saying something. He even comes to Eddie’s shows when he’s not too busy working the graveyard shift, never minding that he sticks out in his collared shirt and slacks — a pretty boy amidst a crowd of freaks.

Fuck. Steve Harrington was a pretty alright dude.

But you’re better than alright. You’re better than good. Better than perfect.

If you got your heart broken, Eddie thinks he’d feel all of it times a thousand.

Steve’s been through his own kind of heartbreak, though. He’s slapped a bandaid over his own bleeding heart, and it’s made him soft. The good kind of soft — the kind where he sees a bug on its back and has to flip it over because it hurts too much to let it suffer. Eddie knows he’ll be that kind to you. Kinder, even.

“Yeah, you better hope so, Harrington,” the boy concludes with a slow nod of his wild head. He steals a chicken tender from the styrofoam box it sits in, like it’s some kind of power move, and waves it at him like a condemnatory point. “I hear you do anything — anything — to her… And your ass is grass.”

Eddie takes a hearty bite from the strip, then tosses it back into the container again. He spins on the ragged heel of his sneaker and stalks out of the break room, punctuating his absence with the slam of the door. The ancient thing gets lodged and doesn’t quite shut all the way, so he has to double back and shut it fully.

Steve is left dumbfounded, in more ways than one.

“…He just ate my chicken,” he mumbles to himself with a frown settled deep between his brows. But there’s a lingering tension in Eddie’s storming out — a tangible fog within his words that settles something heavy in the Family Video breakroom that doubles as storage.

It feels almost like a blessing.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Won't escape my attention...

The more time you spend with Steve, the more confident you get.

You visit him at work more often, caring less and less about bothering anybody when you realize they all wanted you there. You let yourself ramble in front of him, too, not stopping yourself nearly as often as you used to. Steve guesses you started to believe him somewhere around the millionth time he promised he liked hearing you talk.

You turn to glitter in his presence, becoming more unapologetically yourself and glowing with it — with all the things that used to make you insecure, things that King Steve would’ve made fun of you for some time ago. Everything you were scared made you too different, is why he liked you in the first place.

And Steve gets to watch it all play out right before his eyes. You inch slowly out of the protective shell you’ve built around yourself and bloom like springtime flowers. He’s grateful he gets to witness it, even more that you feel comfortable enough to do it all in front of him.

You’re hardly as timid as you usually are when you saunter into Family Video. Rather than tiptoeing in and apologizing for intruding, you burst through the front door with a beam and a high-pitched squeal. You’re as bright as every star in the galaxy combined; even dressed head-to-toe in black, you’re more blinding than the sun.

Eddie’s leather jacket, either stolen or unenthusiastically lent from the boy himself, swallows your upper half. You wear a piece of Metallica merchandise beneath it. The thing is cut up to your ribcage. The jagged edges in the fabric, likely from a dull pair of kitchen scissors, tells him the chop was intentional.

A leather skirt clings effortlessly onto you, revealing the pudge of your stomach and the curves of your hips. The thing is donned with two spiked belts and several chains hanging loosely at your waist.

Steve is dozing at the counter with his chin propped on his first when you walk in. He’s half-asleep until he sees you. The shot of espresso that walks in makes him instantly forget how tired he is.

“Guess what?” you ask with wide, sparkling eyes as you skip to the counter with your hands behind your back.

Steve always hated that question. Usually, it came from Dustin or Robin — or, god forbid, both of them — followed by a “No, seriously. Guess.” It left him with no choice but to humor them until they ultimately caved and told him something he couldn’t have guessed in a million years.

He isn’t so annoyed now, though. In fact, he smiles. “What?” he replies.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, as though in a futile attempt to conceal the wide grin on your face, and take your hands from behind your back. You flash him the cassette tape you hold in the palm of them, a blue and yellow thing with the angled Def Leppard logo printed on the cover.

“No way!” Steve finds himself exclaiming like he’s the number one fan of the rock and roll band. He isn’t; never has been, really. But he is a fan of you. All of his excitement, all of his bright and shining smiles — they’re all for you.

“They came in last night— when I was off, of course— and I opened this morning and there was a whole damn tower of these tapes! I’m the one who does the tape towers, okay? Plus, I’ve been doggin’ my manager for weeks about the things, so I can’t believe they came in and no one told me, you know?”

Steve gets lost in your rambling right along with you, nodding because he never wants you to stop talking. His twinkling gaze follows you back and forth as you pace in front of the counter. You gesticulate wildly with your hands, nearly elbowing a customer when they get too close to the line of fire.

“And she was all like ‘I can’t control when they come in,’ And I was like ‘well, you can’t control when I come in either, I’ll be taking a long lunch now, thank you’—” you recount, albeit at a slightly louder volume that shocks anyone who doesn’t know you. People shoot you lingering side eyes from over the aisles.

Steve doesn’t care. He’s even happier that you don’t seem to either. You feel comfortable enough with him now to stop caring about the rest. When you stop yourself, you do it because you’ve said everything you need to say, not because you feel like you’ve annoyed him in some way.

“Anyway,” you conclude with a sigh. “I wanted to run it to you personally because, besides Eddie, you’re the only person I know who cares as much as I do.”

You smile sweetly at him, peering at him through your lashes, so suddenly timid — no longer the boisterous girl lighting up the whole room. Steve notices that you do that a lot, go from loud and sunny to shy and glimmering. Eddie does it too, sometimes, but it’s not nearly as cute.

“My wallet’s in my locker,” he tells you when you hand him the tape. He cocks his thumb over his shoulder with his free hand. “Let me go grab it. I’ll be, like, two seconds—”

You reach over the counter and take him by the arm, wrapping chipped maroon nails around the crook of his elbow to keep him from straying too far. Shock coats his features at the suddenness of your touch and the way it makes him buzz.

You scoff. “Are you serious? I’m not gonna make you pay, you weirdo.”

“No?”

“Of course not! It’s a gift.”

“Well, gee, Punchy. Considered me flattered,” he concedes with a faltering smile.

You laugh at his half-hearted attempt to be charming.

He rests his crossed arms on the counter and leans over the top of it in an effort to be the slightest bit closer to you. He gazes up at you with honey eyes and raised brows and a big, dumb smile. “And, you know, flattery... it goes a long way with me.”

You arch an un-manicured brow at him. “Does it, now?”

“Yep. So much so, I’m willing to break a few rules and let you pick out a couple of movies. On the house.”

It’s dumb and it’s sweet and so terribly innocent. He wants to give you so much than that but he’s got about eighteen dollars to his name, so all he can do is offer you a few measly VHS tapes. It has you beaming like he just offered you the world.

“Steve Harrington,” you scold playfully. “I didn’t know you were so naughty.”

He falters. His resolve slips and, for no more than half a second, his brain forgets how to work.

He’s not quite sure how you manage to do that to him all the damn time. You make his brain shortcircuit and his belly quiver and his vision swim. He’s known you for a while now, long enough that the lovesickness should’ve well worn off.

Steve’s worried that there’s no cure for you, that he’s in it for the long haul now — upset stomachs, heart palpitations, and all.

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” he shrugs and sways on his feet. “What’s your poison, Punchy? Molly Ringwald? Robert Downey Jr.? The John Hughes type?”

You can tell he’s joking. You squint over at him and rest your elbows on the counter top your face-to-face.

The wintergreen mint on his breath makes your head swim.

Your rouge-tined lips are so close he can taste them — he wants to, desperately so.

You don’t miss the way his gaze flits to your mouth, lingering there for no longer than a blink.

“Try Night of the Living Dead,” you challenge.

“That is so dreadfully on brand for you,” he manages to reply without much stuttering. He’s surprised he’s able to get any words out at all, with the way his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest.

“I’m nothing if not predictable.”

Steve doesn’t respond as he leaves the counter to get what you asked for. Silence is easier than saying that you’re the most surprising thing he’s ever met in his life.

When he returns, he brings the entire film franchise with him. All three movies are stacked in his arms and he scans the backs of them, hoping Keith won’t notice that they’re being rented free of charge.

“Have you ever seen them?” you wonder.

He shakes his head. “No. I saw one of them at a drive-in a long time ago, but I wasn’t exactly paying attention, if you know what I mean—” he answers with a soft laugh, quick to cut himself off. It was supposed to be a dumb joke, but both of you know what he was insinuating and it makes everything awkward.

Robin would’ve slapped him on the back of the head if she were around to hear it.

He would’ve deserved it.

“Well, you missed out,” you scold, not quite meeting his gaze. “They’re actually pretty good.”

“I’ll try and watch ‘em sometime then.”

“Tonight?” you offer suddenly.

Steve furrows his brows. “…Huh?”

“I mean, like— I don’t know… I thought maybe we could watch them tonight,” you stammer with your eyes turned down toward the counter, where you draw invisible patterns onto the granite with the tip of your finger. “Like, together… if you want.”

Steve is momentarily speechless. He’s spent weeks plotting how he was going to ask you out. It would come to him in waves. He’d feel like he’d concocted the most perfect, foolproof plan right before realizing there was no way in hell he could ever go through with it — all in the same fleeting thought.

But here you are, biting the bullet for the both of you.

He’s grateful. He thinks he’s dreaming.

“That sounds…” Steve trails off with the mindless nod of his head. “Yeah. No. Totally. That sounds… really cool.”

A wide smile pulls at the edges of your lips. You purse your mouth to the side in attempts to conceal it. “Cool,” you murmur all cool-ly, like his affirmation isn’t heaven to your ears.

“Uh, not to sound like a total douchebag or whatever, but my dad— he’s got this theater room and everything, and my parents are almost never home,” Steve rambles as he puts all three movies into a paper bag. Then his eyes go wide and his face glows cherry red. “Not like that! I didn’t mean it like— That sounded really weird… I’m sorry—”

You giggle at him, at the way he can pretend to be so suave, and then reveal all the marshmallow fluff he tries to keep hidden a moment later. “It’s okay, Steve. I got what you meant.”

He writes his address on a yellow sticky note with the Family Video logo printed in green at the very top. His handwriting is boyish and sloppy, the sign of a boy who never did care much about school. Some letters are connected, others far apart; some written too big, while others are too small. You find it endearing, but Steve knows it’s just because his hand was shaking something fierce.

He leaves his number written at the very bottom. Just for good measure.

“No funny business, alright, Harrington?” you joke, waving a ringed finger at him as you walk backward out of the store, heading back to your own job.

Steve bites back a smile. Once upon a time, he was all funny business. No girl was ever going to invite King Steve over and not expect some heavy petting. And he wants so badly to kiss you — fuck, he wants to kiss you all the time — but the want to spend innocent time with you eclipses all of those boyish feelings.

He yearns to be close to you. Like magnets. Or a moon and the ocean’s tide.

“No funny business,” he promises.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You keep your distance with a system of touch.

It isn’t until you arrive at the front gates of the Harrington home you realize you’ve never been in the suburbs of Hawkins before.

You grew up on the very outskirts of town, where there were more trees than people or houses. The block was half rundown already and horribly secluded. The only interesting thing about it was the winding trail through the woods that led to the anterior of Forest Hills trailer park.

That’s where you spent the bulk of your time, practically living with Eddie and Wayne in their one-bedroom trailer, until you felt guilty enough to go back home for a day or two. Your parents would inevitably remind you why you ran off in the first place, and then the cycle would start all over again.

It was all just far enough away from Hawkins that you could pretend like the town’s bullshit didn’t exist. The freak from the wrong side of the tracks didn’t belong on Maple Street or Fairview Road or Laurel Avenue. That was for people who could afford new shoes every school year, who could go clothes shopping and not feel guilty about cutting into their food money, who were set up with trust funds before they were even born.

But here you are now, on Fairview Road, seven o’clock sharp, and standing in front of the biggest house you’d ever seen.

You ring the doorbell and flinch when it’s louder than expected. The chime is light and jaunty. You wonder if it’s been programmed for the change in season.

Steve answers no more than a couple seconds later. He swings both French doors open, arms spreading wide like the smile on his face.

He’s traded in his slacks for comfier jeans and his vest for a form-fitting sweatshirt he’s bunched at the elbows. You realize, then, that you’ve never seen him without the forest green Family Video jacket. It makes him look naked, almost, like a totally different person — no longer the dork who works a measly nine-to-five with his best friend and visits the freak next door on the off chance his manager won’t dock his pay for it.

The vest had humbled him to a certain extent. Now he just looks cool. Like the boy people would either praise or avoid like the plague, for fear of getting in King Steve’s path — just a little bit more mature looking now, with his chiseled jaw and scruffy chin.

It makes you feel a little stupid from where you stand on the porch ahead of him, wearing the same thing he’d seen you in earlier that day. He’s got no idea you spent the past couple of hours agonizing over what to wear. For the sake of not seeming crazy overzealous, you opted not to dress up. Now you’re scared he thinks you just didn’t care enough to.

But you do care. So goddamn much that’s it scary.

You never had to worry about what you wore or what you looked like before you left the house, about what you had too much of and what you lacked. Now, it’s all you can think about.

If Steve notices anything at all, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps on smiling at you, too happy to see you to care about what you’re wearing. He’s just glad that you showed up.

Truth be told, he had a six-pack and Robin’s number on speed dial on the off chance you canceled on him. He was preparing himself to wallow in self-pity and spend the rest of the night ranting to his best friend about the bleeding heart he had for you. Because, as far as he was concerned, you were far too good to be true.

You were beautiful and funny and kind and perfect. You treat him like you’ve known him for years, like he didn’t spend so many of them avoiding you in attempts to keep some measly title that didn’t mean shit. You were too perfect. Sometimes, Steve gets scared that he just made you up.

But whether you’re a dream come true or the real thing, you’re standing on his front porch anyway, with a smile and a bottle of grocery store wine.

He saves the beer in his fridge and the wallowing for another day.

Steve escorts you through his lavish living room and to the downstairs area that’s got a movie screen hanging on the walls and a couple of leather couches sitting in front of it. The coffee table in front of them holds a myriad of glass bowls — popcorn, various candies, and more popcorn.

“You planning on throwin’ a party down here, Harrington?” you tease with a soft chuckle, trying to conceal how your heart’s about to burst at the mere sight of it all.

“Well, I just— I didn’t know what you liked, and I didn’t— I wanted to make sure you had something to eat, you know,” the boy stammers out. He brings the palm of his hand to rub at the back of his neck. “So I just… I got… everything.”

“It’s a good thing a like everything then, huh?” you smile at him as you pluck a Red Vine from its dedicated bowl. You rip off an inch or two with your teeth and then talk as you chew: “I hope you’re prepared for all of this shit get eaten, Harrington. I can get quite ravenous.”

Steve nods to himself and tries not to smile too big. “Sounds entertaining… Maybe I’ll just watch you instead of the movie.”

It was supposed to be a joke.

But then you settled down next to him on the couch, keeping a respectful distance but sharing the same fuzzy blanket, and he has to physically force himself to drag his gaze away from you.

He was right about what he said before, you were far more entertaining than the black and white film projected ahead of him — grabbing handfuls of popcorn at a time and quoting the movie through the mouthful.

It’s a tad bit barbaric, the faintest bit off-putting, and otherworldly levels of endearing. It leaves him virtually unable to take his eyes off of you.

He didn’t think you could get more beautiful, but you keep on proving him wrong.

He’s starting to realize he doesn’t know shit.

You’re slowly coming to the same understanding.

You’ve heard stories about Steve. Usually from gossiping cheerleaders standing in circles at their lockers or whispering in the back of a classroom. Doomed as the freak and all but banished from the inner society of Hawkins High, you became an observer. You were so invisible that people sometimes didn’t realize they were talking right over you, sharing secrets they wouldn’t want someone else to get a hold of.

But apparently you were the exception. Because you weren’t a someone to them.

They talked about how kind he was, how well endowed, how they were meant to go on some stupid date but missed their reservation because Steve got a little too handsy beforehand, and how they spent the rest of the night with their hands shoved down each other’s pants at Lover’s Lake.

You were seeing, firsthand, how much he’d changed. How he made his promise of no funny business and how he was sticking to it — no teasing you about the whole thing with a knowing smirk and flirtatious honey eyes, no urging to close this distance between you, no tiny touches on your arm or thigh in the hopes of heavier petting.

He spends the entirety of the first movie perfectly respectful. Just like you’d asked him to be.

And it was nice, knowing that you weren’t wasting your evening with some asshole who was only spending time with you in the hopes of you putting out later. But it leaves you the faintest bit empty. Hungry. You long for his touch like a missed meal. Starving and feeling it all.

It’s not even heavy petting you want, you just want to feel him next to you — to press yourself into his side and to warm yourself with him like a blanket.

But you weren’t a pretty cheerleader or a girl dripping in expensive clothes and daddy’s money. You were the weirdo, the freak, the loudmouth nerd, Punchy — all names you wore proudly, like lit-up signs or steel armor.

Until now.

Now you think if you weren’t Punchy, if were you someone different, then maybe he’d want to touch you more.

The first hour and thirty-seven minutes of your favorite movie are strangely agonizing.

Your hands itch with the desire to touch the boy next to you, and they busy themselves with the bowls of candy and savory junk food splayed out on the table in front of you. It’s mindless more than it is anything. You’re absentminded binging does nothing more than half-distract you from the thoughts raging rivers in your skull.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it until your hand falls into an empty bowl of popcorn and finds nothing but kernels at the bottom of it.

It makes Steve laugh, thinking you were just too into the movie to notice — having no idea it was him taking up all your brain power.

He leaves to fix more snacks for you while you slip the second VHS into the movie player. He returns with a bowl of freshly popped popcorn and two beers after the wine bottle has been sufficiently emptied. When he plops down next to you again, it’s in the same spot he’d been sitting in all night — a couple of excruciating inches away.

Under the guise of sharing the popcorn in his lap, you make the too bold decision to slither in at his side. It’s innocent at first — your thighs just barely graze and your elbows bump when you dip your hands into the bowl. And it’s still innocent some thirty minutes later, when you find yourself resting your head on his shoulder with your legs curled up behind you.

Steve tenses when he feels your temple pressed against him, but only for a moment before he relaxes again. It makes him all suddenly warm and self-aware of every movement he makes. He tries not to breathe too heavy or shift too often, for fear it might jostle you too much. He doesn’t want to stop feeling you against him like this, even if it’s got his skin prickling with a searing form of anxiety.

“Don’t tell me you’re falling asleep,” he jokes.

“Of course not. It’s way too riveting,” you scoff, even though he can feel you cuddling further into him. Your cheek rubs against the soft cotton of his sweatshirt when you look up at him. He turns his head to peer down at you and his nose nearly grazes your forehead.

He finds you with a certain glint in your eye. It’s borderline playful, like it so often is, but coated with a sweetness that drips over him like honey. “You like it so far?” you wonder.

“Yeah,” the boy nods quickly. He couldn’t tell you what had happened the past two-and-a-half films, but he could tell you how your jaw tenses when you chew and how your smile curls just before you laugh out loud and how your eyes widen every time you quote the movie. “It’s really good. I like it.”

You beam at him before turning back to the projector again. You shift to get more comfortable against him. “Good.”

By the third movie, you’re somehow even closer.

Truth be told, Day of the Dead wasn’t your favorite in the trilogy, so it left your mind wandering to far off places — namely, the pretty boy sitting beside you. He goes to put the tape into the projector, feeling immediately cold without pressing into his side, and when he returns he tries his best not to beg you to cuddle against him again.

“My shoulder’s gettin’ real cold over here,” he tries to joke.

You see right through his beckoning, though. It makes you happy to know he wants it just as much as you do.

“Just say you wanna be next to me, Harrington,” you tease like you aren’t happily obliging him. You snuggle into his shoulder and rest your head against him while your arms curl around his bicep.

“I wanna be next to you,” he repeats, a playful smile on his lips though his gaze softens with sincerity. “Is that so bad?”

You shake your head against him in reply. Suddenly as mushy as the boy beside you, you turn to look up at him. “Not unless it’s bad that I wanna be next to you, too…”

“Nah. It’s not bad,” he assures in something short of a whisper. “Guess I’m just glad I’m not the only one that’s so far gone.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what he means by that. He doesn’t have to.

Perhaps it’s the admission that this boy is so far gone for you that gives you a sudden burst of confidence. Maybe it’s the comforting feeling of being seen, of knowing you’re no longer alone in your similar far gone-ness. Each feels like rays of sunshine to your skin and has you pressing your lips to his wanting ones without much thought.

The plump pink of his mouth are magnets for yours. They meet and lock together with little effort, almost destined to do it. It’s a soft, meager, and lingering little peck that sucks you both in a little too easily. It’s hard to pull away from him, but when you do, your lips click in protest.

Then there’s a look, then a deafening silence that says more words than either of you were capable of forming in that moment. His amber eyes dart between both of yours, asking a question without saying a goddamn thing. One that you answer with your own softening gaze.

And it’s almost better than the kiss itself, the swirling feeling in the pits of your stomach, the knowing of what’s about to happen.

A silent plea and a blink later and his lips are on yours again.

It’s an awkward mess of yearning mouths and tangled limbs as the both of you fight to find purchase on one another. Your fingers knot in the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him impossibly closer, while his grip the bare skin of your waist from where your shirt had ridden up. His touch makes you buzz, like a static shock or a bolt of lightning.

Steve makes several observations when he feels you melt into him like honey on toast. He notices how you press yourself into him, like you won’t be satisfied until you’ve swallowed him whole, and how it has you kissing him like you’re scared he’ll pull away — like you’ll open your eyes and he won’t be real.

You’re as domineering against his mouth as you are in real life, still as all-consuming and overpowering as the girl he’s gotten so familiar with.

He doesn’t realize how you’ve settled so intently on top of him until his back meets the pillowy cushion of the leather couch. You don’t either, until he exhales a sharp gasp against your cupid’s bow. Then you part from him, for the first time in several minutes, breathing in the oxygen your lungs had just begun to scream for.

Steve finds you with kiss-bitten lips and glassy eyes that look upon him with a softness that he didn’t know existed until now. He smirks with his own swollen and pinker mouth like he isn’t glowing red beneath you.

“I thought you said no funny business,” he manages to tease through bated breaths.

You don’t bother to make up excuses for yourself. You’re already on top of him, all over him — you’ve already kissed him like you would’ve died if you hadn’t. Now, you’re straddling him, caging him between your legs and under your torso. You’ve settled on top of him with a comforting weightiness, like you’re building a home in the familiarity you’ve sought in him.

“I lied,” you mutter with a lazy shrug. A sly smile pulls slowly at your lips until you’re all but beaming sunbeams down at him. He revels in your warmth. “’S not my fault you’re so damn cute.”

It’s easier to blame it on him for all the reasons you’re attached to him like a magnet to his metal, your moth to his flame. You part his lips with your mouth, rut your tongue against his own, reveling in the foreign familiarity of it all, and then blame him for the way you can’t seem to stop any of it.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind, though. The way his hands find purchase on your hips, petting the warmed skin there and sometimes squeezing to pull you further down onto him, tells you that he has a similar yearning to melt with you. He lets you kiss him all slow, allows you to taste all of him, and doesn’t rush you in your process. It’s comforting, tender. Free.

He’s not used to being on his back like this. Usually, he’s the one taking control. It’s his mouth that does all the work. So, it’s strange to be under you and to have you above him. But it’s more pleasant in an even stranger way not to be rushed — not to have to do all the work. His mouth opens so obediently for you and finds an effortless rhythm with your lips and your tongue.

It’s the easiest thing he’s ever done in his life, kissing you.

He delights in every ounce of the warmth and unfamiliarity you press to his mouth, and tries to shove down feelings of unworthiness that simmer in his chest while you do so.

You don’t part until your mouths are numb and tingling with it.

Your lips are more vibrant in their color, aflame and swollen from being so ardently kissed and sucked and bitten. Neither of you mind making out like a couple of teenagers. It’s comforting to know that things won’t go further than a couple soft touches on burning skin. It was never supposed to be anything more than that, anyway. It was just about being close to each other.

You’ve almost succeeded in your effort to melt into the boy beneath you, when you hear the distant sound of a door opening and closing again. Muffled voices follow — unknown to you but obviously familiar to him.

You part from him without thinking, like you’re a couple of kids again who’ll get in trouble if your parents ever found out what you were doing down here. Steve groans at the loss of you and in annoyance at the sound of his parents. His heavy eyes fall shut and his head leans back to the couch cushions as he fights to swallow down all of his anger.

His parents never really come around these days. They’ve got a bigger home in the city, closer to his dad’s work, and they choose to stay there most days of the week — month.

They used to make excuses for why they left their only son behind. It’s five minutes from your dad’s firm. There’s more opportunity for your mom’s real estate business. Oh, don’t be so selfish, Steven, you’ll finally have the place to yourself. It’s a win-win for all of us.

Steve didn’t want their excuses. It was actually easier with them gone.

But they come around every now and again, whenever it’s most convenient for them, and treat their arrival like something that needs to be celebrated. Like they aren’t supposed to be with their child in the fucking first place. And they somehow manage to pick the most inconvenient times for him, like they know he’s in a bind and want to see him struggle to get out of it.

Usually, it’s when he’s in between paychecks — when they want to take him out to some fancy dinner he could barely afford anyway, but especially when he’s hardly making it until payday. Now, it’s when he’s got the prettiest girl he’s ever seen on top of him, and he’s all hot and half-hard. Steve doesn’t want to let them ruin the moment, as good as they are at it.

“It’s okay. They won’t come in here,” he assures when he feels you tense at the unexpected company. “My mom will go to the bedroom and my dad will go to his office. We’re good, I promise.”

You figure he’s right. The voices grow more and more distant. Heeled shoes click up and up the stairs while heavy stomps head the opposite way. But you’ve already been so woefully knocked out of your stupor that you’re scared it’s too late.

Your lips are numb and the credits are rolling and you’re on top of this beautiful boy and you have no idea how you got there.

It’s almost frightening, the way Steve had consumed you mind, body, and soul by just existing next to you. You become dreadfully hyperaware of the whole thing — of who you are, who he is, and what you’re doing. You lose all your softness and turn to ice, hardening and shrinking back into yourself.

“I should—” you start before clearing your throat when the words come out heavier than expected. “I should head out anyway.”

“Oh,” is all Steve can say. “Right.”

You stare down at him, chest still pressed against his, nose nearly touching the tip of his own. “I just— I have to open tomorrow and everything, so—”

“No. Yeah. Yeah, I— I get it.”

You make tricky work of untangling yourselves.

His legs twist with yours when you both try to rise from the couch at the same time. Then your ring gets stuck in the fabric of his shirt, but not before his belt buckle gets somehow caught in yours. It’s like fate is protesting the imminent parting, but neither of you are paying attention to the signs.

He walks you to your car and chuckles under his breath as you scurry to the front door.

You’re not-so-distantly terrified of running into his parents. They probably wouldn’t mind that he’s sneaking around with a girl, surely that they’re used to, but you’re almost certain they’re not used to girls like you. Girls with wild hair and leather skirts and chunky boots and too bold makeup.

You’re not the girl next door. You’re the girl parents warn their sons about. “Leave that girl alone,” they say. “She’s nothing but trouble.”

You tell him all of this on the short trek to your half-broken-down car when you catch him laughing at you about the whole thing. You say it in jest, lighthearted and trying to make a joke of it. But there’s an underlying melancholia to your tone that reveals every truth you’re trying to evade.

“They don’t care enough about me to give a shit about a girl I’m with, I promise,” he confesses with a laugh that sounds more like a sad scoff than anything else. His chocolate eyes turn gold beneath the yellow street light. He smirks at you. “Besides, I don’t know if I told you this or not, but my middle name is actually trouble, so… I think we might be a match made in heaven.”

You roll your eyes at his attempts to flirt with you, though his lack of finesse makes you smile. “You’re an idiot, Steve Actually Trouble Harrington.”

“You really know how to say goodbye, don’t ya?” he grins when you reach the curb where your tin can car sits.

“Yeah, I’m pro,” you shrug with a teasing glint in your eye, then you beam. “I’ll see you around, ‘kay?”

“Totally,” he nods, suddenly forlorn at having to leave you like he hadn’t just spent the past four hours with you.

Themetallic click of your car door opening sounds much louder in the emptiness of the suburbs. You glance at the boy right before you sink into the driver’s seat, feeling your heart swell with something short of yearning — anticipation.

You weren’t actually a professional at saying goodbye, you find, because you’re realizing how hard it is to leave him.

“Steve!” he hears you shout from across the lawn when he’s halfway up the drive.

He turns around, expecting to hear you tease him some more or tell him you were having car troubles. Neither would’ve shocked him. You’ve got a smart mouth and a shittier car. But you keep on surprising him, all but launching yourself into him before kissing him harder than he’s ever been kissed before.

Steve tenses against you at first, then relaxes again in record time. He sighs in the comfort of having your body pressed so intently into his and your arms wrapped around his neck to pull him somehow closer.

You feel the breath of his exhale fan against your cupid’s bow. It makes you smile, and he feels the expression contort against his lips. His hands rise to the widest part of your hips without thinking. It’s all muscle memory now.

And even though he’s spent the better part of an hour kissing you, this one is so obviously different. This wasn’t just to pass the time. This was more than just to feel him — it was to tell him something. He hears every word you don’t say, but rather press like a stamp to his mouth.

He’s breathless when you pull away. You meet his flushed face with a mischievous grin.

“What was that for?” he wonders breathlessly, but doesn’t waver with his hold on you. He quickly notices that yours doesn’t either.

You shrug in response. “‘Cause you’re pretty.”

“Yeah, well…” he tries to play off like he’s not blushing like crazy. “You’re pretty too.”

Your beam ebbs into a teasing, tightlipped smirk. “Stop flirting with me, Steve Harrington.”

You shove him away with a rougher hand than you realize before you walk away from him. Steve rubs at the ache in his chest with the palm of his hand.

Your playful teasing and your lingering kiss is the only thing Steve has to remember you by when you turn on your chunky heeled boot and head off down the driveway again. He’s frozen, mesmerized by the sight of you and reeling at how you manage to drive him crazy without trying.

Your eyes find him again just before you duck into your car, and you see him still looking at you — mouth agape and eyes wide like you’re some kind of rare find. You figure you must be, in some way. Girls like you aren’t supposed to like guys like him. Vice Versa. Tale as old as time.

The boy stays locked in his stupor until the sprinkles whir on. The spurts of freezing cold water spray all over him and his pretty hair and expensive sweatshirt and his vintage jeans. “Shit!” you hear him swear as he rushes for cover on his front porch.

He’s quickly soaked and freezing cold, but he smiles anyway when he hears the sound of your giggling behind him. It’s as animated as your personality and spills from your mouth like so many rays of sunshine, just a little too loud for the quiet midnight suburbs.

It’s perfect, he realizes. You’re perfect.

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #st oneshots #stevie oneshot #punchy x steve

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cillianhead · 7 months

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Heeyy, love your work💜 aaand I was wondering could you write dad's Bestfriend! Cillian and how your dad keeps asking Cillian to go on a double date with him and his wife since he's been single for a while, but Cillian doesn't want to and (you're at your house) or then somehow you and him end up in the same place later and talk about it? one of you confesses they're glad he didn't go cos they had feelings for the other and then things get heated 😉😉

Sorry if it's all over the place, I have so many little ideas in my brain rn lol

Thank you☺️

Thank you so much for your request, I've literally been thinking sooooo much about the idea of Dad's BestFriend! Cillian and how I wanted to write about it, I hope this is what you were looking for!

Enjoy <3

Illicit Affairs || Dad's BestFriend! Cillian Murphy x Reader

warnings: SMUT, age gap (Cillian is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s), taboo relationship, unprotected P in V, oral sex (f receiving), a bit angsty, having to hide their relationship, jealousy, some homophobic comments I guess?? (not from Cillian), general adult content!! (Cillian isn't an actor/famous in this also he moved to America... in this!) (Also this fic is quite long... so that's a warning!)

18+ Minors DNI

Cillian Murphy was that charming Irish man who lived just down your street. He had moved there around five or six years ago, you couldn't really remember, it was when you were just seventeen. He had moved here in the hopes of getting away from his ex-wife back in Ireland and starting over. Your dad was incredibly welcoming to him when he first moved in and they quickly became good buddies. Your dad was into sports and drinking beer, cooking out on the grill, and all that classic dad stuff. Cillian enjoyed that stuff too but he was much more into the arts than your dad ever could be. You two bonded over that. Cillian taught you how to play guitar, you'd write songs together, you'd go to concerts of bands you both liked.

Now you were twenty-four, in your last year of college and Cillian was still around, you still got together and went to concerts or played the guitar together every now and then, though you were more busy now and so was he. You'd had a crush on him ever since you had laid your eyes on him but you understood why it was wrong, understood why he was off limits. You couldn't help but grow jealous though when you'd see him bring home women every now and then and then see them leaving in the morning. It wasn't an occasion that happened often but it got on your nerves regardless, you knew you had no right to feel that way. But it still made you feel sick to your stomach.

Of course, you'd had a couple of boyfriends, none of them were all that serious. You hated yourself for comparing them to him, knowing no man could ever compare to the man that Cillian is. Your dad was oblivious to your (not-so) little crush. You had to keep it that way, not that anything was ever going to happen between you but you knew your dad would be uncomfortable with the idea of you having a crush on one of his best buddies.

"Cillian's comin' over tonight, Y/N." Your dad popped his head into your room, you just nodded and smiled before he left. You still lived at home since you studied not too far from home, your parents were more than happy to let you live there for as long as you needed but you had plans of moving out soon, as soon as you graduated.

"Thanks, Dad... I already know that." You chuckled. Your mom was downstairs cooking dinner and you had also received text messages from the man himself, earlier that day informing you he was coming over, so you were very much aware that he was coming over.

Cillian: Can't wait to see you. It's been a while, kid. xxx

You'd read the message over and over and over again. Your heart fluttered each time you did so. You hated how he called you 'kid', you were a grown woman, you weren't a kid anymore. You really hated it because you knew you didn't hate it. In fact, the nickname made you all shy and giggly, it made you like him even more.

It was around six when your mom called out for you that dinner was ready. You had tried your best to look nice, for whatever reason that may be. It wasn't anything too crazy or too dressy but it was definitely nicer than how you'd normally dress when you had guests over. A small black skirt that was a bit risky with how short it was but you could definitely get away with wearing it and a tight long-sleeved black shirt, tucked into it. You could hear chattering from the dining room, the sound of Cillian's chortling made you smile as you entered the room to find yourself meeting the back of the head of an unfamiliar blonde woman, sitting next to Cillian, and making him laugh. Your smile had dropped.

"Oh, sweetie!" Your mom waved you over to the table, the food had been served, both parents sitting on either end of the table while you had to sit and face Cillian and this strange blonde lady. Was this his girlfriend? You knew it had been around a month or so since you'd last seen him but surely he hadn't gotten a girlfriend in such a short amount of time. "This is Cassandra... we've been friends since college, I thought it would be nice to introduce her to Cillian... I've always said how I thought they'd get along."

You just nodded politely, looking Cillian in the eyes to see the discomfort staring back at you. Cassandra was beaming, as any woman should be if she sat beside Cillian, you just glared as you prepared your plate of food. You remained civil, of course, nodding along to things being said and laughing extra hard at jokes your dad tried to make. But you couldn't get rid of the big fat elephant in the room, Cassandra. She was pretty enough, with long blonde hair (obviously bleached, you thought), and makeup done elegantly but it was a bit much. Lip fillers to the max and smooth botox-filled skin. But the thing was... her perfume was obnoxiously loud for a smell. It filled the room like someone had bombed the place with perfume-scented grenades and it absolutely ruined the food. You don't know how Cillian could just sit there, breathing in her perfume without vomiting all over the place. You were sitting across the table and it was horrible, practically on the verge of a migraine, how bad must it be having to sit right next to her?

You scolded yourself silently for trying to put down this woman in your head. She hadn't done anything wrong except breathe near Cillian. It wasn't her fault you had some sort of weird jealousy issues when it came to him.

"...What... what do you do for work, Cassandra?" Cillian asked politely before taking a bite from his fork, looking at Cassandra with genuine interest. That made your gut churn.

"Oh... well I actually work for the Catholic church just around the corner," Cassandra smiled. "I actually go around... um... telling people about Catholicism and its benefits, trying to get them to join." You took a sip of your wine with a cheeky grin on your face as you saw Cillian's discomfort with her response. You knew fully well he had no issue with people practicing religion but you knew how he felt for people to go around and shove their beliefs down people's throats. With the slightest bit of alcohol running through your veins, you found some courage to feign interest in her line of 'work'.

"That's really interesting, Cassie," You hummed delightfully, your parents looked over at you cautiously. You knew you had crossed a line by calling her 'Cassie'. "What are your thoughts on gay people?" The room went silent. The drop of a pin could be heard.

Her face went beet red at this question. Your mom gave you a disappointed look before faking a smile. Cillian looked amused before turning to Cassandra, everyone waiting for her response.

"I... erm...." She was looking around the room. Now maybe you had guessed wrong, maybe she was totally fine with gay people but you had a feeling her answer was going to be the complete opposite of that. "I think... if someone wishes... to live that lifestyle... then they should... keep it to themselves..." You cringed at that response. "I think God... I think God would not approve of... that sort of lifestyle." Bazinga. Cillian was immediately put off.

"I didn't realize you spoke for God himself." Cillian chuckled as he looked down into his glass of wine with that mischievous smile that mirrored your own. The two of you giggled at each other, Cillian seemed sort of relieved in a way that he didn't have to deal with this bozo of a woman anymore and your jealousy had disappeared along with the food on your plate.

Eventually, Cassandra left hurriedly. Your mom scolded you for being rude but you just shrugged it off. Cillian stuck around to hang out with your dad as you and your mom cleaned the dishes, you could hear them chattering on the back porch, probably about the latest baseball game or your dad trying to convince Cillian to come over one day for a barbecue.

"Go bring these to your father and Cillian, sweetie." Your mom hands a pack of beer which you take carefully as you nod.

Walking out to the back veranda, Cillian sat with a cigarette in between his lips. How could someone be so pretty? You sat the beers down on the small coffee table before turning back around to keep helping your mom but were quickly stopped by Cillian's hands curling around your wrist. Electric jolts ran through you with his touch. "Why don't you join us, kid?" Cillian hummed.

"Alright." You politely sat down beside him, he sat in between you and your father. It was a lovely summer's night, the crickets chirped and the sun was only just setting at almost nine at night. It was quiet and peaceful and warm. Cillian's presence especially helped provide that atmosphere.

You tucked your legs up into your chest, you and Cillian occasionally sharing glances at each other while your dad and he continued to talk about subjects that didn't capture your interest. Every time he looked at you, you felt like you could explode, his eyes so captivating and simply electrifying. "Here, love." Cillian passed the cigarette over to you, and you took a small drag. Your dad gave you a disapproving look but shook it off as you passed it back, letting out the bellowing smoke from the chambers of your lungs and mouth.

"Weird seein' my little girl smoking a cigarette," Your father grumbled, cracking open a cold one and handing it over to Cillian. "S'not right, you've grown up too fast." While he opened himself a beer, Cillian laid his eyes on you, sucking in the thick smoke of his fag.

You just rolled your eyes at your father's comment. "If it makes you feel better... the only time I have ever smoked a cigarette is when I've been around Cillian." You giggled, looking over at Cillian to see him tilting his head at you, playfully nudging you.

"Hey," He whispered. "Don't dob me in, kid!" His voice was low and husky, you felt yourself squeeze a little at the tremor his tone caused.

Grasping your lip in between your bottom lip you just shook your head as you leaned your head against the wall of the house, staring out at the sunset. You sat out there for a little while, sharing puffs of the cigarette with Cillian until your dad got up, grumbling somethin' about how he was going to help your mother. Leaving you and Cillian alone together. Alone.

"Your parents are pretty eager to hook me up with someone," Cillian said, breaking the silence between you.

"Yeah?" You sucked in a breath.

"Yeah," He took a sip of his beer, setting it down on the table before stretching an arm back and laying it behind you, his hand gently resting on your shoulder. You were flustered, being so close to him, in this sort of dim lighting. "Apparently, I'm goin' out this Saturday to go on a double date wit' your folks... and some woman named Naomi."

You bit back a scowl. "Oh... that's nice..." You lied through your teeth, Cillian just let out an amused huff. It gave off the impression he was irritated with something but you couldn't quite pick up on why he would be annoyed. He wanted you to stand up and tell him to stay, to tell him to be with you instead, he wanted you to be angry, he thought.

You knew who Naomi was. She worked with your dad, you had met her a few times. She was incredibly bright, charming, and nonetheless beautiful, ageing gracefully. Cillian and her were going to get along quite well, in fact, you felt yourself grow sad over the fact they would probably flourish as a couple. You and Cillian sat in silence for a little while longer, you didn't know what else to say. You felt ashamed that this wasn't just a crush you had, you harbored genuine and strong feelings for him that you knew he could never reciprocate. It was wrong. But how could you not want to be with him? He was the best man you'd ever met. Cillian was kind, he understood your silence, and he made you laugh until your ribs hurt. He comforted you like no other, without even trying and god... he was magnetic, the most handsome man you'd ever seen.

"She's not the woman I'm interested in though," Cillian groused, his fingers fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt, his thumb occasionally brushing over the bare skin on your shoulder. You turned your head to look at him with a frown. His face perfectly aligned with yours, hot breath on your face, his pale blue eyes lit up by the rising moon. You could kiss him at that moment... but you wouldn't. You shouldn't. "Y/N..." He took in a deep breath, and your heart raced, it seemed like he was about to confess something. "I..."

"Come on! Let me walk ya home!" Your dad stepped out, and you immediately hopped up and out of the seat, not wanting your dad to see the close proximity you and Cillian were in, not that anything was happening between you two. Not that your dad would see anything you were feeling at that moment. "Sorry was I interrupting something?" Your dad murmured obliviously, disappointment painting both of your faces.

"No... no... I'd better be goin'," Cillian stood up, brushing himself off before pulling you into a tight hug. "See ya round, kid." He whispered into your hair before letting go of you, he gave you a longing stare before turning away.

"Bye, Cillian..."

Your heart sank as you watched him go. Curiosity that ate away at you bubbled in your stomach. What was he going to tell you? Surely... it's not what you were thinking? Sitting in your room that night, you struggled to think about anything else. You hated the idea of Cillian meeting this Naomi woman and falling in love with her. You hated that you felt like you had some sort of possession over him, he wasn't yours and he never would be.

Stormy Saturday rolled around and you had no plans, you just watched your parents get ready for this double date of theirs as you wallowed in self-pity and the sky opened up, just as moody as you were. They pestered you on why you were so grumpy, you just shrugged them off, blaming it on hormones. With every step they took towards the door, your heart broke more and more. You wished them goodbye before sitting on the couch with a tub of ice cream to soothe away the pain. An hour went by and you figured the date had started by now, Naomi and Cillian were probably planning their marriage straight away and you would have to watch him give himself away, you would have to sit in the church pews and resist from standing up and screaming when the minister asks if anyone has any objections. You imagined yourself watching their first dance, watching Cillian stand up and tell the world how she's the most amazing woman he's ever known and that he loves her. You imagined having to congratulate him, you imagined growing old and alone, still just as in love with him as you are now. You groaned at your silly thoughts.

"Get over yourself." You said through gritted teeth, talking to yourself as you bit back tears.

You had some stupid rom-com on, only further reminding you of how painfully alone you were and how desperately you wished to be the one Cillian wanted. You were quickly pulled out of your thoughts by your phone buzzing beside you, quickly picked it up when you saw it was your dad calling.

"Hey dad, how's it going?" You asked with a casual hum, plopping another bit of the vanilla ice cream into your mouth.

"Have you seen Cillian? He's yet to arrive." Your dad sounded worried, he was never a worrier. "He said he was going to show up earlier but we haven't heard from him since... have you heard from him?"

"No, I haven't, is he okay... do you think?" You sat up fully now, setting the ice cream aside. It wasn't like Cillian to not respond at all for so long. If he wasn't going to show up, he'd at least let the people know. You hear a loud strike of lightning outside, shaking the room.

"I don't know, I don't know, Y/N, it's been an hour and a half, he should be here..." Your dad grumbles. You can hear the sound of your mom apologizing to someone else, no doubt Naomi was the person she was apologizing to. Sorry, your future husband hasn't arrived, you imagined her saying. "Alright, I'm gonna go, we're gonna stick around here for a little longer... call me if you hear from him."

The call ends and you're left with an uneasy feeling in your chest. What if Cillian was hurt? You tried to brush away that feeling, getting up and putting the ice cream back in the freezer and the spoon in the sink. A knock at your front door, as loud as the thunder outside made you jump about halfway across the kitchen. Who would be knocking at this time? Especially during this weather?

You rush to the door, the rain pouring out, the trees just about to be ripped out of the ground with how harsh the wind was and you open the door, scowling at the wind.

"Y/N." Cillian gasped out, he looked straight out of a movie scene. Soaking wet. He took a step in, dripping all over the place. His eyebrows furrowed together as he approached you.

"Cillian, what? What are you doing here?!" You exclaimed, shutting the door. "My parents are worried sick about you!"

"I...."

"Why aren't you at your date?" You interrupted, scolding him like a naughty child. He was shivering as he took off his sopping coat, leaving him in a white button-up shirt that was equally soaked. It didn't leave much to the imagination, with the already somewhat translucent material and the water leaking through. It stuck to every inch of his skin like cellophane, his nipples peeked through, his chest and stomach on full display. You stopped yourself from checking him out any further, growing flustered as you felt him corner you in the living room. He had a wild look in his eyes.

"Cillian?" You ask again, concerned. His hair was sticking to his forehead, his eyes locked on you. He didn't seem to really care that he was as wet as a dog.

"Y/N..."

"Cillian..." You repeated.

His eyes said everything he was thinking. Hunger, love, and deep untamed desperation. You winced a bit at the feeling of hand cupping your face. "I love you." He whispered and you gasped.

"Cillian..." You whispered back, hesitant to respond to what he just said. "Have you... have you had something to drink tonight?"

"I'm completely sober, kid," He grunted as he leaned in to kiss you, hot breath on your neck as you quickly turned your cheek to him. You pushed him away, you knew this was wrong. You took a step away from him, and Cillian gave you a look of hurt. "Y/N, baby, I need to tell you this. I have to know you feel the same way." His voice was shaking. The room shook with him, you sat down on your sofa and curled your body up into a tiny ball. "Look at me, kid, look at me." "Don't call me kid!" You yelled with tears in your eyes, finally looking him in the eyes. Cillian jumped a bit at the sudden outburst, it wasn't like you to yell.

"Y/N..." Cillian whispered, a look of hurt.

"We... we can't... I don't know... what's going on right now... but this isn't right... you're my dad's best friend..."

"And you're my best friend's daughter," He sat beside you, placing his hand on your thigh and the other on your chin, making you look at him. "But it doesn't.... it doesn't change these feelings... I have for you."

"Why?" You shook your head away, trying to hide the hot tears that slipped down your face. "Why would you have feelings for me? You could have anyone... and you decide me." "I didn't decide this," Cillian sighed, he leaned in and pressed his face into your warm shoulder. His cold wet hair tickles along your jawline. "But I want you... it doesn't matter... any woman could beg to have me... I'd still want you, Y/N. No one else matters... I need you." Your heart ached. It felt like Cillian had wrapped his warm hand around your poor heart and squeezed it until warm raspberry jam spilled out of his fist. You felt torn.

"Don't cry, baby..." His voice was low and every bit of you wanted to fling yourself at him, to confess your undying love, to run away to Paris with him and never come back. The way he called you baby was delectable. But you couldn't stop thinking about your parents, about the look on their faces if they saw this. "Y/N... baby..." "Stop calling me baby..." You cried, turning your face full of anguish towards him. Cillian's lip quivered, thumb swiping away your tears. "I don't... I don't get it. I just don't get it, Cillian... why... you? Why... me?"

"You are the most extraordinary person I have ever met, kid..." Cillian's petal-like lips whispered to you oh-so-gently. Your eyes locked on the way his mouth moved as he spoke. "I... I know it's wrong, I know I'm a fuckin' creep... for feeling this way for you... I'm old enough to be your goddamn father... I've known you since you were... just seventeen-"

"How long... have you... you known...?"

"Since you came home from your trip to California last year..." He replied all too quickly. "I saw you with that stupid boy... Kyle or whatever the fuck his bloody name was and all I saw was red... I didn't... I couldn't handle seeing you with him." You bit back a smile. "You're too good... for any of those college boys..." He grumbled. "A lady like you... she needs to be treated right."

You can treat me right Cillian, you thought. "I've never wanted them... the way I've wanted you..." "Fuck..." He let out quietly, biting his own lip in response. "You can't say things like that." His blue eyes were just a sliver of what they once were, pupils were blown wide as if he were high from just staring at you. "Most brilliant girl... fuck... that last gig we went to... I wanted to wrap me arm around you and kiss you silly... claim you as mine... but... I was too afraid."

"What gave you the courage?"

"I've just had enough," Cillian swiped another tear off your cheek. "Had enough of waiting... I can't wait any longer..."

"I can't wait any longer either... it's been eating away at me, the idea of you with anyone else. I just... I can't picture you with anyone else."

Cillian grinned at you, still shivering from his wet clothes. You put him out of his misery, connecting your lips. After all this time, what felt like an eternity, you kissed. The oxygen around you no longer mattered, you had each other to breathe in now. This kiss was not slow and romantic, it was violent like you were trying to consume each other, trying to see who could win in this cannibalistic fight. His hands grasped at your waist, pulling you onto his lap and wetting your clothes with his soggy ones.

"Take my shirt off..." He whispered, he didn't have to ask you twice.

You unbuttoned his shirt as best you could while it was wet before ripping it open and revealing his delicious skin. "You're so pretty, Cillian..." This moment was surreal. The man of your dreams, twenty years older than you, with crow's feet and grey hairs, and the most beautiful soul you had ever found, sitting in front of you with his body on display for you. Your soulmate. You both had known it for a long time now. Making out on your couch was unacceptable to Cillian so he picked you up and carried you upstairs with your legs wrapped around his slim waist.

He had been in your room plenty of times before but never for reasons like this. Never with the desire to rip all your clothes off and crawl inside you. Cillian closed and locked the door behind you before throwing you down onto your well-cushioned bed. You watched him slide out of his shoes and pull off the sticky shirt that draped off his shoulders. Now he was completely shirtless and was prowling towards you like a tiger to its prey. "Gonna take your clothes off of now, love, is that alright?" He asked quickly, fingers slipping underneath the waistband of your shorts. You nodded desperately, your brain lost in some sort of fog of disbelief and horniness.

"God..." You whispered as you helped him shimmy off your shorts and you pulled your shirt quickly over your head. Leaving you in nothing but some small boxer shorts. He grinned madly.

"S'pretty..." His hands slid up your waist until both hands cupped each of your tits in his hands. "Fucking hell, kid." You rolled your head back at him calling you that, groaning at how it turned you on and gasping as you felt his hot mouth latch itself onto your hard nipple.

"Cillian... oh my god!" Your fingers tugged on his hair before he pulled off of you with a pop.

His lips were quickly back on yours as he pulled down your shorts, now you were completely naked and he knelt down on his knees so his face was perfectly aligned with what was between your legs. Your pussy was already soaking wet for him, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your clit. "You are the most beautiful thing..." He whispered, staring directly at your throbbing cunt. "And the sweetest." His mouth worked deliciously on you and as if his tongue wasn't already enough, he slipped a finger into you, fingering at your g-spot.

"Oh!" You writhed around on the sheets, thighs tightly locked around his head, wet hair sticking to your soft skin. He was truly devouring you, like a man who had been malnourished for years, he feasted on you as if you were his last meal. And when you came on his face, he moaned loudly. The orgasm crept on you and hit you out of nowhere, you couldn't hold in the noises that came out of your throat.

You were delirious as you lay there, whining as he continued to finger you. "Fuck... I could eat your pussy all night long, baby," Cillian panted, chin dripping in your juices. "But I've gotta be inside ya."

"I'm... on the pill..." You murmured out, he pulled his finger out of you, sucking it clean as he undid his slacks. He moaned lowly at your words, letting his pants and underwear fall to his ankles. Cillian carried you up until your head rested on the pillows now. It was romantic the way he was handling you, the moment was so intimate as he stroked his cock, lining it up with your wanting hole. "I've thought about this... for so long..." "Me too, baby." Cillian huffed, rolling his eyes back into his skull as he fit the head of his cock into your pussy, pushing the rest in there slowly but surely. You arched your back against him, whimpering as he pressed fully into you. "So good." Cillian groaned as he leaned down and bit down on your lip, pulling it away and watching it pop back into place before properly kissing you. You made out while he remained still inside of you, his hands on either side of your head as your tongues twisted together. The first thrust sent your body into a state of euphoria as he began picking up the pace, rocking his hips in and out of you. Your fingers ran scratches up and down his back. Your bed old and creaky, slamming against the wall as soon as he fucked you hard and fast while remaining still so painfully romantic.

"I love you," You gasped out. "I love you... Cillian!"

"I fuckin' love you so much," His head hung low, and you got the perfect view of him above you. His face flushed and his eyes fixed on your own face full of pleasure. "You're mine, all mine... and I'm yours."

"All mine..." You repeated with a moan, clenching around him, feeling your own high slowly begin to grow.

"You're takin' me so good," Cillian's praise made you throb, his grunting making you gush around him. "My good girl, my best girl."

The look of love in his eyes and in your own could be seen a thousand miles away. Your souls' grand reunion, your bodies becoming one, and your love finally coming out into the open, like a beautiful fruitful spring after a long and dark winter. "I'm close, Cillian."

"Cum around me, love, I wanna feel you come undone." "I want you to cum inside me..." "Fuck," He groaned, hips stuttering into you. "I'll give ya what you want since you asked so nicely." Your vision went white, ears ringing as your hot sweaty bodies pressed together, fitting so perfectly together. Never had anyone made you cum like this before. Your orgasm washes over you in foamy waves, like a stormy ocean hitting the shore over and over and over again. Cillian's rhythm slowed down as he rutted into you, warm cum filling you, and you felt so relieved, this was how it was always meant to be. His lips pressed sloppy kisses to your neck, moaning directly into your ear, both of you riding out your intense highs.

He stilled, letting a bit more of his seed spill into you before he hissed as he pulled out. Cillian lay beside you, wrapping an arm around you as shook softly, still feeling the effects of your own orgasm hitting you. His eyes examined you so gently, a dopey smile on his fairy-like face and his hair beginning to grow curly from how wet it was.

"Cillian..." You whispered, rolling over onto your side to look at him. "I love you." "I love you, kid." He whispered back, holding you like he had the world in his arms. To him, you were his world.

"We'll be okay, right?" "We just... have to keep this a secret... from your parents..." Cillian said, disappointment evident in his voice.

"Yeah... I know..." You pressed your face into his bare chest, loving the warmth. "Cillian... I wish you knew how strongly I felt about you."

"I feel the same way."

You shared sweet nothings with each other. Still, in disbelief, this was actually happening as you fell asleep with smiles on your faces, in each other's arms. Unfortunately in the morning, you'd have to suffer the consequences of your dad walking in on you and Cillian resting peacefully in your bed.

hi! sorry this was so long but i hope you enjoyed <3

also sorry if there are any major mistakes!

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