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ajortga · 19 days

Text

competition

pairing: slytherin!toxic!jenna ortega x ravenclaw!fem reader

summary: jenna loves to joke around, you both know it. as she gets braver and braver with her jokes, it comes with a price, eventually hurting you and taking away something you loved most.

warnings: slight angst, teasing remarks, heavy makeout scene, rushed ending, enemies to lovers

word count: 5.2k+

based off request!

Jenna criticizes literally everything about R's performance (J's an ass here 😓), while R is actually starting to get really pressured, J would always have something to say, thennn R gets tired of J's bs and begins focusing on themselves more, which would lead to R ignoring J for atleast a month or two, obviously J's pride is awfully. THEN J CONFESSES TO HER FRIEND, (how inlove she is w R and how she misses R sm) WITHOUT KNOWING THAT R IS NEARBY, OVERHEARING EVERYTHING. 😍😍 A DAY AFTER... R JUST TAKES J IN A PRIVATE ROOM AND KISSING TF OUTTA HER.

Slytherin Jenna! x Ravenclaw R!

Your test paper gets put on your desk, your teacher murmuring a small, “I expected better, Y/N.”

There was a 65% circled in red and it made you sick to your stomach, you had never gotten a low score before, especially in potions. You knew your concoctions and effects, you swear you had mixed everything perfectly. You groan in frustration, cursing to yourself.

Your hand scrunches, breathing in deeply as you ruffle your hair, now hearing the voice of the person you would rather befriend a frog with and use them first as a sacrifice for a blood sucking demon.

“How can someone fail a potions exam? You managed to get first place for being the biggest dweeb, messing up the easiest class.” Jenna slightly smirks, teasingly as she approaches you and whispers sharply in your ear, your eyes glaring at her. “It’s impressive you didn’t notice a small switch of potions. All I did was switch the labels of the potions which had the same color and you didn’t even notice.”

Of course she switched up the potions to set you up for failing, “You know how important this is to me.”

“Aw.. I’m so sorry Y/N,” she mocks, “What a pity.” She pouts, “I don’t care.”

You want to smack her in the face, maybe throw that explosive potion you made to melt off her face, but you don’t. At this point you’re thinking of something to get her back, packing your spell books.

“I swear she won’t get off my shoulders, I haven’t done a single damn thing to Ortega.”

Emma laughs, nudging you, “Maybe she just likes teasing someone sweet like you.”

An annoyed exhale leaves your lips, not knowing what she meant by that, “Well she better stop it,” you grab your broom stick.

Your friend thinks a little, “Just put a small spell on her broomstick! Nothing, you know, to make her hurt, just maybe throw her off balance.”

That interests you, you're trying to think of a sparkle you could just add onto hers. You notice she hasn’t gone to class yet and clearly you can see the large stick hidden between her name. As you approach, your fingers touch the stick, feeling the way your body immediately focuses, then you pull your finger away to go back to Emma. You feel like you shouldn’t, but you don’t feel a single ounce of guilt as a smirk forms when you reach her.

“Come on,” you urge, taking Emma’s hand as you make your way outside with your broom sticks.

You use your right hand, grabbing it forward as Mrs. Hooch stays on the side, watching. You’ve all gotten the hang of it either way, it’s rare for some people to fall.

“Up!” Emma and you say in unison, seeing your sticks fly up as you smile at each other and hop on, ready for a flight.

You giggle, feeling yourself ascend.

“Y/L/N,” You hear Jenna’s voice behind you, making your figure turn to face her. You see her stiffen.

Emma gives you a look, cunning.

“Ortega,” you greet, not so politely, but not rude nonetheless.

“I’d challenge you to a racing match, but I do know that your ass is scared that I’ll beat and outrun you in seconds.”

You give out a snarky laugh, “I highly doubt you could even reach me by the time I ascend. I’m better at you than flying, we both know that.”

Jenna does know that, sort of. And she doesn’t want you to prove it, not during flight class while everyone is watching.

“Unless you’ve changed your mind and don’t want to challenge me, niñita,” you respond again, seeing the way Jenna was thinking.

“Then I challenge you,”

“And I accept.”

Emma nudges you, you hear her whisper in your ear, “Well, she’d probably complain, you did sort of spell her broom and she’d notice as soon as she’d get on.”

A grin forms on your lips, tearing your eyes from the tiny Jenna, “Well, I spelled it so that if Jenna were to try anything, cause that’s the bitch she is, the spell would take effect. I’m not entirely making myself win at all. I know for a fact she’d try to make me loose, she doesn’t want to lose at all, well at least to me. I know her long enough to know she’d put a spell to make me lose balance, Em.”

You see Hooch in the corner of your eye, “Plus, Hooch is watching everything, and because I spelled her broom before hand, nothing will happen until she aims some spell at me. Hooch will see that, or at least a little sparkle and chant of words. But she won’t see mine, since I spelled it before, and she’ll just think Jenna lost her balance trying to spell me.”

Emma looks at you, not knowing if you should go on.

“Em! Seriously, Jenna has been making me miserable this year, and I haven’t done anything. This is just a playful harmless thing. It’s the least I can do. I could’ve spawned a rat in her dorm that follows her everywhere!”

“Go, I sort of want to see her fall.”

The grin that disappeared forms again, winking at her as you hop back on your broom.

Then you two are off.

You rush through the field, feeling the wind blow through your hair. You loved feeling that cool breeze, it’s unreal, flying is your favorite thing to do.

Jennas not far behind, but far enough to know that you’ll win.

She groans to herself, watching your pretty, she meant nasty figure speed ahead.

The brunette’s eyes narrow, she wasn’t going to let you win without a fight, she focuses on your broom, she’s close enough to do something.

The wind is making your hair go crazy, but in a good way. Everyone is waiting their turn from below, watching you race through the course. Fast enough to feel their hair blow from your swiftness.

An exhale pasts her lips, you can see her trying to come closer, or almost urging you to slow down. But you don’t, of course you won’t. You speed faster, dodging an incoming tree and turning a corner.

Jenna feels blood rushing through her ears, murmuring something under her breath as she gets ready to swish through you and laugh.

She begins the spell, feeling her fingertips slightly tingle. But as soon as she’s about to shoot a spark, her hands let go and she sees the blue flying spark stumble towards you. Instead of it hitting your broom and making it shake, your hair flies through the wind and it shoots back at her.

Jenna yelps, feeling the way her broom starts to shake.

Emma giggles from the sidelines, as soon as you pass the blonde’s figure, you send her a thumbs up and a knowing wink.

God finally.

The brunette loses her balance, feeling the broom shake left and right, she’s clinging onto it tightly, smacks her head on loose branches. She feels herself slow down to regain a steady pace, but as she speeds up again, you’re already gone, swerving a corner.

The tiny brunette grumbles from the benches, watching you smile and jump up and down.

“Impressive play out there, Y/N. You just might be our best flier out there, keep your swift performance and you’ll be on for Quidditch.”

You already knew you’d win, even if Jenna hit your broom with her spell. You’ve won every time racing against the class.

You approach her, giving her a half-hearted smile, you’d take it as a smirk.

“Well, someone tried to cheat.”

You hear her huff, and it makes you giggle, you brush off the stick that is stuck in her hair.

“I regret doing that, Em, that tiny tiny 3 foot 1 foot cockroach is making me fall into her traps,” you murmur, stomping your foot.

“At least you got a taste of revenge, Y/N.”

“I guess so,” you say, sinking into your seat, you feel yourself begin to find her playful and harmless banters to be stressful by every joke and scandal that girl plays.

As Quidditch season approaches, Jenna swipes her hair to the side, tying it up as you watch her with narrow eyes. It’s just a regular racing match this time. No ball. Just two talented people against each other.

Well, one more talented than the other, you think to yourself

Hooch brings you two together, in which you stare each other down, your gaze not faltering on each other.

“Goodluck, I wish you two a fair match.”

You two shake hands, though you both won’t admit it was a genuine one. You give Jenna a final glare before gazing back at the field, focusing.

“Ready?” Hooch says, you don’t respond, just a subtle nod.

“And.. Up!”

You and Jenna shout at your brooms.

“Up!” you command, seeing your favorite item fly up, you jump on it.

Then you both swing off.

Again, not long after, does Hooch see the way your practicing and after school matches with friends are working well. You’re much farther than Jenna is, and again, it’s like no other match. But this time Jenna isn’t going to let you win again.

She growls, casting spells onto your broom and immediately, you feel your broom slow down.

“What the hell.” You mutter to yourself, you dive down. But it seems like your broom isn’t listening.

It’s swishing up and down, left to right, and you steady yourself, but you’re shaking.

You're swinging back and forth and you're losing control, you can’t make your broom stop. It’s not like just a shake of your broom and you lose balance before catching yourself, this time it’s worse. Your broom isn’t listening.

You scream to yourself, not too loud. But Mrs. Hooch can see the way Jenna is catching up, she knows Jenna did something, but it’s not looking good. Sure playful banters were okay.

But instead of dodging a tree, you smack your head straight into the leafiness, feeling the thorns of the leaves sink and cut beneath your eye. Jenna swishes through you, not looking back. The pain immediately comes through, harsh stings roaring through your skin. You cry out, completely losing balance on your broom, crashing into the tree harshly and feeling your head bang into the wood.

Jenna still hasn’t noticed the damage she’s caused.

You feel yourself fall.

Farther and farther.

Till your body crashes down on the grassy field, your bones from the fall aren’t helping. You hear the way they crack. And then you feel warm blood trickling down your forehead and down from the cut on your eye. You whimper.

Black spots invade your vision and you feel carsick. But you know you’re not in a car.

Your eyes flutter, making a soft groan as Emma approaches you. You can barely see her worried face but you know she’s scared.

“Y/N, can you hear me?” She says, it’s muffled. You don’t respond, her figure is blurry, you can barely see her blue eyes.

Before you can even think of a response, your eyes shut.

And as Jenna reaches the finish line, she just turns around, to notice you at least tens of feet below from her, collapsed on the ground and curled up. She can’t help but feel a gasp fall from her lips, diving down and getting off her broom stick.

She didn’t mean for it to get this chaotic, she was just hoping you’d crash into a branch and get all angry and fussy. Not get hurt. As she approaches closer, she sees blood trickling down your face as your chest heaves up and down. Emma looks at you, worriedly as everyone surrounds you two.

Jenna feels something that she doesn’t want to admit, she feels guilty for hurting you. You had barely done anything to her, but she’s messed with you countless times, you’ve gotten in trouble for it.

And you never ratted her out. The one time you decide to get her back, she’s taken things too far.

“God,” she murmurs, her voice betraying her as she pushes through the crowds of people, “Is she okay?”

The way her friend turns to her, your best friend looks like she’s about to explode, “Does she look okay? DOES SHE LOOK OKAY JENNA? What the hell were you thinking?” the blonde says the last part half aloud, where only Ortega can hear.

“I didn’t think she’d get hurt!” Jenna retorts, kneeling down and putting her hesitant hand over your chest, feeling the way it was beating quickly, chest going up and down, up down.

Immediately nurses come and drag you out, Emma following you as they take you to the infirmary.

Jenna feels herself following too, until Hooch catches up with her.

“Ortega!” Her voice is loud, screeching as she pulls Jenna off to the side, “what on earth do you think you were doing? You’ve gotten Y/N seriously hurt because of a stupid practice match! Don’t think I didn’t catch the lame spell you’ve cast.” her eyes are wild, angry, “You know we don’t allow spells on the battlefield, I know some of Hogwarts students have broken it, but it’s never been so severe, you’ve hurt her tremendously. She’s bleeding, and I think she’ll suffer some sprains.”

Jenna nods, she understands. Sort of. She wants to understand, she knows what she did was bad. Hooch takes a deep breath, “I’m disappointed with you.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know if Y/N will heal in three months, she’s been our best and fastest player, with quick decisions and speedy moves. She might have to sit out on Quidditch, I was looking forward to taking the trophy this season. And I would disqualify you, send you to detention after school everyday till she properly heals,” Hooch takes a deep breath, “But you have to be one of our players because you have the ability to. That doesn’t mean that you won’t get detention. I’ll even ask Dumbledore to exclude you from house games.

God, Jenna didn’t mean to make you be kicked out this season. She knew how much you wanted it. She can’t help but feel guilty.

Hooch’s voice once again speaks up, “And I expect you to apologize and pay her a visit. You two have never gotten along, but I know you both care about each other. Even if it’s slight.”

A soft nod leaves her, her eyes lingering on your small figure that is now being taken to surgery. Maybe she’ll slow down with the pranks.

As soon as visitors are allowed in, Jenna begins to stand up and approach your door.

“Ortega, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Don’t open that door,” it’s Emma's voice, but this time she sounds much more angry. Unlike the voice the brunette is used to hearing.

The way Jenna stands there, Emma narrows her eyes, “You’ve already hurt her, what more can you need? Unplug the oxygen tank and start laughing your stubborn ass up? I don’t think so.”

She was taken by surprise, the fact that both you and Emma have gotten used to her tricks, she feels herself biting her lip.

“N-no.. No, not anything like that. I just wanted to apologize. I know my tricks have gone a bit farther than expected.”

Emma approaches her, pressing her finger to Jenna’s chest, “You’ve hurt her more than enough, and I can see it. She’s done nothing to you! Nothing!” your best friend growls, and Jenna backs up.

“You just don’t understand how much you’ve pressured her! Because you’re too busy standing there like the spoiled person you are on your banters.”

Jenna smacks her hands off, raising both of her hands to show she’s ‘surrendering,’ “I know, I know Em! Just let me apologize.”

“Not when she’s just about to wake up, you wouldn’t want the least expected person who hurt you to show up as soon as you wake up. Give her time,” the blonde grumbles, shushing her back to her seat as she enters your room. Jenna stands up again, noticing you're still unconscious.

Emma can feel her presence, and decides not to turn back as she sits on the chair next to you. Your face lost its color. None of the pink shade that tinted your cheeks when Jenna teased you. The pink shade that she wanted to see was gone, replaced by a pale, tired face, sound asleep.

There were cuts all over you, she saw some bruises and there was a big bandage wrapped around your right cheek. She also saw a deep cut that was gauzed up in your arm. She winced. A few broken bones maybe.

She didn’t know it was this bad. The only noise was Emma’s sniffles, and the small beep of your heartbeat’s monitor. Jenna sighs, scooting closer and hesitantly bringing her hand close to your face. She felt like if she were to touch you, you would turn into dust.

Her hand gently traces your fast, your nose slightly twitches, but she knows you’re too weak to move or wake up. Then she brushes through your hair, it’s weird beginning to see all the times she’s treated you wrongly as something she shouldn’t have done. Each trick got worse than the other, more risky of being harmed. And now look at you, all broken and bruised.

I didn’t mean it, Jenna thinks, looking down at your tiny figure.

I really didn’t mean it.

Your eyes flutter closed, and immediately you close them again, groaning from the whitest most lightest light you’ve ever encountered, covering yourself with a blanket. As soon as you move, you moan softly in pain, feeling pain roar through your body.

“Stay still,” you hear a familiar voice say, you can’t lend your finger on it. It sounds pretty, and before you can process it your brain switches that thought off. It’s your annoying rival that casted a spell that got you here in the first place. Jenna stupid Ortega.

You grunt, looking up at her, you feel bandages around you, avoiding contact with the brunette.

“Emma should be back soon, she was getting some flowers for you.”

“Good, then you can leave.”

Harsh.

You hear the way Jenna sighs, and you shake it off, turning slightly so you can face the entertaining wall instead of her.

“Look Y/N, I’m sorry.”

“Please, can’t you see I’m apologizing?”

“No, Jenna. You knew I didn’t like these things you did to me before. And you decide to apologize now? Do you think it’s going to make me forgive you just like that?” You say, turning back at her, a storm brews behind your eyes.

“I can’t participate in the one thing I was looking forward to this season! Just because you put this spell that you knew could harm me badly! You knew I wanted to be in Quidditch!” Jenna winces at your increasing voice.

“You could’ve been on the team too! It’s not just one of us! But you got your actions in the way before you could even think! And now you want to apologize?” It's loud, your voice begins to falter a little. Your shoulders untense, and Jenna can hear the monitor of your heart increase by four times, she shushes you, pulling you onto your back.

“Stop,” she says, her voice is too soft for your liking, you can’t think. Too much is going on in your mind, “Please.”

“Get out Jenna.”

“W-what? You don’t understand.. I’m trying to-”

“Jenna, get the hell out!” You snap, your eyes filled to the max with unshed tears.

You stay silent, before cracking out a tiny, “Please.”

And like that, Jenna walks out of the room, murmuring an “I’m sorry.”

Just this time, she really wanted you to know that she meant it.

It’s been a month, and by now your arm was barely healing, and there was a stupid ugly mark of a cut on your face. The pain was harsh, if your arm didn’t heal by the time Quidditch began, all your practice and effort would flush down the drain. It scared you.

As bad as the pain got, your mark would probably never fade, there would always be a purple cut marked under your eye. Even once it’s completely healed, ones that meet you will notice your cut, in a lighter shade than your actual skin tone. It made you cry every night, silently.

It was stupid to cry over, your deep bruises weren’t even close to healing. Every time you would accidentally press into it, you’d shriek in pain. You felt insecure of yourself. It didn’t feel good, every time you’d look at yourself in the mirror there would be your healing cuts scarred over your body.

“It looks s-so ugly..” You hiccup, looking at yourself in the mirror, Emma by your side as she shakes her head, “Nonsense, it’s okay.”

“It might never go away.”

“And that’s okay, when you're older, you’ll find it silly, I promise. It’s a reminder of being here, and to remind you that competition is less superior when it comes to safety.”

You can’t help but feel yourself shrink, watching the scar on your face haunt you.

Jenna sees you in the hallways, you're in half her classes. But every single time she looks at you, you’re never looking her way. Not like before. Not when exam scores are passed out during Snape or McGonagall when you usually turn around and she waves her high score in the air, but you always wave yours back, grinning happily when you got one percent higher than her. She found you annoying, but now she feels like she’s taken you for granted. You were the one who taught her how to properly care for her plant in Herbology, although most of the time she’s retained information from the random songs and joking nerdy remarks.

Jenna hated sitting next to you in that class, she loved teasing you and making you explode from frustration. She hated the way you looked at her and had the ability to somehow use some Hogwarts nonsense to make her think back at your smile.

It was something you did to her, it couldn’t have been herself, she’d never be thinking of your smile or you in general. You must’ve casted a spell on her.

Yet she remembers that she’s thinking about you right now.

Anyways, she hated the way you smirked at her and kept kicking your feet to hers, then growing some mushroom on her damn shoe.

“What the fuck Y/N? Why is there a green toadstool on my fucking foot?” She says, angrily as you laugh and fall out of your seat. She tries shaking off the small mushroom with her foot, but then it makes it grow even bigger.

And by the end of the day there is a 20 foot mushroom on her shoe, shading her as she walks home, heading straight for the knife to cut it off.

The thought made her smile a bit. She didn’t want to admit it, she didn’t know how you did it. Or maybe when she kept tapping her pen to purposely annoy you, then when you snapped, light blue sparkles flew out of your mouth and made your voice sound wonky.

Now, you barely looked at her. For the entirety of when you were gone, you had to catch up. She felt a little relieved, you could finally talk to her by asking for notes. Didn’t want to admit the pit in her chest when you asked the person behind you.

I’m sorry, Jenna thinks, she wants to scream at you and apologize until you forgive her.

You ignored her, and she knew she deserved it. She treated you so wrongly. Sure she knew you never mind those moments she looked back to, but she knew that she grew more and more brave with her pranks, growing less and less cautious of even thinking of your safety and feelings.

She hates seeing that look in your eyes as everyone in Hooch’s class shouts, “Up!” with excitement, and you sit there, alone on the bleachers as you watch.

As you watch your whole class fly off, Emma giving you a small, concerned look, and a tight-lipped, forceful smile forms on your lips, assuring you were fine.

She hates the way she can remember the smile leaving your lips as Emma leaves off for the race, then looking down with melancholy traced in your features.

I’m sorry.

The shorter brunette can’t stand the way you look at everyone fly off, knowing that someone that you know won’t be you will probably take your place in Quidditch. She can see it in your eyes, kicking the dirt, hoping that somehow you can kick the pain and broken limbs away.

This time, she can’t tear your eyes away from your tiny figure.

Yet she knows that you won’t even look at her, never noticing the sympathetic stares she gives you, replaced with the ones once filled with competition.

Emma’s voice is dull, almost like she doesn’t want to talk to Jenna after the incident.

“You’re seriously asking me to have Y/N talk to you?” she questions, looking at her with suspicion.

“Please, Em! It’s been a month, and I’ve been trying to apologize.”

The blonde crosses her arms, trying to defend you, “Well what if she doesn’t want to talk to you or apologize?”

“I don’t care!” Jenna throws her arms in the air, “I know what I did was wrong and if I’m being honest, class is getting boring without having her competition and silly remarks behind my back.”

Jenna freezes, what she says kind of sounds weird.

Emma hums, then she turns to Jenna, “So, what are you saying Jenna?”

“I care about her!” She groans, rubbing her cheeks, “I’m starting to think that I’ve cared about her since I met her but didn’t know till my actions got her hurt. I was going to apologize but now I’m shitting desperate. She won’t get out of my mind and.. I don’t know!”

Jenna groans, trying to think of what this was, “I just keep thinking about the things she doesn’t do anymore, and it’s sad not having her by my side. I feel guilty. And I need to apologize even more so she can get out of my head! Em, please, I can’t get that stupid silly cute smile out of my head. And I can’t damn focus knowing that the girl that sits next to me in McGonagall is full on avoiding me!”

She doesn’t realize the way she’s been rambling, she looks at Emma, whose face expression has changed. In some way, she’s slightly having a grin on her face, “You’re in love with her.”

“What? I don’t know! Maybe, I just-I feel bad, and I want to apologize and make it okay again. It’s just so dull and I’ll.. I don’t even fucking know. I just miss her and the way it used to be.”

“You should’ve told me that,” your soft voice sing-songs from behind her, making her tense up and turn around.

“Y/N,” Jenna stutters.

“Jenna,” you mumble, voice slightly breathy.

“I didn’t think you were-” she squeals in surprise as you drag her by the arm, panting softly as you drag her into a room, god who knows what Hogwarts classroom this is.

“Look Y/N, I’m sorry, but why are we in someones-mmph.” You seal her lips with a random spell under your lips and you place your finger to her mouth.

You slightly smirk, god she missed it, she looks down at your lips, she rolls her eyes, “Apologize to me and I’ll let you do what you’ve wanted to do.” You undo your spell, taking off your finger from her mouth as she begins to speak.

“Wha?-”

“Go on.”

You were teasing her, and she breathed, “Okay, I’m sorry. For hurting you, I know I went too far,” she was rambling as she speaks a little faster, “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just felt more brave as much as I teased you and I know I went too far this time. And I promise I didn’t try to hurt you, I know how much Quidditch meant to you..” she gulps again, taking a breath. “What I did led to a lot of things, and I’ve noticed the way I grew upset when I knew you began to avoid me, and I’ll admit I miss you.” Jenna says the last part hesitantly.

The brunette looked up at you and you were looking at her, hesitant eyes, but almost filled with need? She now noticed the more visible cut on your eye, and you look away, seeing her gaze on the mark you were most insecure on, you cover your face.

“Stop that,” Jenna smacks your hands away and it feels like her hesitation swept away, she slowly reached up to cup your cheeks, in which your uncertainty melted. She looks at the mark, it was better than when she saw you unconscious on the floor. That’s all that matters. She wants to roll her eyes but now she feels weird when she does that.

“Does it hurt?”

You shake your head, “Just a little.”

"I'm sorry about Quidditch."

"I'm still angry about that, my arm should heal soon though, before it starts."

.. An awkward silence passes, then you look down at her pink lips.

Jenna hums, then you tug her closer, making a small whine.

“Please kiss me.”

Jenna’s eyes widen, taking her hands away from your cheeks.

“What?”

“Please,” you plead, your eyes filled with want.

Her eyes flicker from your lips as she cups your cheeks again and brings you to her mouth. As they meet, you’re all small and soft moans, kissing her with need. Hunger. It’s different. Teasing you doesn’t come with words, she’s teasing you with her mouth, feeling the way you grip onto her.

More more more, don’t stop.

You taste exactly how Jenna thought you would, but just so much better. So addicting, it makes her mind spin with you. Coca cola and addictive vanilla. It mixes well with the taste of hers, you let her capture your tongue. It’s feverish, tongue and want combined. She indulges in the way you make a tiny moan as she nibbles your tongue. Your wanting lips push harder to hers, your body pressing against her as you slightly find something to grind against.

It’s heated and different. She tugs you closer, finding it adorable as you pull away for a tiny breath, then continue, like you don’t want to stop feeling her lips on yours. Her hands. Your fingers tugging against her hair.

Long moments after you pull away, you both are panting, your head buried deep into her chest. She rubs your hair.

“I didn’t think you were that experienced,” you whisper.

She rolls her eyes, pressing her lips to your forehead, “I didn’t think you’d pull me into a room and start begging me to kiss you and make out with you.”

“Mm..”

“Well, did my kisses grant your forgiveness for me?

“Maybe.”

“What if I give you another round?”

She smirks, seeing the way you lean back into her.

“Deal.”

She presses her lips that just left yours once again, feeling your hands tangle back into her hair.

#jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x you #vada cavell x reader #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega imagine #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter x reader #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega smut #jenna ortega x y/n #harry potter au

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sxtaep · 2 years

Text

ANTI ROMANTIC - PJM

you could come across as the number one hater of the male species, but not when it came to jimin.

pairing — jimin x female reader

genre — fluff, smut

word count — 3.4k+

warnings/tags — friends2lovers, fwb!au, dom!jimin, sub!reader, teasing, reader is an anti-romantic, lots of ranting, reader confesses, making out, swearing, explicit smut, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, exhbitionism, pillow riding, dirty talk, orgasm denial, reader is very put on the spot, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, guys) crying, creampie +more

a/n: what to do when the nation is in mourning? write jimin smut 💀 rest up queen elizabeth though, i remember when she came to my school and shook my hand after i gave her a bouquet of flowers 😭

You just wrapped up what you could only call the worst blind date known to mankind. The guy was smug and cocky: you could tell he probably had a thing for being better than women, and that right there was an immediate red flag for you.

Now sitting behind the wheel of your car, pure irritation evident on your face, all you could think about was how the fuck you could face Jimin after another failed blind date. That and the fact that you slept with Jimin a couple times but neither of you had the guts to really put a label on yourselves.

It was agreed your relationship with Jimin was strictly ‘no strings attached’, merely using each other as an output to deal with the stress of work. The two of you must’ve been stressed everyday since it seemed that was how often you both went at it.

“I’ve got a blind date tonight,” you tell him, entering his office to bother him as you usually did.

A blind date?

Jimin wasn’t expecting you to start dating people whilst sleeping with him on the down low. Was that how these things worked?

“You’re going on a date? Why?” He looks up from his desk, clearly confused about it since you always preached about how much you hated men and relationships.

You shrug, “I can’t keep sleeping with you for the rest of my life, eventually you’ll fall in love with someone else and want to get married and have kids.”

You weren’t wrong, Jimin did have all this planned for his future, but he never really saw some other girl with him. All these plans were made with the intention of doing them with you.

“Plus, it’s not like we’re together or anything, so I don’t see what’s stopping me.”

“Well…” he didn’t really know what to say. Does he suddenly confess now or never? If this blind date of yours was a success, he’ll never have the chance to tell you how he really felt, but you seemed really excited about it, he shouldn’t ruin that for you.

“I mean, are you sure you wanna go on a blind date? Kind of a big step for someone who hates relationships,” he says, cocking a brow at you sat opposite his desk.

You didn’t seem as concerned as he was, but then again, why did he care so much?

“Do you want me to give you hourly updates or something? Seems a bit much, Park,” you chuckle softly, failing to notice the inner conflict he was having. “Are you worried about me?”

“No, I’m just looking out for you,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes at your silly teasing. In all honesty, it felt like he was being replaced. “Whatever though, don’t come crying to me late at night when the date doesn’t go to plan.”

When you get home, you you contemplate on updating Jimin. A part of you wanted to send him a message but the other didn’t wanna hear him say ‘I told you so’ as he did many times before.

But fuck it.

you: are you at home?

jimin: yeah, why? you coming over? or you wanna meet somewhere else?

you: no, just make sure you’re home

With that final message sent, you change out of your date night clothes, opting for something more comfortable, but once you’re out of your dress, you look down at your bare body in nothing but intricate black lace (yes, you wore a set with the intention of getting laid tonight) and figured you’d keep it on.

For Jimin.

You throw on a long trench coat to cover up, shivering a little once the material is wrapped securely around your naked body. It was a risky game going out like this, but for some reason, you felt obligated to do this.

If he wanted to make you feel bad, you may as well look good whilst he did it.

The very moment you had texted Jimin, he had just come out the shower, clean and fresh. He re-read your message a couple times, trying to figure out why you were coming over all of a sudden. Was the date so great you wanted to gush about it to him? Or did it go so terribly you were about to rant as soon as you stepped in? Or possibly, were you coming over to fuck?

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it and continued about his night, dressing loosely with a pair of sweatpants and no shirt.

Why wear so much if it was gonna come off anyway?

With that thought, three knocks were had at his door, and he had no doubt that it was you.

You were left waiting for a couple seconds, tapping your foot against the carpeted floor continuously until you were met with a very bare Jimin, forcing your incessant tapping to come to a halt and your breath to catch in your throat.

You eyed every inch of him; his perfectly sculpted v-line, the crevices of his abs, the simple, yet impacting ‘never mind’ tattoo adorning his ribs, and finally his face, which was slightly moist due to the droplets of water falling from the ends of his hair.

“Hi..” you say breathlessly, “Can I come in?”

Jimin caught you eyeing him up, but chose not to comment on it. Instead, he moves aside to let you in, “By all means.”

As you step inside, his eyes follow your form taking notice of the unusual outfit you were wearing. Heels with your legs bare, you must’ve been wearing a dress underneath the coat, but he couldn’t be certain, the damn coat was shielding away his curiosity.

“I’m guessing your date didn’t go well,” Jimin chuckles softly, closing the front door and turning to look at you, “Wanna talk about it over a drink?” Though it sounded like an open ended question, he didn’t wait for you to respond, already making his way into the kitchen to pull out two wine glasses.

“Listen…” you start, your voice low, yet loud enough for Jimin to hear. You’re stuck standing by the door, watching, him set the two glasses down on the marble counter. “I.. am a good girl,” you begin, trying not to sound stupid. “In school, I always followed the rules to the point where a lot of people actually hated me for it.”

The confusion on Jimin’s face was clear as day, and you knew he was about to interrupt you, but you continue to talk, raising your hand up towards him, “Let me finish,” you exhale, “I didn’t have my first kiss until I was 17, probably because I hated the idea of it.”

What the hell were you talking about?

Jimin cocks a brow, leaving his position behind the counter to approach you, “Did I do something wrong?”

The man never hated you, nor did he think you were crazy to have such outlandish opinions on relationships (he understood where you were coming from) and sometimes it was annoying, but not annoying enough to push you away from him. At the end of the day, you were close friend to him.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you reassure him, stopping Jimin in his tracks. “I shouldn’t have gone on that blind date. It went horribly.”

There’s a moment of silence between the two of you, and Jimin remained as he was in case you were still speaking.

“This failed blind date, along with everything we’ve done together, made me realise I’m only ever genuinely happy when I’m with you. It’s pretty fun not having to fuck my pillow every night,” you say, your cheeks growing beet red at the confession. “And I think it’s safe to say that I don’t not want be in a relationship..”

Your eyes meet his and for the first time tonight, Jimin was speechless. He hadn’t said a word and at this moment, you were glad. “So…” your hands travel down to the belt tied around your waist, pulling on one end to loosen the knot and have the coat comfortably slip free down your shoulders, revealing the black strap of you bra draped over your shoulders.

Jimin knew what was coming. He was bracing himself for what you were about to do.

The trench coat finally hit the floor, pooling around your feet and his breath hitches. He raked his eyes up and down your body, drinking in the sight of you. Flawless skin, perfect curves and a face so radiant, you were the only thing glowing under the dim light of his apartment.

“Woah,” is all he says, having no shame displaying the grin on his face. “You sure know how to flatter a man, Y/N,” Jimin shakes his head, as if disapproving your outfit, but really, the man was losing it inside.

He’s quick on his feet, steadily approaching your form and stopping in front of you, his eyes solemnly kept on you, “I’m glad you finally came to your senses,” he says, reaching his hand up to cup your cheek, gently smoothing his thumb across your skin. “How about we do something a little more fitting for your attire tonight?”

You didn’t bother processing his words, wasting no time in crashing your lips against his in an aggressive kiss, Jimin undoubtedly reciprocating and automatically wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer to his chest.

His embrace wasn’t long lasting, hands moving down the small of your back to briefly graze the curve of your ass before settling behind your upper thighs, hoisting you up, “Jump,” Jimin mumbles against your lips, eliciting a short hum from you and you immediately oblige, wrapping your legs around your waist and he held onto you securely.

Not once did either of you break the kiss as he carried you towards his bedroom, but once in his bedroom, you pulled away to catch your breath. “I bet you do this with every girl you hook up with, huh?”

“Just you, sweetheart,” he smirks, responding with zero hesitation, gently laying you lie body on his mattress so he could cherish the sight of you.

A gorgeous, stunning, goddess.

“I bet your pillow’s gonna get bored now, huh?”

Your jaw drops, cheeks turning a slight hue of red from embarrassment. Maybe you shouldn’t have told him about that, now he’d be able to use it against you at any given opportunity. You prop yourself up on your elbows, tilting your head at the partly-naked man before you, “I bet my pillow can make me feel a lot better than you can.”

“You wanna test that theory out?” Jimin challenges, leaning over you to grab one of the many pillows on his bed, leaving it beside you. “Can your pillow make you cry? Can your pillow fuck you as good as I can?” He continues to list out all the things you both done together over the last few months, knowing full well the answer to all his questions were no.

He shifts his position to climb onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard with his legs spread far and wide to show you the tent straining against his sweatpants. “If it can, then show me,” he gestures towards the pillow and your almost at a loss for words.

He was gonna watch you get off, and you felt so belittled liking the idea of it.

You grab ahold of the pillow, fluffing it up a bit for your own comfort. “Fine, but you’re not allowed to touch me and you have to sit on the other side of your room,” you instruct him, pointing to the chair tucked under his desk.

Gosh, you were so bossy, but Jimin would do anything to make a princess happy.

“And you’re not allowed to come,” he warns you, pushing himself off the bed and towards his desk, pulling the chair out to face you before taking a seat, adjusting the boner in his pants before gesturing his chin towards you, encouraging you to make a start. “Go ahead, I’ll tell you when to stop.”

You take his previous position and lean back against the headboard, making yourself comfortable before spreading your legs before him, giving him the perfect view of your soaked panties firmly pressing against you. You took your time, hovering your fingers over the damp material and briskly brushing over your clothed clit, triggering your body to shudder.

Knowing that wasn’t enough for you, you slipped your hand past the band of your panties, the pad of your fingers reaching to rub slow, drawn out circles over your sensitive clit. You didn’t need to do much, the mere sight of Jimin turning you on beyond measures.

Jimin was sat far across from you, his chin slightly raised as he watched you and his hand unknowingly palming the erection trapped between his legs and groaning. It hurt so bad he just pushed his sweatpants halfway down his thighs along with his boxers to free the painful erection. He couldn’t bring himself to take his eyes off you as his fingers simultaneously wrapped around his hardening cock.

“Don’t work yourself up too much, you still have that pillow to attend to,” Jimin’s voice echoed through the room, almost missing your attention. You were getting carried away with your own fingers, you completely forgot about the pillow.

You groan and reach out for the pillow, now sitting up on your knees, and spreading your legs apart to make room for the pillow. The pillow was thick enough for you to have a firm hold on it, and as soon as you sunk down on it, the knock on effect of the material brushing over your heat left you whimpering.

Your reactions had Jimin squeezing on the base of his cock, revelling over how sensitive you were.

He loved it.

All you had to do was imagine the pillow was Jimin and you’d be good to go. It seemed effective once you started rocking your hips back and forth against the pillow, failing to contain your short, but sweet whimpers. Your hips would slow down every now and again, taking long, deep strokes to delay your orgasm as much as possible but it didn’t seem to work.

You looked up at Jimin who’s position was now slouched on the chair, steadily pumping his cock between his fists as he watched you.

“Don’t look at me..” you mumble shyly, shaking your head and looking down at the pillow that had already picked up your arousal, darkening the material slightly.

“Why not?” he chuckles breathlessly, repeatedly swiping his thumb over the head of his cock and smearing any and all the precum down the base. His eyes came to a shut in pure bliss as he picked up the pace of his wrist, his groans becoming low moans. All he could think about were your perfect pouty lips wrapping around his cock and sucking him off just right.

“Take the bra off, lemme’ see your tits.”

You don’t hesitate to oblige, flipping your hair to the side and reaching your hands back to unclasp your bra and let the straps fall seamlessly down your shoulders. Your nipples had hardened within seconds being exposed but you couldn’t bring yourself to care enough, too busy rutting against the pillow.

“I can’t believe you let me go on a blind date,” you seethe, projecting your anger towards him and the pace of your hips, now struggling to keep yourself stable.

“We weren’t exactly together, I couldn’t stop you,” Jimin tries to reason with you, aggravation evident in his tone as he mercilessly fucked his fist. He was close, and from the way your body was jerking, he knew you were close too.

It took the man everything and more to still his hand along his member and stand up from his chair, walking over to you with a sly smirk on his face.

“On your stomach, raise your hips. And tell me, what do you think about when you fuck your pillow?”

You whine and force yourself to pull the pillow from between your legs, leaving it elsewhere as you positioned yourself like he’d asked.

“I think about you..” you whisper, “I think about your tongue— your hands all over me.” You hesitate to say more, but you knew that if you really wanted that orgasm, you had to spill. “I think about milking your cock every night, even before we started fucking,” you cry, pushing yourself back against him. The lack of attention to your weeping cunt was playing up with you, “And I love when you tease me— God, I fucking love it.”

Jimin grins, grabbing ahold of your hips and firmly rutting against you from behind, “Mhm, I’ll give you all that and more,” he smiles contently, positioning the head of his cock at your slick hole, teasing you a little before finally pushing into you and eliciting a low ‘fuck’ from his end.

The air is knocked out of lungs much quicker than you expected, the stretch catching you off guard, even though it wasn’t the first time you’d taken him like this; a clear indication you were yet to get used to his size.

“Been thinking about keeping you all to myself,” he admits, short of breath as he looked down between where your body’s met, “Just had to take my time with you. huh?”

Jimin’s words were going through one ear and out the other. All you could hear was his low grunts and your strained moans. “Oh my God— Jimin,” you force out, your half lidded eyes rolling to the back of your head as your poor cunt took him whole.

“No other man can make you feel as good as I can,” he retorts cockily, digging his nails into your hips once he feels your walls greedily squeeze around him. The action makes the pace of his hips falter, but he’s quick to get back on top of it, “Make sure you fucking remember that.”

You nod diligently. You already knew that his words were the truth and the way he was putting it into practice was taking over your being, almost brainwashing you.

You do him the favour of arching your back a little more, giving Jimin all the more room to hold onto you, but it seemed like he had other plans, using this opportunity to pull out and forcing you turn around to lie on your back. You couldn’t say anything, his arms hooking under your knees to push them up towards your chest before swiftly pushing into you again, thrusting at a pace so ungodly, you were sure you couldn’t handle it.

“Too much, Jimin!” you gasp, turning your head away from him to shield your embarrassing state.

He was quick to notice and grabbed ahold of your cheeks, forcing you to look back at him and he continued to fuck you at his torturous pace, rolling his heels deeper into you, “Look at me when I’m fucking you.”

You couldn’t imagine what you looked like right now, but Jimin could safely say you looked like every man’s wet dream. Your fucked out state had his cock twitching between your soft walls, and you couldn’t help but clench around him, giving him that final push to reach his high.

“I’m close..” you breathe out, shaking your head in a bid to ease yourself of your coming orgasm, but Jimin was adamant on having your full, undivided attention.

“Don’t you dare look away from me,” he says, releasing your knees from its contraption only to have your legs dangle over his shoulders as he brought his thumb down to circle over your clit and using it as leverage to push you towards your orgasm.

And that seemed to do the job. A string of curses fell from your lips as you completely broke down on him, a sheen layer of white making an appearance between your legs which only became more prominent once Jimin slowed down. A visible mix of white had coated his cock as he continued to slowly fuck you in a bid to help you calm down.

Jimin’s jaw fell slack once he decided to pull out of you, leaving a trail of white behind him as he fell to lie beside you,

You both finally established this was more than just a mutual fuck; it was an open-ended gateway for the pair of you to become something more.

perm taglist: @aliceaflor5-blog - @kookiecrumb - @jjkeverlast - @prettyghost - @kooliv - @koobsessed - @gimmethatagustd - @pb-n-juju - @aslias17 - @ririlovesangst - @kootonins - @taehyungseggs - @dewamused - @jungshook7 - @jiminsneckkisses - @moonfaery - @jkluvrrs

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#sxtaep #park jimin #jimin #park jimin x reader #jimin x reader #jimin smut #bts x reader #bts smut #bts imagine #bts oneshot #jimin x oc #bts x oc #bts fluff #kpop #kpop smut #kpop imagines #park jimin imagine #jimin imagine

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deadpoolsoci3ty · 2 months

Text

so you're the a (alastor x reader) ch 6

summary: I was screaming now, How could he do this to me? We had talked for months on end, he knew so much about me, and he wasn’t going to protect me now that I was here with him? Who the actual fuck does he think he is?

word count: 1020

warnings: none

masterlist

Chapter Six: begging

“Yes! Yes, Alastor! It’s me! Thank God it’s you!” I was on the verge of tears, I had never been happier to see someone I had never met before. He immediately reached out and grabbed my face, like he was looking for any injuries.

“What the fuck are you doing here, my girl?” His smile never fell but the genuine concern in his voice was evident. “You shouldn’t be down here,” his hands were still searching all over my face for any sign of harm. I had just noticed that his voice sounded the same as it did over the radio, excluding his most recent question.

“Well, whatever 's done is done. Can I come in?” I asked rather impatiently. He grabbed hand quickly and dragged me into the tower behind him. We made our way to his couch and he sat me down on one end and he took the seat on the other. He was looking at me in such a calculating way it sent a shiver down my spine. He gestured to me in a way I assumed meant he wanted to know how I got here. “You weren’t answering, first of all,” I glared at him, and he seemed completely unbothered as his smile didn’t move an inch, “I needed to distract myself so I was on my way to get a coffee, then there was a car,” his eye seemed to twitch when I mentioned this, “then I was lying on the ground, and now I’m here.”

“You were killed?” I’m not sure why this seemed to anger him, but I would think about that another time..

“Yeah, Alastor, that doesn’t matter.” He was focusing on the wrong thing, “Last time we spoke, you said you would protect me even if you didn’t own my soul, and now here I am in hell and you don't own my soul,” I was banking on his feeling for me, I didn’t know how strong they were, “will you?” I would get down on my knees and beg for him to say yes.

“Heat of the moment darling, you cannot intend to hold that against me~” I felt my whole world collapsing around me. This is not what I thought he would say, I had been dreaming of this moment. He would apologize to me, but I should have known better.

“Wait, no, Alastor, please. You can’t do this to me,” the tears began to well in my eyes, “you said you care about me!” I was screaming now, How could he do this to me? We had talked for months on end, he knew so much about me, and he wasn’t going to protect me now that I was here with him? Who the actual fuck does he think he is? Overlord or not he wasn’t about to bullshit me like this. “Fuck you Alastor,” The sound I made come out far too close to an actual hiss, I’ll think about that more later. Everyone I had seen in hell so far had some sort of animalistic quality, and the antlers and ears on Alastor’s head clearly labeled him as some sort of deer based demon.

His pupils turned into the dials on a radio and they became a brighter shade of red than they were before, “Sweetheart, there’s no need for you to raise your voice.” His voice was louder than I ever heard it, the static surrounding him is ear piercing. The stare I was getting was snuffing out the fire that had just been lit. He’d always had this ability to immediately pacify me. But, it wasn’t like I didn’t want to. I was upset, yes, but I was still desperate for his protection. I would do anything for it at this point, and from the look in his eye I could tell he knew it too.

“Alastor, please. I don’t even care if you were lying when you said you cared about me, even though I don’t think you were,” he looked unhappy that I was saying he lied, “I know that I wasn’t. I care about you a lot, I know I only know you by your voice but I care about you as much as I have the capacity to. So, please just fucking help me.” Like I’ve said before I wasn’t above begging. I knew he wasn’t lying about caring about me, with the way he reacted afterwards. He was a man after all, what more could I expect.

“Hmm, I don’t know dear, my protection is quite invaluable,” he was toying with me. He was enjoying seeing me beg for this.

“Alastor, I need you.” I said it as forcefully as I possibly could. His grin turned from his resting one to one that seemed more sinister than anything else. However, it didn’t scare me, like I assumed most of the people who got this smile were. I was really looking at him in the moment, and boy was he handsome. His hair looked soft and his strong features were drawing me in, and I was afraid I could look at him all day. Slowly he arose from his spot on the couch, and with a couple strides he stood in front of me. He brought his right hand to squeeze my cheeks together. The longer I looked into his eyes the more I felt like I was being hypnotized. I’m wondering how much worse these feelings were going to get now that he was physically towering over me.

“My sweet doe, if anyone here even thought about causing harm to you they wouldn't live to breathe another breath,” my heart was beating so fast I was afraid I was going to die (again). All I wanted was for him to give me something, the smallest crumb would do, but I needed to feel some sort of reciprocation from this demon, because I knew he had it in him. “I may not own your soul, doll, but make no mistake,” he jerked my face closer to his, we had never been this close before, and I could almost feel my own pupils dilate, “you are mine.”

#alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor imagine #alastor the radio demon #alastor x reader #alastor x you #hazbin fic #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fic #hazbin hotel x reader

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girlgroupshots · 1 year

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The Producer - PART ONE

pairing: male oc x jessica jung word count: 3.3k summary: An unproven producer is tasked with creating a successful group. Shenanigans ensue.

When you answered the phone in the middle of the night only a few hours ago the last thing you expected was to be standing in front of an office building. The call had come from your uncle saying he had an opportunity for you and that you needed to catch a train to Seoul in the morning. Now as you waited for him to arrive you could only guess at what kind of ideas had popped into his head. As far as successful businessmen went he was certainly on the – well, eccentric side. On the other hand, you had little to your name other than a business degree, a shitty office job and dreams of one day being a successful producer.

"Nephew!"

Before you could contemplate any further a familiar voice interrupted your thoughts. You turned to greet your uncle who you hadn't seen in some months only to be slapped on the shoulder and pulled into a hug before you could even extend your hand.

"How are you, my boy?"

Park Jongmin. A man in his sixties who could have retired in his forties if he wanted to. He made a fortune in the early years of the South Korean technology boom and hadn't looked back since. However, for all his wealth and success he was largely known as an enigma or just strange depending on who you asked. Adding to that image was the fact that he decided to create a music label a few years back despite having no expertise in the field. Truth be told he wouldn't be the first to do such a thing.

"I'm good, uncle" you responded once you had finally managed to free yourself from his grasp. "I was surprised to get your call, I thought something bad had happened."

He laughed off the concern, apparently not seeing the problem with receiving a vague call at 2 a.m. in the morning.

"You know me; once the wheels in my brain start turning I can't rest until I see it through to the end."

"Have you…slept yet Uncle Min?"

"Of course not! In fact, I'm only on my fourth cup of coffee."

You could only shake your head in response. This was who Uncle Min had always been so it shouldn't be surprising that old age hadn't changed his demeanor. If anything he seemed a bit more loose than he was back in the day. A man who said and did what he wanted with little care for the judging eyes of society. Though perhaps that was a luxury of wealth. It was an enviable disposition to have, especially these days. Not to mention it had always made for entertaining holidays with the family.

"So, uh, is this your label building?" you questioned, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand.

"Why yes, yes it is. It's beautiful isn't it? I like to think it has a quaint, personal feeling."

You looked back to the building and you couldn't say you disagreed. By the same token though, it didn't seem to be anything too special. A three story building with a decent amount of width to it. It's key features were the tall glass windows that framed parts of the building. It was certainly quaint but not exactly holding a candle to the grand designs of some of the bigger companies.

"Not everything has to be grandiose" as if reading your thoughts your uncle interjected. "If there's forty-floors how are people going to connect? It's the interwoven relationships that build a good company."

As a business major and officer worker with far too many hours logged you were tempted to disagree with that notion. But then again who were you to disagree with someone who had made millions?

"Well, are we going to stand out here all day or shall we head in? I can give you the tour, you'll love it."

You nodded and led the way to the double door entrance. Your uncle was still being coy about why he had asked you to meet him hear of all places instead of his regular offices or his home; in fact he hadn't addressed it at all. Definitely not suspicious. For now you'd just have to go along with this ride and find out what was waiting for you at the end of the tunnel. Whatever it was he certainly seemed excited about it. Or maybe that was just the four cups of coffee coming through.

"...Our building is separated into three levels" you tuned back into your uncle's speech as he took the lead, "The first is where all the music production takes place. Recording booths, mixing rooms, anything a producer might need to get that perfect sound is available at your finger tips. I'm sure you'd find more than a few toys to your liking in there."

Producer? Recording booths?

"The second floor is where our artist spend a lot of their time. There's a lounge and kitchen for anyone to use and we have our practice room there as well. We also have two free rooms if anyone wants to use it for homework or whatever the kids get up to."

Way to sound your age, uncle.

"Lastly, the third floor is where we have all our offices for staff and management. That's where you'll be spending most of your time. Now I know – "

"Wait, what?"

"-- it mind sound a little weird being at the top but trust me it's a great space."

"Wait, Uncle, what do you mean where I'll be spending most of my time?"

"Please, nephew, save all your questions for the end of the tour."

You could see the mischievous glint out of the corner of his eyes and knew he was getting a kick out of this. He wasn't going to let you get a word in and even if you did it seemed he was intent on ignoring any questions you had. Meanwhile your anxiety was rising by the second. Just what had this old man done?!

Anxiety aside, the building was impressive. Everything was state of the art when it came to the technology and all of the furnishings were modern and neat. That said you did notice the building felt particularly...empty. If you remembered correctly from what your mother had told you, Uncle founded this label a few years back. One would think by now it'd be brimming with staff and artist coming in and out. Maybe he had given them day off so he could give the tour? As flattering as it was that seemed like a complete waste of a work day. And of course asking about it now would net you no answers.

The tour finally came to an end on the third floor, the management floor as he had put it; which was also void of any personnel.

Your uncle led you into a rather spacious office that you assumed to be his. He gestured for you to take a seat in one of the plush chairs against the wall and seated himself next to you. His eccentric demeanor seemed to fade a bit and It seemed like now was the time to finally get some answers.

"I know you have a number of questions for me" Uncle Min started, "But I also know you're a very smart young man. I'm sure you've begun to piece together why I asked you to come here today."

Not really, no, but I could take a swing in the dark.

"You want me to work here for you? Uncle, I appreciate the thought really, but honestly...I don't want to take any handouts."

You remembered when he was first starting the company your mother suggested asking for a position. Any reasonable individual would have jumped at the opportunity, hell there were a number of college graduates that would kill for such a connection. For you though, it had just left a weird taste in your mouth. You could call it pride or stupidity, it was likely a mix of both. Now, despite having questions as to whether that had been the right decision, you felt obligated to stick to your original sentiment.

"You're a stubborn man, just like your father was" he chuckled softly as he patted your hand, his tone wistful as if recalling an old memory, "But you should know I didn't make my fortune by taking no for an answer."

"I'll be honest with you, this hasn't been my most successful venture. In fact, everything thus far has been a net loss. Fortunately, I've funded everything myself, there's no board of directors or investors to answer to. But even I have to acknowledge when something is a lost cause."

Your jaw had loosened a bit, your ears not quite believing what they were hearing. You had always had a vision of your uncle as the supreme businessman, a genius who made no missteps. Yet here he was admitting that something he had poured who knows how much of his own money into possibly being a failure. In a way it was surreal.

"But the people that do work here, the trainees who have trusted us with their dream, they deserve a real shot. A chance to see it through before I call it quits" Uncle Min focused his gaze on you and you couldn’t remember ever seeing him quite so serious. More than that he seemed genuine, even vulnerable as though he were speaking from the heart. "I don't want you to simply work for me. In fact, in a way you won't be. I want you to run this company. Produce a successful group and help fulfill their dreams."

"..."

"I know what you're thinking. Why me? Why not someone more qualified? Now I could tell you it's because of your work ethic, I know you won't take this lightly. And your potential both as a businessman and a producer; both of which are true. However if you really want to know why I'm offering it to you it's because it's what my gut is telling me to do."

"Uncle, I'll be honest with you, I’m starting to think that might be why you lost so much money in this."

You both shared a laugh, the tension in the air easing slightly. Leave it to Park Jongmin to hand a company over to his nephew on a gut feeling.

"I know I'm asking a lot of you so you don't have to give me an answer now. But think about it. I'd like you to meet the staff and girls as well; they really are good people."

You could only nod your head in acceptance despite your apprehension. After all, this was my uncle and he was offering an incredible opportunity, even if misguided. If nothing else you owed it to him to give this your full consideration.

"Alright! That's enough of the serious stuff!" Uncle Min abruptly stood up, "Do you want a coffee? I could go for one myself."

You laughed, "Uncle, I don't think you should be drinking anymore coffee today. It can't be good for your health."

"Bah, you sound like your mother. If I only did what was good for my health I'd get nowhere in life!"

Now that was the uncle you were familiar with.

"Mister Park!"

You had just exited the building when you heard someone calling out. You turned my head to see a petite brunette, dressed in a blazer and cream skirt walking towards you with a couple of binders in her grasp. You were fairly certain you didn't know her. You’d definitely remember seeing a woman like that.

"Miss Jung! You have impeccable timing as always."

"Oh? And you're flattering me, you must have had your third cup of coffee."

"Fourth, actually."

"You know you really need to cut down on that."

As the two conversed you couldn’t help but feel like a ghost, or worse: an awkward third wheel between two good friends. At the risk of making things worse you cleared your throat to make your presence known. As if he had actually forgotten about you, your uncle's attention was jump started.

"Ah, right! Jessica I'd like you to meet my nephew. Nephew, this is Jessica Jung; she's been in charge of this project for me. No one knows our trainees better than her."

"Uh, it's a pleasure to meet you" you extended your hand to her.

"Likewise. You should know Mr. Park has talked you up quite a bit. I hope you decide to join us."

Oh, she was good.

Her tone and demeanor alone mixed just the right amount of professional and personable. Unlike yourself, you could see why uncle would hire someone like her.

"This is perfect. I was going to contact you later and ask if you could introduce him to our girls. He hasn't made a decision yet but I want to let him get a feeling for everything we have to offer."

A pearl smile was offered in response as Jessica nodded, "I'd love to. We can set something up tomorrow if you like. Or we can get started tonight if you’re free for drinks?"

It took you a second to realize that you had been brought into the conversation. Straightening your posture you nodded, “Uh, yeah. I’m free for sure. We can definitely do drinks.”

“It’s a date then.”

As you watched her pencil you into her calendar, you couldn’t help but wonder just what you were getting yourself into.

“What I can’t figure out is why you don’t just throw your hat in the pile. You clearly have this down pat.”

You voice was raised as you spoke to your ‘date’. Partially to be heard over the music that was currently playing, partially because you were already two drinks in and feeling a slight buzz. Thus far you hadn’t actually learned much about the business. If anything, the two of you had spent more time getting to know each other. Which wasn’t the worst thing, especially if you were going to potentially be working alongside her.

“There’s a difference between managing people and producing a group. Or even running a company,” Jessica said, drink in her hand. “I’m good at what I do.”

“But you had to have thought about it? Doesn’t it piss you off my uncle just brining me in off the street.”

“Well it didn’t but now that you mention it…”

“Okay, wait, wait. I take it back,” you put your hands up in surrender. “But still, you’ve got to feel over-qualified for your job, no? From everything you told me it sounds like my uncle would be lost without you.”

Jessica gave a slight shrug of her shoulders and took a sip of her drink. “In his defense, he pays me my worth. Besides, it’s not all about power and status. I’ve got a soft spot for those girls as much as I hate to admit it.”

You wondered if the alcohol was making her sentimental or if it was making you dense. Maybe it was a bit of both because you still found yourself asking questions. “But –”

“Do you want to keep asking questions or do you want to get out of here?”

You stopped short, the question practically evaporating out of your mind. Jessica raised her eyebrow, looking at you expectantly.

Well then.

Jessica had barely gotten the key out of her door before you were on her. You cupped her face, kissing her – or at least trying to kiss her. There were times when you kissed her nose or landed on her chin, eventually settling for attacking her neck as she kicked the door shut behind the two of you. Immediately, you pressed her up against it; her skirt riding up her slender thighs as they parted for you.

“This is…probably going to be bad…for our potential work relationship…”

“Stop talking about work and start fucking me.”

Her bluntness caught you off guard but you’d be damned if it wasn’t attractive. And she said she couldn’t be a boss? If she gave orders like that she’d have a whole office in line in no time. She certainly had you standing at full attention in more ways than one. Following her orders your hands moved, fumbling with your pants to get them out of the way as quickly as possible. The cab ride back to her place had been heated to say the least, to the point that your fingers had slipped inside her pussy and your cock was practically begging to be freed from its constraints.

As you finally obliged it, Jessica hooked a leg around your hip, drawing you closer so that your tip was pushing against her soaked entrance. Needing no further invitation you pushed forward, your mushroom head pushing past her folds. Immediately you felt her walls constricting around your cock deliciously.

“Fucking tight,” you panted.

“Did you expect otherwise?” Jessica taunted.

A taunt you knew better than to respond to, even after a few drinks. Instead you focused on stuffing her with the rest of your length. Her leg flexed tighter around you the more you pushed in until you were buried to the hilt inside of her. You wallowed in the sensation for a moment because, wow. It might’ve been a while since you had any action but you didn’t remember anything like this. Slowly you began pumping in rhythm, fucking her against her apartment door.

“That stretch…it’s so good…” Jessica’s arms clung to you, her head falling forward.

Any thought of maintaining a professional relationship to avoid problems in the future had gone out of your mind. All that remained was pleasure, or rather the pleasure you were getting from sliding in and out of your potential co-worker. A mindset that Jessica clearly shared. She lifted her other leg, locking it around your waist and giving you the freedom to fuck her harder and faster. Incoherent words began falling from her lips but you were too focused on your task to try to decipher them. You had one job and that was driving her over the edge before you inevitably blew your load.

Jessica’s nails dug into your bicep and if it weren’t for the fact that you hadn’t even taken off your jacket she’d undoubtedly be leaving red marks all over your skin. If this was how she relieved stress from her job then maybe you’d have to second guess your hesitation. Although, when you were balls deep inside of her, waking the neighbors each time her ass hit the door, it likely wasn’t the best time to be making such decisions.

“Cum…Going to cum…” Jessica managed to get out.

You increased your efforts, pounding into her to make sure she went well and truly over the edge. The way every limb clung to you as her body shuttered in orgasm told you that you had succeeded in your task. Her pussy clenched around your length as you fucked her through her orgasm; inviting you to join her in euphoria. It was an invitation you’d soon take her up on.

“Jess…where do you want me to…?”

“Inside…” she muttered, barely coming down from her high and still clinging to you.

That was all the okay you needed. You slammed your hips into hers, her back hitting the wall as your release surged through you. You were fairly certain you were seeing stars as you spilled your seed inside of her. In that moment you weren’t two professionals. You weren’t even two potential co-workers. You were just two well-fucked strangers who had unloaded a pound of stress.

When your cock finally stopped twitching your let go of the breath you were holding. Jessica was already breathing deeply, clinging to you for a moment longer before she finally unraveled herself from you, the mixture of juices seeping out of her.

“If that was an interview you would’ve gotten the job.”

“...Wait, that wasn’t an interview though, right?”

Jessica let out an airy laugh, running a hand through your hair. “No, that wasn’t an interview.”

author’s note: another series so this is a fic i never published from a while back. originally it was meant to be a more wholesome series but we’re putting that aside from now bc fck it. if it seems a bit wonky it’s because i’m editing it from being a first person POV to second person as well as doing updates to my old writing. WITH ALL THAT SAID if you’re just looking for smut there will be plenty.

#snsd jessica smut #jessica jung smut #jessica smut #male reader #tumblr getting rid of horizontal breaks is a criminal offense

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weretheones · 1 year

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All You Got | Part 3

Part 3: The Desperate Type

Series Summary: Daryl Dixon hadn’t known much beyond anger and loneliness his whole life, until he found family at the end of the world. Everything he grew to care about was ripped away the day the prison fell; so when he recognized you, an enforcer of his loss, hiding in that cabin, he almost pulled the trigger. But after you end up saving his life, he couldn’t find the indifference to leave you for dead, even if you’d been on the Governor’s side. (Mid-Late Season 4)

Series Masterlist | AO3 Version

Paring: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Reader Word Count:  4.9k Warnings: description of injury, blood. A/N: early update! i was just so excited to post this lol. considering how much action was in the last two parts, i figured these two deserved a break. but while they might be clear of danger (for now), theres still some nasty tension to deal with...

No, no, no.

Your head snapped left, right, then left again. It was the same blur of trees, the same piles of ashes, and the same empty spot ahead of you no matter how many times your eyes ran across the camp.

With a deep inhale, you tried to soothe the increasingly frantic thoughts in your mind before they became rampant. Inhale. Pick away the moments of silence to cling onto so that you could just think.

Daryl had left you alone. Defenceless and hurt— asleep.

You weren’t sure for how long, exactly; the fire burned to ashes hours ago by the look of it, and mid-day rays of sun landed across the scatter of leaves where he’d been sitting last. He could’ve slipped away in the middle of the night or just as dawn was breaking. Hell, maybe he left the second your eyes shut.

The steadily increasing pound of your heart seemed to drown out the muted throb of your leg. Enough that when you gripped the bark of the tree behind you and pulled yourself to a stand, you barely hissed as your weight shifted onto the hurt muscle. The tending of your wound had been done well, considering the circumstances; it helped counteract the effects of yesterday’s sprint, which couldn’t have been good for a healing injury.

But, neither were the dull teeth of the dead ripping you apart.

Stood upright with a quiet prayer to find a glimpse of that angel-winged vest beyond the tree’s cover, you scanned the area. A small bottle on the ground caught your eye. The blue label was peeling. Familiar.

The ibuprofen he’d given you.

You gingerly bent down to pick it up and dry swallowed another pill in anticipation of the day ahead— regardless if he’d really left you behind, or not, you knew you couldn’t stay at this camp much longer. With no walls, even if you had your knife, neither of you were safe.

As if to remind you of that fact, a branch snapped in the distance.

Still clutching the tree’s curved bark, you leaned forward a couple of inches and peaked toward the general direction of the noise.

Please don’t be a biter.

Then, every curse and panicked thought slipped away from the simple sight of that crossbow strap wrapped across his chest. A furry animal hung limp in his grip and his shoulders were low underneath his poncho.

It was obvious he was exhausted. Still, the sight of you standing upright made his other hand tighten around the strap of his bow and his shoulders tense again. In an almost ironic manner— considering he still had all your weapons— you raised the hand that wasn’t holding you steady in surrender.

You gave a timid shrug. “Figured I shouldn’t just sit here all day.”

He scoffed something under his breath. From the way his eyes slipped back down to the ground, you assumed that answer was soothing enough. It might’ve been arrogant to assume he regarded you as a significant risk, but it was clear that he wasn’t the type to take those chances, anyway.

As he walked past, prey still in hand, your attention followed; you hopped on your good leg to angle yourself the way of him and that rabbit.

A low growl rumbled from your stomach.

Of course, he heard it, glancing back at you in the second between straddling the log to your left and slicing into the animal’s belly open. Your grip on the tree dropped as you lowered yourself back onto the soft ground, watching him pull out the guts and bring those ashes back to life. Throughout the entire process, he never once said anything, never gave you more than a glance before his attention was back on the slow rotation of meat over fire. Not even a whisper of an apology, no sorry for letting you think I just left!

But you weren’t even sure if that mattered anymore. Certainly not the way it did ten minutes ago, because all you could think about was how every brush of the breeze against your face, laced with smoke and the smell of cooked meat, practically had you drooling.

When your stomach rumbled again, you finally asked, “Would you share?”

Quick to take a bite, he didn’t show any sign that he heard you, even if he’d been aware of every shift in your spot and growl of hunger, prior. Your chapped lips parted again, ready to plead a second time just to soothe that hollow ache in your gut.

Something hot fell in your lap, and that smell of cooked meat was at its most intense. You looked down to see he threw a leg your way.

You’d been hungry before— gone three days without a single bite of anything, once. The lightheadedness and that rumbling in your stomach, like something caving in on itself, weren’t new sensations to you, or anyone else in this world. Thankfully, you also knew the sweet relief of that first bite, and it never failed to shine a beacon of hope on an otherwise dull world, even if all you were biting into was a dry, unseasoned rabbit leg.

A good while passed in silence. The crack of the fire died down and the rustle of the wind was softer than before. It was like everything around you was settling, and you briefly wondered if the anxiety from the expanse of trees and the overwhelming unknown around you sparked from that dull hunger in your gut, after all.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t you who finally broke that peace.

“Ya should change tha’.” Daryl nodded to your leg after he swallowed his last bite.

Your eyes fell to the makeshift bandage.

“I don’t have another shirt.”

“Then find somethin’.” He threw the bone into the pile of ashes. “’S gonna get infected if ya keep tha’ on too long.”

“Yeah, I know,” you sighed. “Got any ideas?”

Elbows locked around his bent knees, he looked down at the light shine of grease coating his fingers. His brow was straight, his mouth in a tight line, and even that pessimistic part of your mind couldn’t claim it was an effort to find a witty remark; he was serious about whatever he was thinking.

“Should be a town not too far from ‘ere. You’d have a better chance’a findin’ somethin’ there.”

It seemed the mix of food and pain relievers did you some good. The tree’s truck was less necessary to stand up, and beyond some dull pain when you put your weight on the leg, it didn’t hurt as bad.

With a weak smile, you asked, “Mind showing the way?”

“I’ll take ya there.” He stood, too. “But then you ’n I are goin’ our separate ways.”

Your smile fell. “Why?”

“Cause ya ain’t my problem.” He slid his crossbow over his back. “I already helped ya more than once. We’re even.”

“I can keep helping you,” you said adamantly, though that slight shake of anxiety undermined your words. “I’m not always gonna be hurt. I—I know how to deal with the biters, how to scavenge. I’m smart, I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” you huffed a weak laugh. “I’m not asking you to babysit me or to like me because you probably have every right to hate me, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still all you got.”

He scoffed, “Didn’t peg ya for the desperate type.”

Daryl certainly knew how to get under your skin— already— but you’d done much worse than stick by the side of a grumpy man in order to survive before.

Your demeanour turned pensive.

“No one can make it alone now.”

Daryl’s glare lost its arrogance for a moment; a blink of contemplation.

That seemed to sway him, in or out of your favour, you weren’t sure yet. The way his features tightened, like they had when he first mentioned the town, made you wonder what heavy thoughts plagued him this time.

He turned on his heel and walked ahead.

Uncertain if it was even worth it to call out after a man as stubborn as he was proving himself to be, time and time again, your shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Keep up,” he barked over his shoulder, and your chin snapped back up. “I ain’t carryin’ ya this time.”

You limped behind.

Compared to the running, falling, and general panic of yesterday, it was relatively easy to keep up with Daryl’s pace today. Without biters on your tail, the two of you fell into a comfortable stroll, weaving between trees with even breaths in your lungs. It helped that your leg was more heavy than painful, only a dull throb that echoed your heartbeat and the pace of your steps.

Even if the pain had been unbearable, if every nerve of your body was crying, begging, pleading for you to stop, you weren’t sure you’d be able to. There was a sinking feeling in your gut that Daryl might’ve kept walking, anyway. He suddenly seemed to be itching for an opportunity to leave you behind, which disoriented you. His constant reiteration that you weren’t his problem seemed to contradict his actions— coming back for you, wrapping your wound, giving you food.

You weren’t sure if you’d convinced him that the two of you should stick together— long term— back at that makeshift camp. He could’ve been planning to leave you behind the second you passed the town’s border. But, you did know that with an injured leg, even a healing one, it was really you that couldn’t survive alone.

Although, maybe it was a bit unfair to blame that fact on your leg. You’d never been a loner, not in this world, anyway. It was part of the reason you joined that camp, a couple of months before Brian did, even if you didn’t get along with everyone. It wasn’t that you had been lying to Daryl— you were smart. You knew how to sneak by and avoid the biters. You could find even the best-hidden supplies. Could think on your feet. You just never liked to be alone.

Safety in numbers and all that.

When you did reach the town, or at least the outskirts of its centre, he didn’t immediately bolt. That was as good a sign as any.

Too bad that was when the lightheadedness came back in full swing.

You stumbled to a stop, gripping the brick wall of what used to be a post office as an anchor. You closed your eyes and tried to fight through the inevitable exhaustion weighing you down. Blame it on the dehydration, mostly empty stomach, and, of course, the lingering effects of blood loss for an already bruised and battered body.

“Pharmacy’s jus’ up the road.”

Daryl was just up ahead, facing your way and squinting from the direct rays of sun. The light caught in small drops of sweat along his arms and the metallic shine of that heavy crossbow in his hand as he waited for you.

Too busy trying to ground yourself to that rough brick you palmed, you hadn’t even noticed that Daryl had stopped once the shuffle of your feet was no longer echoing his.

You took a deep breath and nodded once, pushing yourself forward. In four steps, you were able to finally wade past the worst waves of nausea and focus on the cool air in your lungs, instead.

Daryl glanced back at you once— twice— more.

“Hurtin’ again?”

“No. It’s just… everything else.”

Slightly, he nodded. That seemed to be the most care he had to offer— reserved looks your way and a quick question. He never reached out a hand or, God forbid, offered to carry you there.

Regardless, the pharmacy really was only up the road. After five or so minutes of mindlessly watching the debris lining the road dance in the wind while giving your head a chance to stop that slow spin, Daryl cleared the store and led you inside.

It was sparse and smelt like rot. Sun peeked through the windows, bare of the newspaper or wooden boards that usually lined shops nowadays. You could see most of the room, the sprawl of crushed supplies under fallen shelves, broken cardboard boxes across dirty, grey-tiled floors, and the yellow hue of water damage staining the ceiling. Past the store's clear windows and unlocked door, its welcoming appearance ceased.

You stepped forward and caught Daryl’s look from your peripheral.

“Sit down.”

“I told you I’m good at—”

Mid-sentence, he turned on his heel. You huffed a breath, then sat on the window ledge behind with a scowl. His overcautious behaviour was beginning to make you feel useless.

Daryl came back with fresh gauze and a small tube of topical antibiotic cream. And while that seemed like a damn miracle, you both knew what you really needed was a good rinse with clean water and soap, proper antibiotic treatment for the dirt and sweat that inevitably got into the wound, and a full dressing accompanied by crutches and a week's worth of rest. But all he could offer was what was held in his left hand.

It would have to do.

You shuffled deeper into the store and away from that clear window. As you sat on the cold ground and adjusted your leg so that it was laid straight out under a particularly strong ray of sunlight, you glanced up at Daryl, lingering a few feet away, on guard.

“How’d you know this was here, anyway?”

“Been through ‘ere before.”

He continued to stare out the window, oblivious, or maybe just indifferent, to your attempt at distraction.

Without another word, you got to work in silence. The knot he tied was good, and it took you a bit too long to figure out the way his fingers had weaved the fabric so that you could reverse the work of a stranger’s kindness. The shelves of the aisle were pressing into your back, but you were more focused on the reemerging pain in your leg. The raw wound was rubbed, gently, with a piece of gauze in a miserable attempt to clean it better. There were bits of dirt that you could see under the sun, bits that he probably missed with nothing but the moonlight to guide his first attempt.

Sometime in between your soft whines of pain, he grabbed your gun from the back of his pants, weighing the weapon in his hands. The way he held the weapon like it was heavier than his crossbow caught your attention. That, and you were thankful for a second to not stare at the shallow, swollen gash of red and pink ripping through your thigh. He seemed to have felt your stare burning through him, though, and his narrow eyes snapped your way.

A moment passed in silence, the two of you watching the other, intently, until you finally opened your mouth.

“I wasn’t gonna shoot you,” you confessed, “back at the cabin.”

He waited for you to continue.

“I was just scared.”

“Why’d ya come back for me?” he asked, gruff voice just above a whisper.

Deep in thought, you looked between him and the gun.

“You would’ve died.” Your eyes fell to the ground as you added under your breath, “Enough people already died that day.”

The slight furrow of his brow, the sudden blink, and every other subtle sign of confusion that flashed across his face weren’t lost on you. Above all else, you understood his bafflement; you’d saved a man who made it abundantly clear that his interest lay in your death. He was going to kill you. It wasn’t a spineless threat or a mean look that could’ve killed— no, he cocked that gun against your forehead. He felt the solid bone of your skull underneath, and if it hadn’t been for the threat of the dead, that bullet would’ve shattered your head open.

Again, his expression shifted in the silent tension, twisting into something that he might’ve not even known himself. Something hesitant and reserved.

You wrapped a fresh bandage around the wound as he watched.

“Then why the poncho?”

You paused.

“I know what it’s like to find something that belonged to someone you lost.”

Your eyes shifted, staring further than they saw. A moment passed like that, you lost in thought and him processing that meaning, until you sucked in a breath and reigned your attention back in.

You gave a half-hearted smile. “And… maybe I can be a bit foolish.”

His tone sounded more confused than scolding when he said, “Ya coulda died.”

“I’m glad I didn’t.” You laughed, “Wouldn’t that be ridiculous? Eaten alive because I went back to save a poncho.”

For a man that probably hated you, no less.

Those pensive, blue eyes slipped from your timid smile, falling on a much more serious sight; the flimsy wrap of your bandage. It wasn’t like you weren’t trying to wrap it well, but you didn’t exactly have experience tending to your own stab wounds, even if they were as shallow as this one. Your heart dropped an inch, teeth digging into your cheek from the worry that he was about to tell you exactly what an idiot you were, for almost dying and not being able to take care of yourself.

“’S too loose.”

You sighed because he was right. Working overtop of your jeans was difficult enough as it was, the risk of infection likely a scary percentage, so the bandage you did manage needed to be stronger. Tougher. Of course, he knew that.

Right as you began to undo the dressing, calloused fingers wrapped around your hand. Your breath caught in your throat, lips parting as shock froze you from the inside out. His hand moved yours, a stark contrast of warmth against your stiff fingers. He began to unravel the gauze from your grip. White tissue tangled, tied your cold fingers to his meticulous ones, briefly, until the rest of the bundle freed.

There was something incredibly tender about the whole moment; the silence, for once, was not weighed down completely by a thick, overwhelming tension. Though, whispers of it lingered, understandably so. This was the first time you saw him show you care, beyond saving you from the dead, and it gave you an idea of just how much work he must’ve put into getting you away from that first herd, wrapping your wound, and finding that house to hide in all while you were passed out.

And suddenly, despite all the mean glares and harsh questioning, hate seemed too strong a word for someone as merciful as Daryl proved.

“How’d ya get it, anyway?” he asked in a raspy tone.

You blinked. Inhaled, as if you’d forgotten to breathe until then.

“Brian,” you answered. “I kinda… jumped him when I realized what it was— what he was. He had a rock or something.”

He wrapped the last pass of the gauze. It was tight, but it was a lot stronger and safer than your attempt had been.

“Lucky he didn’t jus’ shoot ya.”

“He lost his gun while fighting that guy.”

Daryl tensed, leaning back to look up at you. The warmth at your leg was gone then— comfort sorely lacking as the chill of the tile and shelves surrounding you numbed your skin again. Yet, it was the look in his eye that almost made you shiver.

“Wha’ guy?”

“The one he was talking to at the fences… Rick, right?”

The clench of his jaw confirmed your suspicions.

“He’s not dead.” You leaned down an inch to catch his fallen gaze. “After Brian stabbed me, the woman he took hostage killed him. Probably would’ve killed me too if I hadn’t run away.” Your expression fell at the memory of that dark, vengeful look in her eye. “But I— I think they got out together.”

Daryl stared at you. It wasn’t cruel or indignant, but it wasn’t soft or kind, either. Blank, if anything, like he was holding everything back.

He turned toward the front of the store and then stood up. “‘M gonna look for more supplies. You stay ‘ere.”

The air sucked out of your lungs as a bolt of fear struck you.

“Daryl?” Your head turned to follow him. Lower lip quivering with blatant anxiety, you croaked out, “You’re not gonna leave me here, are you?”

The tension in his jaw didn’t release.

“Nah.”

You bit your lip. “I had to ask.”

He nodded, then left.

Not even an hour later, that little bell above the front door you’d been intently watching rang. Daryl’s broad frame passed through with that same backpack strapped behind him, only this time, it looked heavier than before.

God, please have water.

You sat up straight. “You’re back.”

“Told ya I would be.” He slid the bag off, dropping it to the ground in front of you. “Found somethin’ to drink.”

You smiled at that— actually smiled, teeth and all, and it might’ve been the first time he ever saw it. In your excitement, you didn’t even notice the way his hand steadied, hovering above the bag’s zipper as his attention stuck on you a second too long.

He pulled out a bottle of some orange sports drink. It was too sweet, swimming with higher sugar contents than you’d been exposed to in the last two years of scavenging and hunting, but it soothed the dryness of your throat, all the same. You drank at least half the bottle, glancing at him between big sips until he finally nodded.

“There’s only a couple more,” he said, screwing the cap back on.

“That’s fine.” You shook your head and wiped your chin. “That was good.”

“Found somethin’ to eat, too.” He pulled a silver can out of the bag. “Lemme heat it, first.”

You did. He started a small fire just outside the store, letting the can sit above the flames until the soup was boiling. When it was safe to touch, he trailed back through the store and he held it out to you with a single spoon.

Your brows furrowed at his otherwise empty hands.

“Ya need to eat.”

“But what about you?”

Passing the can off to you, he dug inside the front pocket of his patch-worked pants. He pulled out a granola bar, barely half the width of his wrist, and your heart dropped.

Hunger, pain, dehydration— he’d helped you through it all. And the combination of those feelings, with the heaviest weight of what you did to his home dragging your heart into the deepest pit of your stomach, brought a sudden tear to your eye. You looked down at the full can of vegetable soup sitting in your hands, the thin wisps of steam lifting off it, and that same tear rolled down your cheek.

If he saw it, he didn’t say anything about it. The air was heavy but silent. When you finally looked up and met his soft stare, laced with something you hadn’t seen in his blue eyes before, you knew he had seen the single trail down your face.

With a quick, nonchalant sniffle, you looked around the back room he’d led you into. The carpet was more comfortable than the title outside and considering that the floor was likely to be your bed for the night, you were thankful for the change in scenery. There were office supplies in the room; pens, paper, and a couple of filing cabinets. Placing the can down for a second, you reached over to grab a mug tossed on its side and used the end of your shirt to wipe away the dust.

When it seemed clean enough, you poured half the soup inside.

Daryl’s eyes never moved off you— not once— and that same hesitancy you saw earlier was back.

“Please,” your voice broke, gesturing the mug out closer to him.

His heavy stare lingered a second longer, then he finally accepted.

Daryl tilted the mug up, taking a large swig. It was only then that you allowed yourself to take a bite— no matter how hollow you had felt waiting for your next meal.

His throat tightened around the warm liquid. It tasted like bile. You were eating the soup just fine, except for the stray tears marking your face, so whatever he tasted, whatever that feeling was, aching deep in his chest, was coming from him.

Daryl had known anger his whole life. This wasn’t quite that. His chest tightened the same, muscles tensing, but there wasn’t a yell caught in his throat. No harsh words were about to slip off his tongue. And yet, if there was ever a time to be so, Daryl should have been angry now. Most people would— hell, even you had told him he’d had every right to hate you.

See, maybe that was the problem. Daryl had dealt with more than his fair share of liars, before and after the world ended. He practically knew how to sniff them out, but you were clean of it. So damn sincere with every word you said. Even the way you looked at him, big eyes, timid and full of remorse, almost made him feel guilty for every mean look he gave you.

Almost. Because then the red staining Hershel’s skin spotted his vision, and maybe he wasn’t angry at you, but he certainly couldn’t like you, either. Even if you had helped Carl and Rick. Even if you told him, with a pretty glimmer of hope in your eyes, that at least some of his people had made it out.

After you scraped the bottom of that can and your face dried, you said, “You should sleep. I can keep watch.”

Daryl looked back to the wooden door he led you through, the only thing between you and the rest of that open, vulnerable store.

“You’ve barely slept,” you added.

He still ignored you.

But then you sighed, and it was hard to miss the hint of guilt in your tone, “I get you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. What I did, what I was a part of… It— It was horrible. I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell you why I did what I did, how Brian convinced us to—”

Daryl closed his eyes. He already knew how manipulative and convincing the Governor could be. He’d seen people even as headstrong as Merle fall into line for him. A girl like you, compassionate and maybe a bit naive, would do the same, easily.

Merle had always called him the softer brother. That was probably one of the few things he was right about.

“I know wha’ he told ya.”

Your eyes widened, shocked by his interruption and admission.

“We dealt with him before. Called himself the Governor back then, ‘n he did the same thing. Found himself a group ‘n turned ‘em into soldiers. Lied about us, said we’d kill ‘em if they didn’t kill us first.”

You swallowed as a heavy feeling sunk into your stomach. “He said you— you killed his daughter. Took his eye and his town.”

“His daughter was a walker,” Daryl huffed. “They came after us, ’n when we scared ‘em off, the Governor opened fire. He slaughtered his soldiers. All of ‘em.”

You could only nod.

“The survivors, the ones he didn’t kill, we took ‘em in. Jus’ like Rick said.”

Your expression was blank as your gut twisted, afraid that any emotion you spared might come off as pitiful when really, all you felt was shame. An all-consuming dread amongst aching wishes that things hadn’t placed out the way they did, and a pang of sickening guilt that your hands had played a part in the reason why it happened—

“He woulda done wha’ he did with or without your help,” Daryl mumbled, “ya didn’t do tha’, he did.”

The swarming guilt didn’t clear, but it was certainly a surprise that Daryl was the one to slow your spiralling thoughts. And in the thick of your conscience, a wave of something else, something fervent and altruistic, filled the doubtful holes that shame left you.

Your voice was soft and steady when you said, “Maybe it wasn’t just Rick and that woman.”

Daryl looked at you, confused.

“More of your people could’ve gotten out.”

Daryl wasn’t expecting that. Just like you were shocked to find comfort in him, he was shocked to find bravery and confidence in you. It wasn’t that he didn’t think you were those things. He knew you were, you went back for the damn poncho, for one— that was brave, reckless, but brave. But it was his family. He should’ve been the one to be firm on their survival. You should’ve held that pessimistic tone in your voice when you spoke about them— not him. And yet, here you were, fiddling a piece of string between your fingers, demeanour as gentle as you spoke, offering him a hint of hope to hold onto again.

“And, if you’re gonna look for them, I want to help you.”

Daryl’s eyes softened, but he hadn’t grabbed onto that hope, just yet. He wasn’t sure if he could.

“But you need to sleep, first. Please.”

That, he could do. Which was another surprise; you seemed to be full of those. He obliged and for the first time since you’d met Daryl, you held watch late into the night.

————————————————————

-> part four

A/N: I love this part hehe. they finally start to bond and him HELPING WITH THE BANDAGE??? I am screaming (at my own story lol...)

if you’re reading this, thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. please feel free to leave feedback, it helps so much and I love to read it. have a lovely day <3

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amber-sekio · 2 months

Text

One-shot Prompt

Fandom: BSD -Bungo Stray Dogs

Ship: Soukoku

Prompt: “Come here. Sit with me.”

TW: none that I can think of.

A/N: Also posted on my ao3, the link is on my master list

It was a relatively slow day.

After everything with Fyodor and the Decay of Angels had settled, everyone had gotten a well-deserved few days off.

Their relationship had been slow to reach the point it was at now, what with Dazai’s disappearance from the Port Mafia and his 2-year absence before re-emerging in the Ada and then another 2 years before Chuuya and Dazai had actually run into each other.

What had been left of their relationship was smoldering coals. They still trusted each other, as Chuuya had hardly hesitated before using Corruption at Dazai’s request. But Dazai had treated Chuuya horribly, he had left without so much as a text explaining what he was doing. He had blown up his car.

He didn’t believe it was possible for someone as divine and beautiful as Chuuya to have any fraction of a good thought about him. Sure, he had patched up Dazai plenty of times when he was in the Port Mafia and he had stopped him from many attempts but it was only because he relied on Dazai to use Corruption,… right?

And yet, here he was, in Chuuya’s penthouse, with him, being taken care of. He and Chuuya had gotten closer, closer than they ever were. They had yet to put a label on it.

And while Dazai knew that it was only because of their clashing schedules, their different jobs. They worked on different sides now. Dazai knew that they simply hadn’t the time to truly talk about it. And then everything went to absolute shit with Fyodor and then they hardly had time to even relax on their own time.

But now everything was over. The dust had settled and they finally had time to talk and to sleep, to just be around each other. Chuuya was back to making sure Dazai ate three meals a day, even if his portions were small. But… they hadn’t talked about it yet.

Dazai tried to not let the sapling of doubt grow and bloom within, but his own self-deprecation was relentless in its ability to make him spiral in his thoughts. He was supposed to be relaxing but his brain couldn’t seem to shut itself up.

“Dazai?”

A voice snapped Dazai from his never-ending thoughts. The voice, Chuuya, his brain provided for him, sounded from the direction of the living room. Dazai was still sitting on a stool at the kitchen island. He had been doom-scrolling as his brain spiraled.

Deciding to finally stretch his legs, he stood up. He stretched until he heard his back pop, sighing as he dropped his shoulders, and relaxed. He sluggishly made his way toward the living room. The sleeves of the sweater he was wearing were rolled up to his elbows and his hands were in his pockets.

“Yes?” He stopped at the entrance of the living room, looking towards where Chuuya sat on the couch, the TV had some movie on that Dazai didn’t care to figure out.

Chuuya looked up towards Dazai, a small, pleasant smile adorned his face. “Come here. Sit with me.”

Dazai didn’t have the energy to whine about how the dog shouldn’t be the one giving out orders, the exhaustion showing itself as prominent bags under Dazai’s eyes, so he wordlessly listened. Walking languidly to the open spot next to Chuuya, who immediately brought his arm from the back of the couch to Dazai’s waist to pull him closer as soon as he was sat on the couch.

“So… you’ve been living with me for the last few months…” Chuuya trailed off as if he wasn’t sure how to continue or word his question.

Dazai stilled, though tried his best to hide it. So they were having that conversation. Had he done something over the last few months to annoy Chuuya to get him to kick him out? Of course, he had, what was he thinking? He couldn’t stop his destructive habit of annoying Chuuya till he retaliated, more often than not, physically and violently. He had done it when they first saw each other after 4 years. Surely Chuuya has realized how horrible Dazai is and is going to kick him out. He only wants to let him down gently…

_____________________________

Chuuya felt Dazai tense under his arm. Though he hid it exceptionally well, as expected of an executive, even if he no longer is one. Chuuya’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have even noticed had he not had his arm around him and his trained eyes on him.

It was hard to tell what was going through his mind, and he doubted it was easy to understand even if he could see it all happening in front of him. He imagines it would be too fast to comprehend most of it.

But while he can’t read his mind word for word, he does know Dazai better than anyone else. He was the brawn to Soukoku and Dazai was the brain. They had to be able to read each other to some degree to function as one. So Chuuya had an inkling of an idea what Dazai was thinking.

It was probably something self-deprecating, and probably something Chuuya would find stupid.

Truly, Dazai was the smartest dumbass he knew. A genius who wouldn’t know affection if it slapped him in the face ten times,… or punched him perhaps a few too many times that he had lost count.

Chuuya pulled himself from his thoughts. He needed to relax Dazai so he could get it through his thick genius skull how much he loved the lanky man sitting next to him. He let his hand on Dazai’s waist rub nonsense shapes into his sweater in a comforting manner.

“Relax, it’s nothing bad.” He spoke in what he hoped was a comforting tone. It seemed to work as Dazai minutely relaxed into his side, though traces of his overthinking mind still lingered.

“You’ve lived with me for the past few months… and now that all the dumb shit with Fyodor is done and over with, I… I want to take a step further if you are ready, or if you even want to…” Chuuya trailed off awkwardly. They didn’t often voice their emotions or thoughts to each other, not really seeing the need for it as they were typically adept at reading each other. If they weren’t capable of at least that then they wouldn’t have ever been such terrifyingly great partners.

But at last, it seems that neither of them is knowledgeable enough on the topic of affection and love with how blind they are to each other's feelings towards them. At least… Chuuya hoped that was the emotion in Dazai’s eyes that he couldn’t seem to read. He hoped it was a mutual feeling of love.

____________________________

Dazai’s mind was attempting to process a million thoughts that were running miles in seconds. He was so caught up in them that he hardly realized what Chuuya had said, so terrified of being rejected before he even had the chance to confess. He had to backtrack his thoughts to process what Chuuya had said and when he did…

How… How did Chuuya not hate him? How can someone he treated so horribly, like nothing more than a dog not hate him? Him. How could anyone ever feel anything other than disgust and loathing when thinking of someone like Dazai?

He vaguely felt something wet on his face, but his mind paid no attention to it in lieu of overworking its ever-present self-deprecating thought process.

____________________________

Chuuya could see, and feel, as Dazai stilled in his arms once again.

And then, as Chuuya looked at his face with slight worry, he saw it.

Tears.

Chuuya can’t recall a time he’s ever seen or heard Dazai cry during their 7, almost 8, years of knowing each other. As an ignorant teenager, he believed that someone such as Dazai couldn’t cry, but he knew better than that now. Dazai was as much a human as anyone else, and therefore capable of crying, of being sad, of feeling.

Dazai’s body trembling slightly pulled him from his thoughts. He now reached to rearrange Dazai to face him on the couch. Though Dazai didn’t fight it, he didn’t seem to respond to the movement at all, completely lost in his endless thoughts.

Chuuya reached out his hand to Dazai’s face, cupping his cheek gently. Dazai made no reaction.

“Dazai? Hey, you alright?”

Dazai blinked and suddenly he seemed to be present once again. He looked up at Chuuya with glass eyes.

Chuuya offered a small smile. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dazai responded, his tone flat as he looked at Chuuya.

Chuuya noted that Dazai probably wasn’t even aware he had cried.

“Dazai, you’re crying.” He let his thumb rub under Dazai’s left eye in a hopefully comforting way.

“Oh…” Dazai made no movement to wipe away the tears, rather, it seemed like the admittance of it brought down the last bit of Dazai’s barrier.

Dazai looked down and the tears once brimming his eyes fell down his face. Chuuya’s hand previously resting on Dazai’s cheek had moved down to the back of his neck when he looked down and now slightly tugged, prompting Dazai to cling to him.

Dazai’s voice was shaky when he spoke. “H-how…” His voice faltered but Chuuya let him work out his words.

“H-how could you possibly love me? Me? All I’ve ever done was treat you like shit…”

Chuuya sighed. He had a feeling that was the reason behind Dazai’s reaction.

“Yeah, you’ve treated me like shit plenty of times, as I have with you. But you also have saved my life so many times I’ve lost count. And you’ve reassured me I was human every time you noticed me doubting it, even if you often found a way to insult me while doing so. No matter how much we teased and annoyed each other when it came down to it, we had each other's backs. We have each other’s back. There’s no one I trust more than you.”

Dazai looked up at Chuuya in shock, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“There’s no one I love more than you, Osamu.”

Dazai clung to Chuuya, burying his face into the crook of Chuuya’s neck. Though Chuuya couldn’t see the tears cascading down Dazai’s face, he could feel them soak into his shirt and he could hear Dazai’s choked back sobs.

Between Dazai’s sobs, Chuuya just barely caught his choked-out words.

“I love you too, Chuuya.”

#bsd #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #bungo stray dogs #chuuya nakahara #dazai osamu #chuuya x dazai #fluff #little bit of angst #getting together #they're both idiots #god i love them #soukoku #double black #One-shot Prompt

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inagetawaycarxo · 10 months

Text

Diesel Is Desire ❪ MOB!BOSS!ROMAN ❫

— PAIRINGS: MOB!BOSS!Roman Reigns x F!Reader

— FEATURING: Roman Reigns, Y/n, other wrestlers, Jey Uso, Jimmy Uso.

— SYNOPSIS: Y/n comes back after being away from an injury to find out everything has changed, that he has changed.

— WARNINGS:: Just some angst, because I am in an angst mood and I'm still depressed over a dude who didn't deserve my love/ me catching feelings for him in the first place, typical Roman behaviour, prob crap, errors I missed.

— AUTHORS NOTE: I hope you like it!,

— DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT give consent/permission for my work to be copied and pasted on other platforms. However, I highly encourage feedback, likes, reblogs, and comments.

Roman let out a heavy sigh as he sat next to you. You continued to look at the stars in the sky.

"I hate seeing you hurt," Roman spoke softly. Pressing the ice pack against the bruise on your temple.

"Well maybe you shouldn't put me in a situation where I end up hurt by you," You snapped. Snatching the ice pack from him and getting up.

Roman let out a huff of annoyance.

"That wasn't my fault," He spoke in an angry tone. It only made you let out a scoff.

"No, because nothing ever is, is it?" You snapped.

"Y/n..." Roman sighed, it was a long day, and nearly losing you to an enemy, put a lot of things in perspective.

He didn't want to lose you, but he couldn't replace his wife like that. No matter how hard he tried to move on he couldn't. he did love you though, it just was hard, was all. But seeing you get attacked by his enemy made him realize he could at least try and give it a go, to put a label on it. But you... You had a different idea, that little attack made you realize you weren't important to Roman as you thought you were. You were just another woman to warm his bed. To fill the void of his dead wife, you meant nothing to him.

"I'm done, with whatever this is, I mean you didn't even bother saving me, you let me save myself," You snapped.

"I saved you, don't ever say that I didn't save you," He shouted. Standing up. You looked at him with fury in your eyes. If looks could kill, he would be dead.

"The last minute, but what's new I'm used to saving myself, I'm used to being second best, or not even a choice," You shouted. Tears falling from your eyes.

Roman snorted... Pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Y/n," He huffed out.

"I used to think you didn't want to make us official because I'm the daughter of one of your enemies, but I don't think it's that...I think it's her...it's always her, you're not over her... and you are just using me to fill the void of her death, but it doesn't work," You spoke in a shaky voice.

"Don't talk about her," Roman snapped, getting up in your face. Which made you let out a gasp a bit. His eyes were filled with anger.

Roman was about to speak but you interpreted him.

"I'm done, go find some other bitch to keep your bed warm, to fill the void," You snapped. Roman flinched when he felt your palm hit his cheek hard.

Once you slapped him, you turned around and rushed to the side gate of his backyard. Opening the latch. Pushing the gate open. You quickly took off running, while tears slipped from Roman's eyes.

Tears blurred your vision as you ran down his gated neighbourhood. You didn't care what anyone thought. Breathing heavily. You ran until you couldn't anymore. Collapsing onto the ground. Your dazed state didn't realize someone was following you. You didn't even notice the headlights of a car, nor hear it park. Nor hear footsteps making their way to your sobbing form, until you felt a hand on your shoulder.

"Oh, y/n... what have you gotten yourself into, come on, let's get you in the car," A familiar voice spoke. Making you stop crying. You avoided eye contact.

They helped you up, putting an arm around you and guiding you to their car. While reassuring you. They opened the passenger door. Helping you get in the car. Putting the seatbelt on for you, before closing the door.

Silent tears fell from your eyes. You quickly wiped your tears away as the driver's door opened, and they got in. Though wiping them only seemed to entice more to fall from your eyes...

I highly encourage feedback, please leave a comment.

#wwe x reader #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns x you #roman reigns imagine #roman reigns angst #wwe imagines #wwe imagine #wwe angst #wwe fic #mob!boss roman #wwe #roman reigns

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plush-rabbit · 1 year

Text

The League Comforts You

A/N: I really don’t like holidays

You never really understood why you kept coming to family events. It's not like you liked your family. Well, that's not quite right either. You love your family, and they love you, but you think if you had met them and were strangers, you wouldn't like them nor would they like you. They're mean and exclude you, and when you try to match their energy, you come across as mean and rude. You like your peace and quiet, you never really minded being alone, but you still can't help but feel hurt when they have fun without you and don't seek you out.

You're sitting at the end of the couch, nursing on something alcoholic to get you through the chatter- through the teasing remarks about you still being single, about you still being as quiet as ever. You smile with your teeth and take another sip. You glance at your phone- there’s no notifications other than online sales and emails. You have no messages from your friends since they're all busy with their own families who love and like them.

You wish that you were home.

Laughter is loud in the house and everyone is engaged with someone in a conversation. You try to put yourself in a conversation but you’re laughed at and your ears burn hot, and you hate yourself just a bit more. You're sure that if you got up right now and excused yourself outside and never came back in, they wouldn't notice that you left.

The bottle in your hand is empty, and you rise from the end of the couch and quickly, your space is taken, the crowded couch now more breathable without you. No one asks you anything, they don’t question why you’ve stood up, but you still tell them why. I need some air, to be right back. You smile and grab your things, placing the empty bottle next to the other bottles on the table. Your phone is tucked into your back pocket and you hold tightly onto your charger.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that the night life is bustling, that it’s fun and bright and you hate the people that have fun with others. The walk back home is loud. There are bars packed with people, groups of people walking in a tight group along the sidewalk, cars passing back with streams taped onto them. There's confetti and plastic cups and glass bottles on edge of the sidewalk and you stand in front of a bottle with the label missing, debating in picking it up and being a good civilian or picking it up and risking whatever germs someone else had, now on your, unable to properly wash your hands.

You decide to let the issue be left for someone else, the streets of the city can remain dirty for one more night. Blowing out a puff of air that forms into a cloudy puff, you walk past the bottle, holding on tight to your charger.

Finally, you’ve made it home, and you tell yourself to not be disappointed if you check your phone and no one has checked in on you. It’ll be fine. You don’t need them. If your phone has no notification, then that’s fine. It’s fine. You suck in a deep breath of air and hold onto it, and you check your phone.

You haven’t received a single call or text from any of your family members.

The keys shake in your hand and you feel like crying. You aren't sure why. You don't care if your family doesn't like you. Well, you do, because of course you do, you've always been sentimental about family even if they aren't. Even if they're a bit mean towards you and leave you out if things, but they're your family. You still cling to the past, wanting to remember them as they were clinging to you, how they loved you and cherished you, how you were close to your cousins. But you’ve grown up now, and all that familial love has thinned, you’re left starving for it.

The lock clicks open, and you enter your home. You kick your shoes off and drop your things on the table. It’s dark, and it’s lonely, and you tell yourself that it’s fine. That it’s better when you’re alone because you can do what you want. You try not to worry about the tears that have welled in your eyes and are burning, you bite the inner corner of your lips when you let a cry whimper out.

And finally, you reach your room, and close the door with a smack, trying to keep your composure until you’re in bed. But then the light clicks on, you aren’t alone.

Bubaigawara Jin:

The closing door was enough to wake him from his short nap, but you crying, was enough to jolt him awake. Jin hadn’t expected you to be home- you had mentioned how you were excited to be with your family after so long, that he assumed that he was going to have your place to himself for a few hours before you returned. You always talk so fondly about your family, and he listens, trying not to interject because it’s one of the few times that you share so much about yourself. It’s not like he has anything to share either way- so many of his memories are muddled, and most of the ones about his family are nonexistent, he can’t even really remember what their faces looked like. He doesn’t mind when you talk about your family- he welcomes it, it’s nice to hear you talk and even when his other starts to interject, it’s always something nice, sarcastic, but nice.

Your home, and you’re crying- well you’re close to tears, breathing in deeply and fisting your hands at your side, and he doesn’t know what happened. You seem fine- no skinned knees or bloody lips. You’re okay- physically. Hopefully. So what happened? And the question is forming on his tongue and fills the room, and it’s less than polite, a bit crass and with sleep lingering in on his voice, it’s easy to mistake it for annoyance. But you know him- of course, you wouldn’t take for anything other than just him. At least, he believes that that’s true, but then you start to cry, and he realizes that he shouldn’t have been senseless with you. You’re already near tears, of course, anything harsh would have made you start crying, but then you rush to him and as he’s sitting up, you hug him, and sit on his lap, and you’re pulling him closer to you.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn't felt relieved when you chose to sit on his lap and pull him close- you’re still crying, but at least he knows that it’s not because of him, that you still want him to hold you. You;ve always been there for him, and you try to understand him, and you never really leave him alone, and he wants to do the same for you. He holds you tight, and his hands are ever moving- running up and down from your arms to your back, to your thighs, and back to your arms, and starting the cycle all over again, desperate for your cries to quiet down. Maybe he should do something right now- No. He should be doing something right now. Panic runs a cold chill down his spine, and he blurts out that he’s glad that you’re here with him. He could do without the crying, and he immediately fixes that little slip up, but you only snort, apologizing, and kissing at his collarbone. Of course, you wouldn’t take offense to it.

In a quiet voice, when you’ve settled, and your legs spill over the edge of the bed, he asks if you need anything, juice, alcohol, candy, smokes? Anything at all, he’d go rushing out to get it for you. And you shake your head, telling him that you just want to stay with him like this for a bit longer, reaching for his hand to hold in yours. You trace up and down his fingers, across each ring of lines that circle around his finger, and trace on his palm. You tell him that you would have liked to take him out tonight. Maybe to meet your family- an hour max- and then go get something to drink afterwards. He’s never met your family, but he hates how they’ve made you cry. If it were anyone else, they’d regret it, but he knows how you feel about family, he knows that hurting them would only hurt you, that it wouldn’t make you feel better, it’d only push you away from him, and isolate you further. He doesn’t want that. He kisses the top of our head, and he says that maybe when it’s cold out, he can wrap himself in a scarf and you two could go out-it’s be cold, but he could treat you to something warm.

A part of him wishes that he could have met you before everything went so awful for him. No. All of him wishes for that. If you accept him as he is now- a villain with a dissociative disorder- then maybe you’d like him back when he was younger, when he was making ends meet, and could hold up a job. Maybe during his life of theft, he would’ve stolen something nice for you- a ring, maybe. But, you met him as he is now, and you still want to be with him, and you even wish you could show him off to your family. You wish you could be seen with him. And maybe that makes up for all the string of bad luck that has followed him around his entire life. And with you tracing the lines on his palms, lying and making up what the lines mean- a long life, a wealthy life, lovers past and future. He thinks your crap at telling fortune, but he likes the life that he has with you now. He kisses the top of your head, and holds you tight, the lines that you’ve traced burning his palm, and lays back down, smiling when you let out a squeak and a laugh mixed together.

Dabi:

He doesn’t really spend the night at your place as much as he should. It's too quiet at your home, too neat and orderly, too tucked away in its own little corner with the only noise available being your fan that hums. Dabi is used to the noise, the screeching of tires and yowling cats and barking dogs, the loud, drunken laughter and belches of people, that being in your home makes him feel discomfited. He’s only staring at your ceiling, trying to force himself to sleep until you shut the door and he’s alert. Heat tickles and burns his palms until he realizes that it’s you, and in the next moment he realizes that you’re crying, and he’s throwing his legs over the edge of your bed, and you meet him at your bed, rushing to him, and holding him. You cry silently, whimpering and taking in shaky breaths that shudder throughout your body. Your hands are cold as they hold onto him, pressed against his thinned shirt.

Your tears don’t last- you cry and you sniffle and when you pull away, your face is wet, and can’t look him in the eye. He stays still beside you, and you’re silent, pulling your hands away and twisting them in front of you. The silence is killing him worse than before, he needs something to fill the air, and it’s always been you, always humming or talking about something or another that he’ll listen to and remember when he’s stuck somewhere else. Slowly, his hand reaches over to your side, his index and middle finger wrapping around your thumb and pulling it towards him, his thumb rubbing softly over your thumb knuckle. He offers you something- alcohol, you know, just to get the edge off a bit, he reasons, whispering into the quiet room. You shake your head, and twist yourself to wrap your arms around him, your face nestled against his chest.

Even after all these years, all this resentment and hatred, he hates that he understands why you’re so sentimental; he hates knowing why you want to hold onto the fond memories of your family, and why you seek their validation and love. He had hoped that after being with you, that he would have gotten better at being able to provide some type of comfort, that he could do more than sit on the bed and let you cry. You start out slow, and he realizes that it’s because the pain is still too fresh, the humiliation and the exclusion are burning through you and making you shake beside him. It isn’t a big deal- it shouldn’t be a big deal. You’ve been excluded from conversations loads of times, this isn’t anything new, and yet it still hurts as if you were a child facing rejection for the first time all over again. You talk about how you aren’t treated like an adult, but neither as a child, a weird middle ground, a punching bag because if you fight back, if you return the same energy, you’re mean. It isn’t fair for you- to have to face the constant pressure from them when you’ve been doing so well, when you’ve finally feel like you’re on the right track.

Words fill the air, a spew of nonsense that comes from him, slow and unsure, trying to find something to say, but being unable to fill it with any meaning. All he’s aiming for you is to be distracted, to think about anything else than your family. The thing about him is- and you learned this quickly- he will never talk about his own family with you; try as you will, he never utters a single word about them, and he knows that it irritates you, but it’s his own thing to deal with. But he understands you, and he doesn’t know how to fix it, because his own solution was to kill himself, and now he’s missed so much of his youth and his own body is no longer his. But it’s about you and your pain, and he doesn’t know how to make you feel better other than just talking. He tells you about how quiet your room is when you’re not there, and how he likes the scent of your new soap, and that he might have ruined a towel, and you laugh, it’s short, but you laugh and he pulls down on the bed, pulling and letting his hands run underneath your shirt till your laying beside him, your back pressed against his chest and his nose rested in the back of your scalp, nestled into your hair.

His body aches, and you’ve laced your hand with his, trailing it from the soft curve of your stomach, to the swell of your chest and resting it above your heart. Every breath that you take is getting slower, and heavier. Dabi wonders to himself, if he ever will tell you about his family, how his father threw him aside, how he said such awful things to his mother and how he wished he could have apologized, how there was a moment in time where all he wanted was to have them hold him and tell him that he’s been forgiven, and held like a child. He calls your name, and after a moment, you squeeze your hand, and he knows you’re already asleep, in the odd place between sleep and consciousness, and he won’t pull you away from that. If things were different and he weren’t born with a cursed body, that he would have liked to sleep with you in a quiet room, that he wouldn’t let you feel alone in a room filled with others.

Iguchi Shuichi:

Shuichi thinks to himself that he probably shouldn’t have come over- that maybe it would have been better for him to just have stayed back at the base. But you look so pitiful, and he knows that you need him- hopefully- he still isn’t quite sure how to tell whether you need comfort or space. He clears his throat, and awkwardly opens one arm, inviting you to come sit with him, and you nod. With you so close, he can see the tears in your eyes, how they swell and catch on your lashes, and he wonders if you’ve looked like that the whole walk home. You slip into the space that he’s created, leaning on him, and wrapping your arms around his torso as he leans against the headboard of your bed. He’s hardly ever seen you cry from something that wasn’t from a television show or a video game, and he knows what to do in those scenarios, hear you out and nod along, and it shouldn’t be different in this case, but the atmosphere and the way that you hold yourself feels so much heavier than it’s ever have before.

Softly, he asks what happened, his body shifting to hold you at a more secure position. His hands lay on you, and when you don’t respond, he adds that you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. He can hear you intake deep, shaky breaths, trying to catch letters and shape it, only for you to stay silent. He decides to talk before he can lose any of his nerves. You were supposed to be with your family. How come you’re not? You were so excited too. He regrets talking immediately when you begin to cry, latching onto him and going to hold at one of his hands. You clasp onto him with such strength, and you need him at the moment. He tries to soothe you, but the only he knows how is to scratch at your back, slow, steady movements where his hands reach underneath your shirt, feeling the warmth of your skin against his claws. It’s steady, and it keeps you grounded enough to have you go to a quiet whimpering, with your hand cupped over his chest.

Something must have happened. Of course, something had to have happened if you had come back with tears in your eyes, so desperate to hold onto any part of him, and only cry further when he asks directly about your family. He doesn’t really get it. He always thought you had a nice relationship with your family- you speak so highly of them, and yet, you’re here, crying on his chest. You know enough of his own backstory to understand that he didn’t have a good support system- or any for that matter. Even if mutant quirks have grown more accepting in a city, the country and town life is still difficult. People still look down on him for being anything less than normal. Only a few looked past his quirk- you included, and he can never thank you enough for that. He tells you all of this, and he apologizes to you, that he wasn’t there for whatever it was that happened. There are times that he wishes he was still a shut-in, that he ever saw Stain on television and never got inspired, and maybe then, he would have met you in a grocery store or something. But he also knows that he never would have met you, and if he did, he wouldn’t have bothered with you, because Stain sparked something inside of him, and then you did so, when he realized there was something past reshaping society that was worth living for.

Slowly, you start to speak, grabbing at the hand that isn’t scratching up and down your back, and placing it over your cheek, holding it there. You’ve never been good at socializing with your family. You love them, but you aren’t like them, and he understands that sentiment. He taps two fingers against the soft plush of your cheek, encouraging you to continue with your story. You go on and about how lonely you felt- how everyone was with someone and you were alone. It was a room full of loved ones and all you could do was pity yourself and hold an empty bottle. You felt like you did when you were younger. And you hated it. You felt so embarrassed and they didn’t even call after you left- and your voice cracks. He shushes you quietly, and moves the hand that is resting on your back to curve over your waist. You’re here with him now and even though it’s not what you had planned for the night, he’s happy that you’re here with him.

Shifting under you, he moves until you’re laying beside him, and he can stare at you. Your eyes are rimmed red, and there are tear tracks that curve down your cheeks and dry at your chin. With a shaky hand, he reaches to wipe away the tear tracks, and you lean into his touch. He smiles softly, and he asks if there’s anything more that you want to get off of your chest. He isn’t fond of his family either, but he has you now, and the League, and he thinks that’s all that really matters- found family or something like that, that you like to fantasize about. Nervously, he inches closer to you, and your breath is warm and it smells sweet and it must be the drink that you talked about, and he leans in, and there’s pressure against his snout, until you twist your head and kiss him back, pulling away to intertwine your body with his, hiding your face into the crook of his neck, and peppering kisses along there as a show of thanks.

Sako Atsuhiro:

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen this side of you. You've cried before him, but it was reactionary- you watched a show and cried, you’ve read a book and clung to him, whining and moaning about how they deserved a happy ending- things like that. You’ve never closed a door so roughly, not on purpose, not without saying a quick sorry to the inanimate object. You’ve never closed a door with tears in your eyes, looking so sad. Atsuhiro didn’t mean to be here- it just happened. He thought about not coming to your place when you told him you wouldn’t be here for the night, that you would be out with family. He even sat on your chair as you pulled out a potential outfit- something appropriate, that would still seem nice around others. You were excited for it. And now you’re home, and you’re crying, and he isn’t sure what to do. Do you want to talk about it? Because of course something happened, and it hurts him to see you look so small. You’ve closed in on yourself, lowering your shoulders and clasping your arms around yourself, and you haven’t looked him in the eyes since you’ve entered the room.

Come here, he tells you. And you walk towards him, your steps quick to reach where he now sits upright on your bed, and his arm wraps around you, running up your torso, and cupping it over your neck. You’ve always been more of the crier in the relationship, always tearing up in moments as you read, clinging to characters and to people, and he knows what to do, how to comfort you- to offer a talking point and to let you stay silent until you’re ready, and give you a promise that he’s still by your side. Unlike you, he doesn’t talk about his family much, when you pout about him keeping secrets, he pulls out some line about magicians and secrets- something corny that has you rolling your eyes, and grinning at him. You’ve always been one to overshare, to tell stories about your past, to tell him whatever it was that he wanted to know, and he always liked you for it. He never really liked keeping secrets from you, and while he strongly doubts that you would ever judge him for who his lineage is, he doesn’t want to have that looming, he doesn’t want to think about the questions you’d have and the answers he would be unable to tell you.

Seeing you defeated leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He was hoping that he’d fall asleep in your bed, and in the morning, he’d wake up with you curled next to him, hair a mess and he’d spend the whole day with you and get to eat your cooking, and just laze around with you. However, now with you crying on his chest, and how you intertwine your legs with his, he thinks that you’ll be the one to taste his cooking. He doesn’t pry further about what happened- you’re still too sentimental about it, the wound and pain too fresh for you, and he doesn’t want you to cry because of him, because of the memories that he’s trying to dig up no matter how recent they are.

You tell him that you wish you could introduce him to your family. That maybe if you met earlier, before his name was released to the public, that you could have, that you would have been able to show him off. He counters that when his name did get released, you’d have to explain to your family. You say silent after that, he kicks him for bringing reality back to you after hopeful wishes. He stutters in trying to fix his mistake, telling you that it would’ve been nice to be introduced to your family. That he would’ve liked to meet the people who you talk about. He tells you that he would have been perfect at meeting your family- the shining example of what it is to look like a good partner. You interject with a laugh, that he would have been the prime example of a “bring home boyfriend” until it was revealed who he is. You’re laughing and that’s a good sign. He smiles, and his hand lowers curving underneath your chest. He agrees, stating that then he’d be the worst example, and that he probably wouldn’t mind being referred to as the bad boyfriend whose parents disapprove of. You groan and pull away from him, and the tears have dried, and all that remains are reddened eyes, and quiet sniffling.

Holding his hand in yours, you apologize in a low voice, telling him that you didn’t mean to wake him up, nor did you mean to cry in front of him over something so trivial. Atushiro hums, telling you that he doesn’t mind being woken by you- that he’d rather wake up and be with you, than let you cry alone. He’s glad that he was here, that he feels better knowing that he was able to just be here with you, that he didn’t want you alone. He brings up your held hand to his lips, giving short kisses to each knuckle, and turning it over to kiss your palm. You smile, and pull your hand away, leaning into him, giving out another small cry, thanking him for being here, and promising him a meal tomorrow. He watches as you move, curling beside him your hand going to rest over his ribs, and you trace arcs over his chest, stopping at where you think the rib would stop and he watches you get lost in thought, resting back on the pillow and kissing your temple.

Shigaraki Tomura:

Seeing you teary eyed always makes him uncomfortable. Tomura isn’t sure of what to do in these types of scenarios; he isn’t sure on how he should go about to comfort you. Should he hold you? Should he be giving some type of advice, something vague that could be applied to any scenario? He knows that you need something and the most that he could offer up is patting the space beside him, offering up your own bed to you. You nod, scurrying in beside him, your bare legs cooled from the outside air and enough for him to feel through the material of his own pants. You hide yourself in his chest, arms going around to clutch at the back of his shirt. If he knew that you were going to arrive early and cry, he probably wouldn’t have even shown up in your home. Immediately as that thought enters his mind, he feels awful. You’ve done a lot for him, the least he could do is hold you, or allow himself to be held for a moment.

You shouldn’t be home- so why are you home? He had messaged you a few days prior asking if he could stay the night and he remembers that you told him he could, but that you were going to be with family. And he remembers it so, because he thought about just not showing up because if you weren’t going to be here, then why come at all, but the temptation of your bed, pillowed with blankets and stuffed animals, was far too much for him. He’s careful to put his arms around you, careful to make sure he isn’t completely touching you, trying to avoid adding injury to your less than great night. He asks why you’re home so early, and he quickly adds that he doesn’t mean anything mean by it, he’s just curious is all. You’ve been still the entire time in his arms, you don’t move even when you sniffle and the pillow and his shirt are damp with your tears.

Family is complicated, and- you can’t go on any further. Your voice cracks and he moves closer to you, closing the already small gap between the two of you. Something awful must have happened. He doesn’t remember much of his own family- before All For One and Kurogiri. The things that he does remember make him itch- more so than usual, more than just scratching until his skin is a bright red, but a depper, primal urge that has his skin feel too tight. Even so, All For One wasn’t a good caretaker, and Kurogiri did the best that he could with a bratty child from the streets. Even so, he knows how much you care for your own family, how you hold his hand and tell him that you wish things were different so you could introduce him, how maybe if you were a family of villains, they’d be proud of you. You always cut the conversation right after that, and you always have a sad look in your eyes. He never really wants to talk about his own upbringing, always talking about it as it was unimportant, never wanting to recall how empty his bedroom was until he used his quirk. He’s sure that his retelling how he decayed two people who were mean to him wouldn’t bring you the comfort that you need, nor is it the story that you would like to reminisce about with him late in the nights.

He should be offering you something. A drink maybe? But then that would mean that he has to pull away from you, and he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t think you want that either. Still, he should be doing something right now, something to fill the gap of silence and to stop you from whimpering. He presses his lips against the top of your crown, and when he pulls away, he starts. Talking about his past is far too much, but talking about the future isn’t so bad. He talks about how nice it would be that when he topples over society or makes some type of chaos, that you would be right there. When it comes to it, he’s going to bring you with him. It’ll be great- you won’t have to get the approval from family, or anyone else. It’ll be you and him- and the others, but they’re not important in the story he’s telling you. He likes to think that it’ll be the end of society, and he’ll be able to stand beside you, to not worry about heroes- bad or good- would interrupt the both of you.

When you’ve calmed down, you lift up from him, and he misses the warmth that you provided. You wipe at your eyes and pat your cheeks, and he stays watching you, waiting for you to come back to bed. You do so, and you apologize for all the crying, giving a humorless chuckle that you’ve always been the emotional one, and he doesn’t mind because why would he. He sits up beside you, and your head rests on his shoulder, and it’s the two of you alone in a room, and your arms slink around his, holding tightly onto him, and he can feel the tears that wet his shoulder. You don’t have to think right now, at least not about family. And again, you apologize for crying, and again he tells you that it’s fine, even when he’s so unsure of what to do, but you still cry, and you still latch onto him, and in the dead of night, he holds you, and he stays there until you’ve fallen asleep, with tears and warm cheeks.

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readyplayerhobi · 1 year

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Because, I Love You | 06

; Jungkook x Older!Reader

; Genre: Fluff, angst, (very) slight smut

; Word Count: 3.4k

; Warnings: Pregnancy, discussions of abortion, giving up a baby, creampie, insinuated sex

; Synopsis: According to society, Jeon Jungkook should not be with you. He should be with a younger, hotter and thinner girl instead of wasting his time on you. It’s a good thing Jungkook doesn’t care what society thinks then.

; A/N: If you’re reading this after it’s just come out - chapter 5 released only a few days ago! Otherwise, make sure to read the warnings on the masterlist and the first chapter...you’ll notice that things happening in this chapter do NOT line up with what happens in the first chapter, and the reasons for that are listed as warnings on the masterlist. The next chapter will be clearly labelled with warnings as it may be uncomfortable for some to read, or some people may not want to read it all! This is an advance warning for the next chapter!

; Masterlist

Jungkook hasn’t stopped moving since you’d come out of the bathroom. Flexing his hands, wringing his fingers, walking from one side of the bedroom to the other, chewing on his lip - he’s currently being a walking billboard for nerves. You fully understand him, but the bubbling anxiety in your own stomach would rather he stop.

“For god's sake, will you sit down? You’re making me feel even more tense.” You snap at him, the words filled with a venom that you don’t actually feel and you immediately feel bad. Especially when he stops all movement, his shoulders hunching slightly and a cowed look on his face.

Sighing, you reach out to him. He takes a second to decide before walking over to you, letting you take his hand and sitting next to you on the bed. You give him a tug, causing him to fall into you with no resistance as you lean back against the pillows.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Are you okay?”

“Are you?” Jungkook fires back, shuffling about until he’s laid next to you with his head on your shoulder. It’s a familiar position, but there’s a subtle tenseness between you both that neither of you brings up. There’s no need to, not when you both know the reason why.

“Good question-”

Before you can say anything, the alarm on your phone blares out from the bedside table. For a second, you both just stare at it as it vibrates across the surface, its song getting progressively louder the longer you ignore it. Finally, you reach out and turn it off.

Gently pushing at Jungkook, you sit up and take a deep breath. You go to reach out to the table again, but Jungkook suddenly reaches over you to take your hand. Looking at him, he gives you a tentative smile and squeezes gently.

“I love you.” He says, the words firm. It's a statement, not a question, and your chest gets a little fuzzy. Love for him wells up from deep within, making it feel a little harder to breathe and you give him a quick kiss in return, letting your body get across your reciprocal feelings before you grab the stick.

A quick glance at it makes your eyes widen, and it’s like your brain shuts down for a moment. Not a single thought passes through as you read the word on the white stick, nor as you read the second stick or the third.

Positive.

“Oh shit.” You state, breathing the words out and Jungkook almost deflates next to you. There’s something final about reading that word on a pregnancy test, on three pregnancy tests, even though you’d been pretty sure that you were pregnant before you took them. The symptoms had been too prominent for someone who was never ill, but there’s always the chance of ‘maybe it’s just a cold’ in the back of your head.

This solidifies it. You’re pregnant. You’ve got a tiny bunch of cells that are currently multiplying inside you, giving your body the signal that it no longer needs to menstruate and instead needs to start making a comfy home for the foetus that will grow and grow. There’s probably a subtle signal somewhere being sent to up the hormones that will make your body shift and change through the months, that will tell your pelvis to widen in the later stages and all that lovely stuff.

There’s a tiny bunch of cells growing inside you that is a perfect mix of Jungkook and you. Half of his DNA, half of your DNA. Half of your boyfriend of only nine months, half of you. A totally, unplanned and unwanted bunch of cells that had managed to be created despite birth control.

Yeah, okay, so you couldn’t take the Pill because it messed up with your mental health more than your antidepressants could handle and you didn’t have the implant because you hated needles and you didn’t have the IUD because you were a baby and didn’t want to be in pain. But you both used condoms, and you were now discovering why condoms have one of the highest failure rates. Sure, it would’ve helped if you’d done more than one, but it was a little late to think of that now.

Frowning down at the sticks, you don’t even notice the way you’re pouting at them. Your mind is too full of thought suddenly, the exact opposite of a few moments ago. You were pregnant, you were fucking pregnant. You were going to have a goddamn baby.

“So…erm, what do we do now? What do you do? I mean…what do you want to do?” There’s a quiver in Jungkook’s voice, and you look at him quietly. His normally bright eyes are even wider than normal, and his tan skin is paler than normal. The panic and fear you were feeling internally are clear to see on his face, and you note that he’s never looked younger.

Okay, so the two of you had tangentially discussed the possibility of a baby when you’d brought up that you thought you were pregnant. He’d been supportive and had been with you to buy the pregnancy tests and had waited quietly with you. But it had all been in a ‘haha, image if we had a baby!’ way, not as in an ‘okay, so what if you’re actually pregnant?’ way.

Staring into his eyes, you realise the differences between you both more clearly than ever. He was only twenty-five and had just started a new job, at your urging. He lived at home with his parents, and you’d only been together nine months. You were thirty-one with a stable job, a good income, and a house with a mortgage.

For a moment, you consider your options in your head before you speak. You need to get your thoughts together. You could abort the pregnancy and everything could carry on like normal, or you could go through the pregnancy and give up the baby…or you could have the baby. A little boy or girl that was half Jungkook, half the man you loved.

“I…I don’t want to get rid of it.” You say out loud, the words out of your mouth before you even realise it. Once you’ve said them though, you know that you’ve made the right choice there. He might disagree with you, and that would probably be the end of your relationship. You wouldn’t make him stay and raise a kid if he didn’t want to. But you knew that you wanted this baby with a deep conviction.

Whether he stayed with you or not, you would be having Jeon Jungkook’s baby.

“I’m…I mean…I’m sorry. I don’t know what you…I mean I…I want this baby,” Looking at him, you take a deep breath to try and calm your racing heart. “I don’t know if you want this baby too, and I won’t force anything on you. But I don’t want to abort it, and I don’t want to give it away. I want to have this baby. If I think logically, then I feel I can cope with this. It’s not particularly ideal, and I wish we’d both discussed this all and planned it and been trying, but I’ll take it. I’ve got a good job, a house, a car, my family and friends so…I can do this. I’ve known I always wanted to be a mom, I wasn’t expecting it this soon but, yeah. I can’t explain why but…I just know that I want it.” The words are jumbled, and you know it was probably a terrible explanation, but you just can’t get into words the soul-deep feeling of rightness.

Jungkook’s silent, and you wonder if he’s angry or annoyed with you. Maybe he thinks you’re disregarding his feelings and thoughts, but you’re also the one who will be growing the foetus, who will be giving birth or who would be the one to have the abortion. Whatever happens, you’re going to have to take the brunt of the physical or mental toil no matter what choice is made.

Still, the ache you feel in your heart at the thought of losing him is so strong. If he doesn’t want this, then he can leave and never look back. He might choose to sign away his parental rights if he really doesn’t want to be involved, or he might just pay child support. Maybe in a few years, he’d want to get involved in the baby's life. Or maybe he’ll just become ‘the guy who fathered your child’.

It hurts to think he might do that, but you know it’s his choice. Just as it’s your choice to have the baby. You’ve only been together nine months, it’s a lot to ask for a relationship that was still new. Hell, you didn’t even live together yet.

Taking his hand, you squeeze it gently before pressing a kiss to it. He doesn’t respond except to watch you, his face no longer reminding you of a deer caught in headlights. If you look closely enough, you’d probably be able to see the gears working in his head as he thinks.

“Whatever you decide, make sure it’s what you want, okay? I don’t want you to choose to stay if you hate the thought of having a kid. I know we’ve both said we want to be parents, but we clearly thought that was going to be in the future. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” Your smile is tight but sincere.

“You really think I’d just abandon you like that? Knock you up and then just fuck off? I’m not an asshole.” Jungkook mutters, but there’s no venom behind it. He’s not angry or upset, more contemplative and you take it as a good sign. A small sign, but good nonetheless.

“No, you’re not. You’re quite possibly the best man I’ve ever met in my life and sometimes I think you’re this Disney prince come to life because you’re a little too perfect. But then I remember how bad your farts smell and I realise you’re definitely real. I don’t think you’re an asshole, and I don’t think you’d abandon me. But it’s not abandoning to think of yourself and what you can handle. I’d rather you tap out now, or at least before the baby is born, instead of a few years down the line. That whole bullshit about ‘staying together for the kids’? Like I said, it’s bullshit. I don’t want you to grow to resent me and the baby because you didn’t want to stay in the first place, but you wanted to do what you thought was right. I want you to stay if you genuinely want this.” Neither of you says anything, but you take it as a positive that he’s still holding your hand.

Who knew that you’d be having this kind of intense and personal conversation tonight? Part of you just wants to wind back the time, ignore your symptoms and pretend like nothing was happening. But that was a stupid thing to want because it wouldn’t change anything.

“You realise how unfair this whole thing is, right?” There’s a brief second where you think he’s going to start arguing or complaining to you, and you’re not entirely sure what you’d do if he did. It’s not like neither of you knew what the possible outcome of sex was. Thankfully, he continues before you can let your mind wander down the darker paths.

“It’s not fair if I decide like…in seven months that ‘actually, I don’t want to be a dad, bye!’ and then just fuck off. You can’t do that. After a certain point, that’s it. You’re stuck having the baby whether you want it or not.” He exclaims, those pretty eyes widening and his lips pursing into that pout he does when he’s overly emotional.

“I mean, I could still give the baby away.” You point out.

“Yeah, but that means you still went through months of your body changing and then either pushing a watermelon out of your vagina! Or like…got your fucking stomach cut open! I’ve read enough Reddit to know that you could have some serious health complications from a pregnancy, but I can still just waltz off and decide ‘nah bro, I don’t want this’.” He’s ranting now, and you recognise the outrage in his voice as his ‘I-am-morally-opposed-to-this’ tone. It’s usually reserved for something more mundane like Black Widow being the one to die or some game mechanics he finds bullshit.

“I mean…yeah, but we can’t really do anything about that-” You start to say but he interrupts you, linking your fingers together in a move you’re so used to, yet makes your heart flutter at this very moment.

“Yeah, and it’s shit. I don’t even know why I’m mad about this, we can’t change it. I just…” He pauses, his jaw working as he tries to formulate words his mind hasn’t thought of yet before carrying on. “I love you. I…I didn’t think this would happen, which is dumb because everyone knows what could happen if you have sex but you never think it’ll happen to you, right? And maybe I’m not thinking it through properly or something because I’m shocked, but I know that…I know you’re gonna be a great mom. And maybe this isn’t the best timing-wise, given we don’t even live together yet, but…I think I can be a great dad, too?”

Despite his words, he sounds unsure of himself and you smile brightly. Letting go of his hand, you cup his face in your hands and kiss his nose affectionately.

“You’d be a great dad, but don’t let me influence you.”

“I’m not, I’m thinking about myself in nine months and whether I can see myself with a baby. It’s weird to think about but…I think I can. I’m fucking terrified and I’ll probably mess up so much shit but…as long as you’re terrified too and won’t make fun of me for messing up. I think we could do this.” Jungkook is hesitant, but his smile slowly starts to grow as he talks until finally, it’s a nervous grin.

Your stomach fizzles with a blend of feelings you can’t identify, but you lean in and kiss him on the lips this time. His own hands cover yours and he kisses back, holding on when you go to move back. There’s nothing sexual in it, instead, you just feel content and full of love for him.

“Are you sure? I mean, as sure you can be after just finding this out.” A snort of laughter leaves him at that.

“I have no urge to run away screaming if that’s what you mean. I just…need to get myself mentally ready, you know? We’ll need to do a lot…for starters, I think we should probably move in together before the baby is here. Oh my god, we’re having a baby. We’re going to have a baby together, me and you. I’m gonna be a dad.” Grinning, you nod and press a quick kiss to his lips once more.

“Yeah, you’ll be a real DILF. And you’ll finally find a willing victim for all your lame jokes.” That breaks him out of the mental path of panic he’s going down, and he narrows his eyes at you.

“Hey, my jokes are great. Our kid’s gonna laugh cos I’m hilarious.”

“Oh yeah, you’re a real comedian, babe,” Pausing, you look at him seriously and grab both of his hands once more, bringing them up to your face and pressing them to your lips. “Seriously, though, are you sure?”

“Yes. I love you, and I don’t want to leave you. We both knew the risks of sex, and I’m proud to say it was some pretty fantastic fucking sex. We’ve got nine months to learn everything about babies.” He nods firmly before pulling you into him and hugging tightly. In his hold, you feel so much of your stress and tension flood out of you and know that he’s being honest. How you’d managed to get Jeon Jungkook would forever be a mystery, but you were going to thank the universe every day for him.

Curling into him, you both fall back onto the bed as a heavy but peaceful silence falls over you. Both of you are thinking hard, but there’s no sign of nerves or panic anymore. What had happened, had happened. You were pregnant, and you were going to have his baby. And if things worked out, then he’d be by your side the whole way.

“I love you…and thank you.” You whisper, so soft yet filled with so much hidden meaning. Thank you for staying whilst you waited, thank you for not running away the moment you heard the word ‘pregnant’, thank you for being you. You doubted you’d ever loved him more than you did at that moment. A sudden thought hits you and you grin against his chest.

"I've just realised…do you know what this means?" You ask, playing with the soft fabric of his shirt and tracing meaningless shapes onto his stomach. It always amazed you how damn flat it was when he lay down, something you could never relate to.

"Err…a baby?" Jungkook states, confusion in his voice and you laugh. Well, he's not wrong but he clearly had a more innocent thought process than you. Which isn’t surprising, he’s probably still processing everything that’s just happened. Honestly, he’s taken it a lot better than you thought he would have and it makes you feel confident about the future.

"Well, yeah, but I was thinking more that we can go raw now. I can finally have you cum in me." There's no response from Jungkook for a moment and you glance up at him to see his eyes wide and jaw dropped.

"What do you mean, finally? Have you been thinking about this?" It certainly worked to distract him away from wherever his thoughts are meandering and you giggle at how scandalised his voice is. Like he’d never thought you could be that crude. He should know better than now.

"Look, your secret kink is to have me sit on your face…mine is to have you cum in me. If we're gonna have a baby then we may as well get this out in the open."

Jungkook is flabbergasted and he splutters his brain short-circuiting as he tries to process the sudden shift in topics and the x-rated tone of your conversation now. Talking about your kinks was something you probably would’ve expected around now in your relationship, and you’d decided that if you were going to have a baby then you could certainly reveal your desire to have him orgasm inside you. Especially when you could do it now.

"How did…what do you sit on…what!?" He protests, causing you to roll your eyes.

"You've tried to get me to do it multiple times, you love going down on me and you actually do love my ass and thighs. As much as it baffles me, I accept it. You’re not sly, the only reason I never asked for mine is because…well baby. We’ve established we’re both clean, but given I’m not on birth control… now there’s no reason. We can finally do it." Lifting onto one elbow, you grin broadly at his stunned expression and from the dazed look in his eyes, you can tell he’s suddenly imagining being balls-deep in you with so no condom.

Not only the look in his eyes, but the way the material of his sweatpants shifts at his groin. Maybe it’s not his kink yet, but part of him certainly likes the idea of it.

“We’ve literally just had a life-changing event happen and you want me to cum in you?” Now he looks at you, one brow raised and you bite your lip at how damn attractive he is.

“Look, we can’t do anything about the baby right now…we’ve had the discussion and we can have more discussions in the upcoming days and weeks and months. I’ve just confessed my biggest kink to you, and now I would very much like to ride you until we can make my fantasy come to life. Can we?”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, his entire body freezing before he suddenly sits up and tugs his shirt off.

“Can we record this?”

“Fuck yes we can.”

#armiesnet #networkbangtan #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts fluff #bts angst #bts smut #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader

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kahlanmars · 10 months

Text

BAD FEELING 14

I am so early it's getting annoying, you know, but I feel so happy when I write this! Also, I'm a GREAT Taylor Swift fan so if you think "Uhm, that's a funny coincidence" it's not lol.

Comment if you want me happyyyyy! I don't know if it's worth it to keep going, I don't know if people like it or not!

MASTERLIST

gif not mine

14. One kiss, one page

The first days in District Thirteen are far from perfect. The suit they gave you is the most horrendous piece of clothing they could ever choose, and make up is forbidden. It is like they want to erase all the pretty things from the world.

You asked to be placed in Haymitch’s room, but they told you it wasn’t possible if you weren’t married.

You are in quarantine, which means no mom, no Effie and no Katniss, you are all in a room with a lot of beds and parasols and grey curtains. They love grey, from what you’ve seen. Perla and Lora are still asleep, they are worse injured than you, and Finnick is working with something technological speaking with someone, but you can’t sleep.

The bright side is that for a night you still have your man. Tomorrow he is sent to rehab, a violent and deeply wrong kind of rehab you can’t quite put a finger on. Are they trying to make him feel worse? Because he is a spectacular asset in the revolution, but even a genius can’t think straight with tremors and headaches.

«Can I tell you something without sounding ungrateful? Because I am. I am deeply grateful that you saved me.» You say, while Haymitch is in your bed. His hands are already shaking from the addiction, but you like to think your caresses can make the situation a little better. He hums in pleasure in response so maybe you are right.

«Go on.»

«I don’t like this place.» You whisper. «All these rules are weird. I am not saying I would go back to the Capitol, but…»

He shuts you up with a kiss. «You made your point.» And he made his. You couldn’t speak freely, not yet. From the Capitol to District 13 you are still in the game, just with another character.

«Maybe I will like it better after quarantine.» You humour him. «I really hope I’ll be able to visit you.»

«Perhaps you shouldn’t. They explained what will happen, and they mentioned rage, hallucinations, there is a reason why I’m in isolation.» You’ve seen him in bad places before, but hallucinations… that scares you a little, you have to admit it.

«I can handle it.» You murmur looking at his blue eyes.

«You don’t have to.»

«Yes I need to.» You shake your head. «You are not my mentor anymore.»

«I know but-»

«No. You are not my mentor anymore, or my employer for what it matters. You don’t need to protect me from the world, what have I told you before? I am an adult just like you. I took care of you before, I cleaned your mess and stayed with you. I’m strong, Haymitch. And I like you. And if we want to continue what we have, and of course you want to because I’m flawless and stunning, we have to take care of each other. Fifty fifty.»

He is silent. You didn’t want to give him a lecture, but at the same time he has to understand that he is not your boss. The power dynamics in your relationship are fucked up, but you are not a damsell in distress.

But maybe you overstepped. «If, if you want to keep going with it, of course.» You add, and now your eyes are on the floor.

«I wouldn’t have begun something with you if I didn’t know about the revolution.» He whispers.

«Funny, I thought I was going to die in a week.»

«I knew you weren’t. I mean, there was a chance, but not a high one.» He lifts up your chin, forcing you to watch him in the eyes. «I’m not good with those things.» He confesses.

«I know. I just want to know if you want it. Because if you don’t want it’s okay, but if you would like to be with me, without any label of sort, just you and me… Well we know we work well together.»

«I’m a mess.» He argues.

«Do you want it?» You insist.

«You are twenty four and I’m forty one.» He retorts.

«Do you want me?»

«I’m not a relationship type.»

«I never asked for a relationship but if you don’t want me I deserve to know.»

He shuts the hell up for a moment, and you can’t help but think of the worst. «Are you tired of me?»

He takes your lips in a kiss so fierce and powerful that is almost violent, all of his strength is on your body, all of his weight on you. «Never.» He answers between kisses.

You smirk. «I have broken ribs, you savage.»

«Oh fuck sorry, I didn’t think.» He tries to get up but you immediately take him and push him down to you. He didn’t think. Not “I didn’t think about it”, he didn’t think because he was so whipped by you.

«Nah-ah, mine.» You purr in his ear. «Is that a yes?»

He just nods. You get it’s hard for him, after his parent’s and girlfriend’s death. He was isolated from the whole world, he said it himself he didn’t want to get attached to you. You managed to keep him tied to you nonetheless.

«I like you so much. You don't have to tell me anything but I want you to know.» Because he thinks he doesn't deserve this. And maybe, just maybe, if you keep repeating it he will believe you.

«You have to get some sleep, sweetheart.» He kisses your forehead. You giggle at this exposure of tenderness.

«I don't want to waste time. What if there's a cute doctor and you fall in love with her?» This time you joke, but he rolls his eyes.

«Given the fact that I have been living like an hermit since I was seventeen, I think you are pretty safe in that field.» You hope. You tend to be the jealous type, you were with Clark and it wasn’t a sensual situation, you don’t know how you could react to jealousy in a relationship. Even if yours is not a relationship.

«They will have their claws on you. You are handsome, you know?» You start peppering kisses on his neck. «All the girls want to be me.»

«You are delusional.» You aren’t. As much as Perla can joke about it and Finnick can says he is old, he is not even fifty, he has strong arms and blue eyes, and he is magnetic in everything he does. You feel a little safer just because he is in disguise as this drunk grumpy crazy man who doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but it’s a charade. And even when he was playing the part he used to go to every shop in District 12 to buy something, just to help the people who worked there with his victor’s money. During Christmas he sometimes gave candies to the kids, or he gave you the money to do so without his name on it. He has a great heart. You hope women don’t notice it too much.

«Oh c'mon! Maybe this drunk character you've created is not that appealing, but you must know you are good looking.» Even Katniss said it, when he was younger he was a looker.

«I was. When I was sixteen. At your age I was already a wreck.»

«No you weren't! And you are not now.»

You stay silent for a moment, and you stroke his hair.

You hate Snow for what he has done to him, and you can’t help but wonder why you are not a wreck. You should be, you killed two people. People who had a family, dreams, ambitions. You always thought you would have been traumatised for that, thinking they had mothers who cried for them, children maybe, as for the Capitol man. In reality it didn’t happen. You can sleep at night. The Capitol man was a rapist and he deserved it, and you repeatedly asked Clark to be in an alliance with you, you begged him, and he was actively trying to kill you from the start.

Are you just evil? You know Haymitch is not, and he tries so hard to be. Maybe you try so hard to be good because you are evil.

«How was she?» You suddenly ask.

«Who?» He frowns.

«Marjorie.»

You are sure he will stand up and go away, and you see in his eyes he is about to do this but he squeezes your hand.

«We were very young. She was the baker's daughter, like Peeta. She was beautiful. All the boys wanted her, you know.» He indulges himself to be a little proud of his younger self, who succeeded in conquering the most beautiful girl in the district. You ignore the sting of jealousy, because it’s nonsense. She is dead.

«Did you love her?»

«I was sixteen. Sneaking in the meadows to have sex is not exactly love.»

«It is at sixteen.» You press a kiss on his cheek. «I'm not going to say it.» You didn't deserve this, you were a kid in a game stronger than you. And she didn't deserve it either, barely in a young love. It is not your fault. Not everyone you love will die. It is not a curse. You are not the problem.

«Thanks.»

He takes your face in his hands and he gives you a long deep kiss.

«You survived.» You can read his mind: you managed to survive despite him, it is a miracle, he should probably leave you alone because a miracle doesn’t happen twice.

«I'm pretty hard to kill. Thanks for the water.» You want to keep the conversation on a lighter note. He is done talking about his late girlfriend, it’s a great gift he even agreed to this at all.

«No problem, gorgeous.» He pats your leg. Oh if you weren’t in a room full of people you would have know how to spend the last night with your man.

«Would you read for me?» You suggest, «Since we are not sleeping. I want to read all the books you have, I've always been envious of your library.»

He laughs. «I clearly remember you stealing my books while you were cleaning.»

«What can I say? Now I've read all the books beside your bed. We know each other better.»

He nods, amused by your ability to speak your way out of any situation. «Little thief. Good thing you are so beautiful.» He is in a playful mode now, so he leans down for a peck.

«Shhh, read the book. Pleeeease.» You blush a little, but two can play at this game.

He takes a book from his bed and goes back to you. “Tales of Panem”, you didn’t read it. He is right, you borrowed several of his books. He had Capitol books, and the little school library in the district has four or five books. You had to.

«One kiss, one page?» He suggests, but your hands are already on his chest.

«One kiss, one line.» You debate.

«We will never finish the first chapter.» He laughs, but he kisses you anyway. You won.

«We have all night. Are you complaining?» You pat his arm, and he bites your neck. You should be more aware of marks now that you’ll live with your mother again.

«Never.»

The separation is not messy because he is not here when you wake up. There’s a note instead.

See you later, gorgeous. Take care of yourself, and visit when I’ll be better. Not before. Trust me, I’ll miss you.

Of course, he avoids the big goodbye. Maybe it’s better this way, you would have said something bad about the District.

«Can I get up?» You ask your nurse when she comes, and she caresses your cheek. You want to say to her you are not a kid, but it’s actually cute.

«You’ll take medication. Your body will be in shape in two or three days, ok?»

«Three days?» You whisper in disbelief. In Twelve everything was a big deal, you had a tiny hospital but it wasn’t so good and nurses here and there, like Katniss’s mother, who did what they had to do. Holly took care of pregnancies, for example. You didn’t want to be sick in Twelve.

«A lot of Capitol doctors are rebels, so now we have their medicine.» She explains. You nod, thinking how the hell doctors could know about the revolution.

There are a lot of things you have to catch up on.

«Thank you for saving me.» You add, and you know she didn’t do anything but it’s her home, and as much as you don’t like they still saved you. «I’m Daisy.»

«My name is Inez.» She greets you. There is something weird in her tone, though. Something like an accent. Yours.

«You… you have my accent?» You are surprised you see that, but after two weeks in the Capitol and one in the Games you are not used to your accent anymore.

«I used to live in District 12 when I was a kid.» She explains, a sweet smile on her face. She looks like your mother’s age, maybe they know each other.

«What happened then?»

«I became an orphan, I was in the system, I was in danger and… it was another time, another life.» She strokes your hair. «I’ve seen you in the Games.» She murmurs while she takes care of your medication. If she wants to change the subject you are fine with it. «How you saved the girl from Eleven and the girl from Four.»

«I also killed the boy from my district.» You have to add. She was in an orphanage? That’s the life Holly spared you.

«Wasn’t he going to kill you first?» She finishes it. «Do you really want to become a teacher?»

You are not sure anymore, if you have to be honest. You like kids and the prospect felt good in Twelve, but now you found out new labels of yourself. You like clothes, you like creating outfits, but in District Twelve it’s not really useful.

«I think so, yeah. I mean a week ago I thought I was going to be dead so I didn’t think much about my career, but since I’m not, yeah.»

«We have a lot of District 12 kids and we are actually looking for a substitute teacher. Would you be interested in that?» Well, it’s a way to settle down for the moment. You are not a tribute anymore, you obviously are not a maid anymore, you might as well be what you wanted to be for twelve years.

«Yeah, I would like that.»

She seems satisfied with the answer.

«So I’m sorry if I overstepped but… it is real?» Oh, the question. Everybody has The Question. Was it real? Was it for the cameras? Are you in love with a victor who won when you weren’t even born yet?

«Very real.» You confirm. She looks a little worried. That’s the prelude for your mother’s reaction.

«Isn’t he a little old for you? You are, what, twenty?»

«Twenty four. And no, he is not a little old for me.» You sound cranky now and you get that it’s not good manners, but that’s not that nurse’s business.

She gets it, luckily. «He seems like a good man.»

«He is the best.»

She ties your hair in a ponytail and she caresses your face. «Are you ready to get up?»

Turns out you weren’t so ready to get up, because you have to sit down after five minutes. You don’t have any resistance and you just want to rest.

The bright side is that you get to see District 13 and it sucks. There’s no silver lining for that, it’s horrendous. You are grateful you don’t have to fight to the death, but the place scares you. Everything is grey, there are a lot, a lot of tunnels and all the rooms are the same. You will get lost, you already know that.

Inez is near to you until you go to a room that looks like a cafeteria, and then she is gone again and you are alone.

For a moment.

«Daisy!» You’d recognize that voice everywhere.

«Mommy!» She hugs you tight, a little too tight given that you have broken ribs. You shouldn’t call her “mommy”, you are an adult, and truth to be told you almost never call her mom, but you really thought you’d never see her again.

«You are safe. You came back to me.» She strokes your raven hair, like you are a baby, and she refuses to let you go until you have to sit.

She looks twenty years older. You are not going to tell her, but she has a lot of wrinkles on her skin and white hair in her locks.

«I thought I’d lost you.» She repeats, and now she is crying.

«You didn’t.» You are vaguely aware you are making a scene, and you don’t want Perla or Lora to see you. They don’t have their mom here. You didn’t even see Chaff, you don’t know if he is here or captured in the Capitol. «I’m here.»

«When you were in the games, I- I didn’t want to watch it but I wanted to see you, and…»

«I think I nailed it, didn’t I?» You try to take a lighter note, but she seems upset.

«The poor Undersee boy.»

The poor Undersee boy wanted to end your daughter’s life, but before you could say something like that to her you are hugged again, and this time you scream too.

«Effie!» You are beyond happy to see her. She was your light in the Capitol and you can be her light here, in a place that you know better.

«My darling girl!» She winks at you and you hug her again, you want to keep her close.

She is so different. She doesn’t have her signature wig, but she covers her hair with a foulard. Grey, of course. And she doesn’t have any makeup on. «Your wig…»

«I am a political refugee, darling. Can’t ask for much.» That is deeply wrong. She helped you get out of the games alive, she saved you as much as Haymitch did, and now they repay them with a violent rehab and insufferable rules.

«You are still beautiful, it’s not something they can take away from you.» You try to reassure her, and it’s the truth. Even in a grey jumpsuit that is made to look bad she shines.

«Well, let’s say we are here and safe. And you are my roommate.»

You almost jump before you remember you can’t because you are bandaged. Inez would kill you. «That is fabulous! If we have any ashes I think we can make black eyeshadow.»

«You genius girl, I missed you so much.»

Holly is there, looking a little confused. Well, she doesn’t know how much you became close to Effie Trinket during your time in the penthouse, but she will understand. Effie is a good person, people in District 12 need to understand that.

«Mom, can I lie down now? I’m a little tired.» You still call her mom, because you missed her. You missed her hug, and you desperately needed her when President Snow decided you were a target.

You called her in your sleep when you killed a man, and it’s not her fault she didn’t hear you.

Still, Effie was there.

«Of course honey, can you handle going into your room alone?» You don’t think so, without Capitol medication you wouldn’t have been able to walk at all, but you don’t want to look spoiled or weak so you are about to say yes, when Effie snorts in a way that is somehow still ladylike.

«Nonsense, we can ask someone to carry her.»

«If she says she can, why bother someone?» Your mother argues.

«Because she’s turning blue.»

«Actually,» You interrupt them. «I don’t think I can do it alone.» You don’t want to portrait Holly like the villain, but it’s true you are turning blue from the effort.

With a satisfied glance Effie manages to ask a boy from District 13 to accompany you, but before you get to be in your bed, your mother stops you.

«Can we talk later?» She is worried, and a little angry maybe. You don’t want to deal with it right now. You know what she wants to say. You killed an innocent guy, you fraternised with the enemy, Effie Trinket is vain and shallow, and you admitted on national television you had sex with a guy who shared my class in first grade.

«Later.» You promise.

When she goes away it’s Effie who caresses your hair. Your room is the same as all the other rooms, narrow, poky and grey, two beds with white blank sheets and a little tiny toilet with a door - thank all the gods.

«I don’t feel safe here.» You whisper, and she just nods. «Can you stay with me?»

You and her are both stuck with you, you remember Haymitch’s words. Your loyalty is with them, and Katniss, and Peeta and your friends. And your mom, of course. You have to remember that.

She kisses you on the cheek and tugs your bed before sitting on your sheets.

«Always, darling girl.»

#fanfiction #haymitch abernathy #haymitch x fem!reader #bad feeling #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch imagine #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch x reader #the hunger games #woody harrelson #daisy pinecone

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hawkinsindiana · 1 year

Text

okay. deal.

ALMOST PARADISE: PART FOUR - CHAPTER SIX OF NINE

pairing: steve harrington x henderson!reader

word count: 13.5k (THE MOTHERLOAD)

a/n: holy fucking fuck. literally the most ridiculous chapter i have ever written. INSANITY. can’t believe i’m about to say this but... this chapter is rated 18+. while there’s no actual smut, the scene is sexually charged, so for the sake of being safe, that’s why i’m using the ranking and the tags i am. also warning for intense and graphic descriptions of medical treatments and just genuine horrible angst bc you know me. OKAY I THINK THAT’S ENOUGH but huge quick shoutout to ms. ruby for helpin me make this steamy :). y’all know where to find the masterlist! ENJOY HEHEHE.

“Max? I need those bandages!”

“Here, sorry. Didn’t know what size you needed so… I brought all of them.”

Max quickly shoves the collection of bandages into Steve’s hands. He thanks her quickly; he’s trying to run through the check list in his head.

“Do you have, what the hell is it, that peroxide stuff?”

After a moment of thinking, Max’s face scrunches up with regret, “Shit, no I don’t. I ran out a couple weeks ago. Nasty fall off some stairs downtown.”

Steve curses under his breath — that’s what he needs the most. A lightbulb goes off in Max’s head, the idea propelling her through the living room and into the kitchen. She appears a few seconds later with a bottle clasped in her fist, amber liquid sloshing around inside the glass.

“I guess this is the one time Mom’s drinking will be beneficial.”

Steve sighs; it’ll have to do. He extends his free hand and wraps his fingers around the neck of the bottle to take it from her. As soon as his grip is firm, he spins to return to the bathroom — his heart is starting to ache, he’s been away from you for too long. It’s maybe been five minutes, but with you in this state, it feels like it’s been much longer.

Robin is crowded inside the small room with you. The girl is nervously running her palm down your arm, attempting to comfort you until Steve arrives with the rest of the medical supplies. It’s not working too well — Robin’s notoriously bad at reassurance during stressful situations. On the other hand, Robin’s smart enough to know that your brother shouldn’t see too much of you like this. Dustin and Lucas are in the doorway, her body angled just right to prevent either of them from seeing more than a sliver of your face.

Sweat drips down your skin, coating you in a light sheen despite the grime that also sticks to you like glue. Crumpled on the floor, your limbs tremble and shiver without Eddie’s jacket to keep you warm anymore. The second Steve deposited you here, he returned it back to the other boy in preparation. Stabilizing you became his top priority the moment you crossed over into Hawkins once again.

Thankfully, it’s not blood loss that’s got you reacting this way — it’s pain, continuing to radiate from the wounds on your back and shoulder, the pounding in your head worsening now that there’s light surrounding you. The exertion from the back leg of your journey through the Upside Down exhausted what little energy you still had left; the events from the past couple hours all combined into an awful cocktail inside your veins.

Steve pushes past Lucas and Dustin without much thought, his mind purely dedicated to returning to you. Max follows behind and hovers near the other boys in the doorframe.

“Hey sweetheart, I’m back. I’m here, okay?” He speaks quietly, setting the assorted items into the sink before reaching out to you. The skin of your cheek is clammy against the back of his index finger; the soft touch brings you out of your agony, even for just a split second. Steve’s crouched beside you, desperately trying not to let his overwhelming despair show on his face.

He turns away for a moment to snatch the Tylenol off the counter — four pills into his palm before he’s grabbing one of your wrists. Steve doesn’t particularly care what the warning label says, he needs to get a buffer for this pain in your system. Instinctively, you unfurl your fist before he easily passes the painkillers to you; a gulp of lukewarm water from Dustin’s plastic bottle sends it to your stomach.

“I’m gonna move you now, yeah?” Steve mumbles, shifting to weasel an arm around your back, “I know. I know baby, I’m sorry. You gotta- there you go.”

Whimpers spill from you as he scoots your body further from the wall, giving him more space to work with. Your eyes pinch shut until you’re settled, or until Steve can’t stand the pained sounds anymore — it’s hard to tell which comes first.

“Do you, uh, want any help?” Robin offers hesitantly. Not because she thinks she’d be of much use, but because she can already tell that this has taken a toll on Steve — seeing you so weak and desperate for relief. He shouldn’t have to do this on his own.

Steve genuinely considers Robin’s assistance for a moment; having an extra set of hands could make this process significantly easier. But this… this isn’t like you’ve gotten a scratch on your knee; it’ll be painful for anyone who watches. She shouldn’t have to see this.

Besides, Steve’s pretty sure he’s the only one he trusts enough to take proper care of you. He might not be as adept as you at this sort of thing, but that doesn’t mean he’s incapable. He knows what to do, which order to apply everything in; he helped you recover from your gunshot wound last summer. He can do this.

There’s no one else you would want to help you through this. You trust him enough to allow him to hurt you.

“Thanks Robin, but I think it’s best if it’s just me,” Steve finally answers. He makes the mistake of glancing over towards the door, meeting the eyes of three dejected teens. Dustin’s gaze is glued to the small bit of you he can see, face contorted in a mixture of sadness and guilt; he never should have let you get on that boat. It’s a little easier for Lucas and Max to hide their concern, but there’s still a glint of it in their eyes, furrowed brows giving it away. Steve gets a major case of déjà vu.

With a final pat on your arm, Robin gets up from the ground and ushers the teens away from the door. They don’t even try to fight her — that argument’s already been had. Steve would never dare to let any of them help, even though they desperately want to. Dustin takes one last glance before letting Robin lead him away with a comforting hand on his shoulder as even more sadness creeps in.

When she latches the door, Steve gets to work.

He doesn’t think you have the energy or strength to stand, although that’d be ideal, so the floor will have to do. As quickly as he can, he collects everything Max had given to him and begins placing it onto the tile, unpeeling wrappers and loosening caps as he goes. You taught him that — it’s significantly easier to do this sort of work when everything’s already opened. He washes his hands and finally settles on the ground behind you, face to face with your wounds. You can’t sense much of his presence behind you, but knowing he’s there is enough of a comfort.

Steve sighs. He has to resist the urge to bury his face in his palms before he begins. As much as he’d rather attempt to hug you better, or just press an endless number of kisses to your skin, he knows what has to come first. There’s a significant chance that this is the hardest thing he’ll ever have to do — hurt you in order to help you.

Much to Steve’s surprise, you don’t make too much noise as he removes the makeshift bandage. Maybe you’re too far gone to care. The sting doesn’t cross your mind when the true pain lies even deeper beneath your skin — aches that will take more than Tylenol to quell. He reaches up to discard the piece of Robin’s shirt into the sink, desperately trying not to think about how much of your blood has soaked into the fabric.

Steve’s lucky Max has a decent selection of medical supplies to choose from. The problem is that he’s trying to work fast and put you through as little as possible. If you weren’t already reeling from searing pain, he’d take his time and give you as many breaks as he could. He’s more focused on preventing infection than doing a truly thorough job — that can come later.

Cleansing the claw marks earns him nothing more than a few hisses from your lips; it’s uncomfortable but a mere fraction in comparison to what you’re currently feeling or have experienced before. The scratches are the easy part. It’s the bite that’s going to be far, far worse.

Steve can’t help himself — even though it’ll make his job significantly more difficult, he has to offer one of his hands, sliding it through the gap between your arm and waist. A moment passes before you finally take it between yours, like you had to summon the small amount of energy it would take to move. Your grasp is weak, fingers barely clinging to him, but it’s enough. The minuscule comfort calms both of you, the weight of the conjoined hands on the muscle of your thigh serving as a solace.

Max’s dining room is filled with the dread of a hospital, relatives and loved ones crowded together waiting impatiently for a scrap of news. You and Steve do a fairly decent job of keeping your heads in the midst of chaos; an unfortunate skill you’ve had to learn. But seeing how hurt you were, how delicately Steve led you from the gate, and how beside himself he was through it all — the others are left reeling. Steve’s never been this upset. You’ve never been this fragile. The rest of the group almost feels lost. If you two can’t keep it together, how are they supposed to?

Not much sound has echoed from behind the closed door of the bathroom; inflections of Steve’s voice coaxing you or a rare response from you, mixed with an occasional sniffle or two, has been the extent of it. So when you finally cry out in pain, a sign that the worst of it has begun, they’re thankful for Steve’s original stubbornness. The sound makes Robin clasp her hands over her ears. Dustin’s face pinches, cringing intensely at how you immediately begin to cry. Lucas has to get up from his place at the kitchen table and start pacing slowly. Max’s grip on her arms tightens.

Your lip is quivering uncontrollably, tears now rolling down your cheeks in addition to everything else. You didn’t think the pain could get worse, but it exponentially does as Steve dabs the bite with an alcohol soaked cloth. The hold on his hand is of bruising strength despite sweat clinging to your skin, making it tough to keep a firm grip. A sob crawls out of your throat, words deciding to materialize.

“Steve, I can’t… I can’t do it. It hurts too much.”

“I know. I know, baby,” He mumbles back to you, trying to force back the tears at his lash line from the sight of you in such pain, “I gotta clean it, okay? I know it hurts but it’ll get worse if I don’t. Just hold on for me, yeah? A little while longer.”

Heartbreakingly, the semblance of a nod dips your chin down to your chest. You punctuate it with a whisper, “Okay.”

Steve nearly breaks right then and there. He’s taking care of you, he reminds himself. This has to be done.

While he wants to finish this task as soon as possible, he has to pause for a second. A trail of blood has begun to drip from the wound; Steve switches to a clean rag to wipe it away. The whiskey sloshes inside the glass bottle as he takes this opportunity to refresh the alcohol on the other. His hold on your hand remains unwavering.

You let out a particularly agonizing shout when he, as gently as he can, forces the cloth a little bit deeper into the muscle. Your head pounds, fuzzy and ears buzzing, eyes pinched shut as he continues. You’ve probably got two minutes before you black out from the pain.

Steve swallows harshly. His thoughts are scrambled, only thinking of how much he wishes he didn’t have to do this. In a moment of clarity, he stops mumbling assurances and asks you a question instead.

“What’s the apartment like? Tell me about our home. Big windows? The kind that let the sun into the living room during the evenings? C’mon sweetheart, talk to me. Tell me everything.”

Something else to focus on. You squeeze your eyes even tighter, as if you’re trying to visualize it in front of you. It works — the front door, a deep maroon, appears in your mind.

“The a-apartment,” You stutter, huge gasps of air filling your lungs in between your sobs, “The kit-kitchen has a green oven and… and wooden cabinets.”

You stumble over your words, pain forcing its way out your mouth as Steve swiftly continues his work. Faintly you can hear him repeating it from behind you, sharing his thoughts but you don’t have the mind to take it in.

“The bedroom,” You mumble next, trying to hold onto that image in your head. Your bedroom, where you’ll come back to each other every day. Your bed, the first one that will belong to both of you, piled high with pillows and blankets despite always using each other to keep warm. You won’t have to wait to see your love on the weekends, you’ll get to return home to him every single day.

“There’s a balcony. It’s tiny but… but…”

The thought dissolves as your resolve crumbles, your shoulders curling into your chest, your head starting to tip forwards. A terrible whimper sounds from your throat as you feel pain begin to overtake your consciousness, darkness creeping in from your periphery. When Steve feels your grip go slack in his hand, he stops immediately, dropping the cloth to loop his arm across the front of your stomach.

Regretfully he removes his other hand from yours to grasp your bicep, preventing you from falling, “Hey. Hey, stay with me, okay? I’m done, we’re done. No more pain, I promise.”

You nod sluggishly, the relief of knowing it’s over is enough to keep you from completely passing out. Although his work isn’t finished, there’s no way Steve’s putting you through anymore of that. His skin aches as he removes his hands from you — like they were meant to be there — and makes quick work of the large bandage Max provided. You wince slightly as he lays it over the bite wound; exhaustion prevents you from reacting any further. Additionally, Steve dresses you in a dark tank also borrowed from Max. It’s a bit small, but now you get to protect more of your modesty without Steve having to see you in Eddie’s clothes. A necessary step in his mind.

The moment the fabric’s settled over your abdomen, he’s ushering you into his lap, finally able to comfort you in the way he prefers. Your arms loosely wrap around his ribs — even in this haze of pain, you’re still hyper aware of his own injuries, desperate not to touch his bandages. As you slump, falling straight into Steve’s chest, it’s like the sky inside you opens up. You sob.

You’re tired, so fucking tired. Tired of this life you lead, tired of the trauma that haunts your every step, tired that something else has come between you and a normal life once again. You’ve suffered so much more than you deserve, Steve has suffered so much more than he deserves. The apartment, the symbol of domesticity for the pair of you, seems further and further away. You’ll never get it in the same way others do, even if the day finally comes. You and Steve will always be tortured by this and what’s happened to you, no matter how hard you try to forget. That fact feels so ridiculously, absurdly, disgustingly unfair. You two deserve that too.

There’s nothing Steve can do except sit here crumpled on the bathroom floor with you. He whispers assurances, apologies, literally anything he can think of to try and make this better. He understands the feeling far too well to try and stop you from crying; Steve doesn’t dare interrupt.

Once you’ve gone quiet and your hiccups and gasps for air have stopped, he waits for you to move first. When that moment doesn’t come after several minutes, Steve glances down to gauge how you’re feeling. What he finds is far from what he expects — you’re fast asleep.

Steve has a rule never to wake you. With your nightmares and everything in between, he knows how tired your body can grow when you’re forced to neglect your sleep. He’s seen it far too often; you fall asleep when you’re with him half the time. He likes to think that’s because he makes you feel safe. Whether it’s on top of him, beside him, or on the opposite side of the bed, Steve will never rouse you. You’re a rather light sleeper now; the fear of something occurring while you’re dreaming has created this habit in you. A small touch to your skin or a shift beneath you can bring you out of slumber with ease.

So when Steve’s arms instinctively tighten around you and there’s nothing but a flutter of your eyelashes in response, it speaks to the depth of your exhaustion. He runs his thumb along the swell of your cheek; this rest is well deserved.

It’s gone far too quiet. The others have resorted to glancing between each other as they continue to wait; Eddie and Lucas have taken seats next to Dustin on the couch, hoping their presence is enough to comfort your brother. Nancy remains outside, where she retreated after her horrifying experience with Vecna; it’ll take a couple hours to process everything he showed her before sharing with the group. The girls have taken over the dining table — Robin and Erica sat beside each other, Max on the opposite side.

Dustin’s a minute away from throwing the bathroom door open to see what’s happening now, but it swings in on its hinges before he can. A few of their faces go ashy at the sight of you limp in Steve’s arms, one slung across your back with the other tucked under your legs. He quickly reassures them, voice hushed, “S’okay. Just sleeping.”

Heartbroken doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling that washes over the group, but especially the teens. You’ve always been strong, even before Will disappeared; seeing you like this is new.

Dustin and Erica were with you as you led the rescue attempt for Robin and Steve. Not even a bullet wound could slow you down. Then in the fall of ‘84 when a broken hand and a concussion didn’t stop you from helping the others distract the Mind Flayer. Vecna finally broke you.

“Is there, uh, somewhere I can-”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course,” Max interrupts Steve and silently beckons for him to follow to her bedroom. It’s a bit messy, but that doesn’t matter to him; he just wants somewhere quiet for you to rest.

As gingerly as he can, Steve places you onto the mattress laying on your side, praying that you won’t attempt to roll over during your slumber. He pulls up a blanket at the foot of the bed and tucks it around your neck to keep you warm. You don’t move an inch through the whole process, your soft breaths continuing despite the movement.

Before he leaves, Steve brushes a few strands of hair away from your forehead and places a kiss to the skin. It lingers for a moment, like he’s wishing it’ll heal you instantly. Regretfully, an ounce of happiness blooms in him; he never gets to dish out affection while you’re asleep for fear of waking you. Doing something so simple as pressing his lips to your forehead while you dream shouldn’t be something that brings him joy. Especially with these circumstances.

When Steve turns, he’s met with the kids crowded in the doorframe. Well, they’re not kids anymore, but he swears he sees the same puny assholes they used to be, clad in frowns and sad worried eyes. It reminds him how long he’s been doing this — long enough to see them grow up right before his very eyes. His chest aches.

Quietly, he ushers them away and back into the hall. None of them protest, although they want to be with you right now. But before Dustin can move, Steve places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t need to speak for your brother to instantly understand. All Dustin can manage is a nod and a grateful smile in the hopes his tears don’t start again; his eyes are puffy and red around the edges. Silently, he enters Max’s bedroom while Steve briefly returns to the bathroom.

He’s pretty sure he could throw up, just vomit all over the sink. Some of your blood is on his hands, smeared and scarlett against his skin. He hates the sight. With a deep sigh and lips firmly pressed in a line, Steve washes it from his palms; he’s thankful it scrubs off easy. Unfortunately, something tells him this won’t be the last time he’s forced to patch you up. He wishes it didn’t have to be him.

Steve makes quick work of cleaning up after himself, discarding wrappers and soiled cloth into the trash can under the sink. He swallows two of the painkillers for himself — his wounds ache profusely, but he thinks he’ll be alright for a little while. What he wants to do more than anything is rest beside you. His chest burns once again at the thought; it’s been too long.

An absurd amount of worry and adoration sparks inside Steve when he shuts the door to Max’s room; Dustin’s taken the spot beside you on her mattress, sitting up against the headboard. He doesn’t feel like sleeping. Your brother’s face is wrought with concern and a smattering of other emotions, all of which Steve also feels brewing inside him. There’s nothing he thinks he could say to make this better — ‘she’s gonna be okay’ seems condescending and weightless. The truth is that yes, physically you’re probably going to be fine. Your body has healed before. Mentally… this could take quite a toll.

Steve drops to the ground and leans back against the nightstand, his arms balancing on top of his knees. From here, it’s easy for him to spot you out of the corner of his eye; with a slight turn of the head, he can see all of you. Aside from some mutters that echo from the room beyond, it’s completely silent. He can hear his own heartbeat growing slower and slower, adrenaline and shaky hands starting to melt away as he begins to relax; Steve clenches his fists once to steady them.

A rather deep exhale from you has his eyes darting to your sleeping form. As his gaze roves over your face, Demobat blood and dust splotched across your skin, the tempting allure of rest creeps up on him.

—

Steve doesn’t remember falling asleep. One moment he was watching over you and then the next Dustin’s hunched over him, poking him in the arm until he wakes. He blinks a couple times as he gains his bearings, mouth strangely dry, as Dustin informs him of what’s happening — Nancy’s ready to talk.

Under normal circumstances, Steve would let you rest and fill you in later; he has a feeling that whatever it is that’s been keeping Nancy preoccupied for the last few hours is crucial to the next step the group makes. Which unfortunately means he has to wake you.

Steve wants to be gentle so you’re not startled, but you need to get up. He sits down beside you and his hand grips where your hip is beneath the blanket — you haven’t moved since he placed you here. Your body only stirs a bit when he mumbles your name, so regrettably, he has to shake you slightly. A small whine leaves your throat as your eyes peel open; Steve crumbles at the sound. He moves his hand to your face, thumb gliding across your cheekbone as a comfort.

“I know, m’sorry, sweetheart,” He mutters before your irises lock onto him, “Nancy’s ready to tell us what she saw.”

As Steve helps you stand with an arm wrapped firmly around your waist, your focus is brought to the makeshift bandage around his abdomen; blood has started to seep through the fabric — shades of maroon and red nearly stop you in your tracks. The promise you made to him pops into your mind.

“Didn’t get to clean yours.”

He nearly laughs because of course you’re more worried about him than yourself. He opts for a small smile instead, choking back a groan as he straightens, “S’alright. It’s not that bad anymore.”

But Steve was right earlier; cleaning the injury has helped in the long run. While there’s still an ache in your muscles and the wound shoots with sharp pain if you move your shoulder too much, it’s not nearly as bad as it was before. The short nap has helped as well, your body less exhausted although you feel like you could still sleep for hours. You want him to have the same relief, especially as you notice his face pinch as the pair of you begin to move. He’s lying to you. You visibly pout at the thought.

Steve sighs. He does adore how much you love taking care of him. He gives in.

“I’ll let you take a look later, okay? I promise. Let’s hear what Nancy has to say, yeah?”

With arms linked together as you sit on the couch, your hands clasped over the crook in his elbow, you receive the worst news you’ve ever heard.

You’re no longer fighting for your own lives, but for the lives of the entire town. Perhaps the world. Vecna plans to merge Hawkins and the Upside Down — a foreboding and tense feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. This is far more than you ever signed up for. Fighting a monster or two? Fine. Saving the town from complete and total destruction? You’re not even sure how to do that. But you do know one thing; Vecna has to be killed. You have to go back in.

It’s an awful idea — a sure fire way to get yourself and everyone you love slaughtered. But you think you’d hate yourself for the rest of your life if you didn’t try. You and this band of misfits are the only ones who can stop this, which is why you’re now helping Eddie Munson hotwire a Winnebago. Add that to the list of things you never thought you’d do. Sneaking into this poor unsuspecting couple’s trailer is incredibly sobering; with a new burst of adrenaline, you almost feel back to normal.

Eddie could probably do it himself, but considering the time crunch and the soon to be angry hicks outside, a little help wouldn’t hurt. To his surprise, you manage to strip your wire slightly faster than him; all that tinkering with your brother has paid off. It’s enough to impress.

“Shit, you’re pretty good with your hands, Henderson. Is that a uh-”

Eddie clears his throat, smirking since he knows what he’ll be walking into — your boyfriend is looking over both your shoulders. He can��t help himself. Seeing Steve Harrington squirm and bunch up with jealousy is sort of hilarious.

“That a transferable skill or…?”

Before Steve can say anything, you’re laughing as you hand the wire back to him, “Oh I don’t know, why don’t you ask Stevie?”

Steve would be kind of mad that you so openly flirted with Munson in front of him if he wasn’t a bit shocked by the fact that he liked it.

“Stevie, huh? That’s cute,” Eddie immediately answers, forcing Steve’s brow to lift just slightly higher; he liked that more than he was expecting too. Robin watches on in disgust and confusion, her cheeks pinched as her gaze darts between the three of you.

The moment’s short lived as Eddie starts up the RV, the engine igniting and shaking your surroundings. Steve is forced to quell the raging blush that’s beginning to rise up his neck and practically throws himself into the driver’s seat; Robin and Eddie retreat back to the others while you take the passenger’s. You have to resist the urge to spit out directions as you speed away from the trailer park, Steve’s foot firmly on the gas.

The panic doesn’t wear off until Steve chuckles in disbelief to your left, head shaking slightly as he drives further from the scene of the crime.

“Now that’s the stupidest thing we’ve ever done.”

You laugh along with him in agreement, nodding profusely, “I can’t believe you’re driving someone’s house right now.”

“Y’know it’s not so different from the BMW, Henderson,” He replies smartly. Knowing it’ll get a reaction out of you, he glances over briefly before he has to refocus on the road; his tone and the mention of his rich boy car earns him a small scoff and a roll of the eyes.

“Well if you ever want a break, I can take over for a bit,” You add after a pause, casting your gaze out the window, “Just let me know.”

Steve’s chest warms at your offer; it’s stupid how much he loves you.

“Thanks baby, but I got it,” He spares another couple seconds to look at you again, fully curled up against the fabric seat with your arms wrapped around your knees. Steve couldn’t dare ask you to unfurl from yourself; you look genuinely relaxed like this.

“I’ve kind of always wanted to drive one of these things around anyways,” He continues immediately, removing one of his hands from the wheel to wave his fingers through the air.

You tilt your head back over towards him, shifting in your seat to turn a bit closer. The sun is streaking through the trees, casting the shadows of leaves onto your cheekbones as he drives. The dark splotches glide over your skin before the RV rolls across a brief patch of pasture; the sun bounces through your irises, now intently focused on him, the color highlighted perfectly.

Steve swallows, forcing his eyes back to the expanse of road in front of him. Fuck.

Your voice is light, a little teasing, “Is it everything you hoped for?”

“Eh, different circumstances, but…” He trails off, his tone matching yours, “It’s not so bad.”

“What do you wanna drive an RV around for? Are we going to a tailgate or something? Camping?”

Your humoring gets a small chuckle out of him, his eyes checking the rear view mirror — he adjusts it momentarily, “Sure, if you want, but I’ve always wanted to go on a road trip.”

Steve sees your face brighten slightly in his periphery, a smile growing at the thought. Touring the states in a Winnebago is so American and cliché it’s adorable. You don’t speak; you can tell he has more to say.

“It’s always been a, uh, dream of mine to do this with…”

He pauses for a second, nearly shrinking in his seat. He’s never told you this before. He doesn’t know why he suddenly finds it a touch embarrassing.

Steve licks his lips, brow furrowed for a moment as he collects himself. His voice is softer than before — nostalgic or sheepish, you can’t tell.

“To do it with a big family or something, I guess. A few kids probably.”

Your face creases a bit in shock. You don’t know why it surprises you, “Really?”

Now smiling at the thought, Steve nods. His excitement picks up with your interest; the words flow out of him much easier.

“Oh yeah, like a whole brood of Harringtons runnin’ around. A few lil’ nuggets, like five or six kids-”

“SIX?” You can’t help but sputter, eyes widening in pure shock. He laughs a bit at your outburst, darting his focus back to you for a second, “What’s so wrong with that?”

“Steve, my uterus hurts just thinking about it! Oh my g-”

You abruptly cut yourself off; you assumed he’d be talking about you.

You and Steve haven’t discussed the future at all, outside maybe a couple of months in advance. With your college education being a factor to consider, the most you two ever discussed were weekend getaways or plans for the holidays. Even with him now moving in with you, it was about getting to spend more time together, not necessarily promising a future. The decision was a natural progression for your relationship — you like it in the city, Steve hates it in Hawkins when you’re not there. Why not come with?

There never seemed to be anything wrong with that. You started dating in high school, when you were teenagers — the big picture wasn’t something to worry about, not when you’re young. You’re not much older now, but your lives are different. There’s more responsibility you have to consider, and in turn it has made both of you more mature. This is uncharted territory.

Early on in your relationship, Steve had decided not to think too far ahead. With Nancy, he had gotten the better of himself and pictured their life together years in advance, wondering what it’d be like when things were allowed to be normal for once. In the end, that was one of the most detrimental aspects of their relationship. Enough so that when it came time for you, Steve forced himself into the present. He forced himself to take everything one day at a time, worried that he’d get carried away again and ruin what you two have. He learned to meet trauma head on instead of hiding from it, which actually wasn’t a difficult change to make — especially when it helps you more than you can articulate.

Suddenly, Steve goes several shades of red. In all the years he’s dreamed of himself having kids, he doesn't know how he never pictured that it’d be with you. You… the mother of his children. That image, the mere thought, has him swallowing harshly.

The way you interact with the teens should’ve been a dead giveaway. You’d be an amazing mom.

His hands tighten around the steering wheel. Of course it’d be you. He doesn’t… he doesn’t think he wants to do it with anyone else.

Steve desperately tries to forget about the flush in his cheeks and the thought of sharing a family with you, but he can’t help but get lost in the daydream for a moment.

They’d have his warm eyes and your brilliant smile, the classic Henderson curiosity lighting a fire beneath their tousled curls. They’d be wicked smart, just like you. Perfect mixtures of you and Steve — the best parts. But most importantly, they’d be protected from all of this, kept so far away from the horrors you two have experienced that it’d be like none of it ever happened at all.

It takes another second for either of you to speak again.

Steve clears his throat, unable to summon the courage to look over at you. His grip on the wheel tightens even further, “But uh, I-I figured all of us Harringtons would rent somethin’ like this and just… go see the country. All of us, just for a couple weeks in the summer.”

“Take them to see the Rockies or that big geyser thing. Or Yellowstone maybe. The Space Needle? I don’t know… whatever they want. We’d go to all of it. End up parked on some beach in California, maybe learn how to surf or something.”

He almost feels guilty imagining doing this with you. He doesn’t even know if you’d want that with him — a family. After all, you’re the one in college. You’re going to be searching for a career in a couple of years. It’s silly to be thinking about something so serious as having kids when you have the rest of your lives ahead of you. Well, granted you survive the next couple of days.

Steve’s right, it is silly. But there’s also a huge chance that you don’t make it out of this alive. You think you want to have something to fight for, something more than just an apartment with him in the city. You’ve never really thought about what would come next, but you suppose-

“That does sound nice.”

The words spill from you before you can think. But it’s not a lie. You think you want a life with him. The idea of you and Steve pouring an abundance of love into some children — your children — living proof of your pure devotion to one another… you should be combusting due to how quickly your face heats.

Steve can’t help it. He has to look over at you. He meets your gaze instantly, drawn to you like moths to a flame, like his soul is tethered to yours. He’s searching your eyes for something, although he’s not quite sure what. Maybe honesty, perhaps excitement. He’s a tad too overwhelmed at the concept of having children with you to think properly.

“You think so?”

You nod — a silent promise. You want to do it with him.

“Yeah, I do.”

Steve blinks. You do too. He feels delicate despite the raging thoughts swarming through his mind. Everything around him seems trivial with your eyes locked like this, two colors that could be passed onto mini versions of yourselves. It’s unfair he has to look away. It’s unfair he can’t reach you from here. It’s unfair that all this could be is just a stupid dream, something to keep you moving until you’re cut down and bleeding out. It’s unfair that it might never happen.

Even though this is something you’ve wanted for only about thirty seconds, your heart aches at the possibility of getting to do it — getting to raise kids with your love and be the family both of you deserved but never got. God, you want it so bad. You didn’t think you could want something this much. You want to give Steve the chance to do something more with himself, be a father and nurture. He’d be so good at it too; it’s almost like he was made for it. Made to give love like it’s easy, like it’s a fierce instinct inside him he’s pushed down for far too long. You never want him to have to do that ever again. Not while you have him.

“Except… maybe two,” You say, shyly breaking the silence that crawled between you. You keep your voice low to ensure it stays between the both of you, “Two kids, I mean.”

Another smile starts to pull at Steve’s lip, far more gentle than anything else as he continues to stare at the highway in front of him, “Two, huh?”

You shrug slightly as you find yourself drifting further into this dream, joy filling your every limb, “Yeah. And maybe a cat or something.”

“What if I want a fish?”

“A fish? Wha-”

You can’t help but laugh in surprise; Steve looks over once again. After a few moments of falsely pondering in thought, as if you wouldn’t give him anything he asked, you answer, “Okay, fine. We can do both.”

We. He doesn’t know if you meant to say it, but it makes his heart do something funny inside his chest.

He exhales as his hands shift on the steering wheel, “Two kids, a cat, and a fish.”

Steve repeats it like he’s speaking it into the universe, manifesting it to occur in a few years — one of these times, something good’s going to happen to you. The idea of your little family indents itself into his brain, tattooed in golden ink. Steve won’t give up until he gets it with you.

You nod in agreement, “Yeah, that sounds…”

Amazing. Perfect, even.

“Reasonable.”

Steve huffs and shakes his head at your word choice, rolling his eyes just enough to get a giggle out of you. His grin grows impossibly wider as he thinks about it for a second. Anything, literally any type of future with you sounds like the best thing he’s ever heard.

He nods too, “Okay. Deal.”

A beaming smile, the kind that’s hard to hide, curves your lips in record time. You have to drop your chin and turn away before you can begin to smother it, the pads of your fingers ghosting over your face as you come to a startling conclusion: you and Steve want a future together.

—

The War Zone parking lot is packed to the brim. You don’t know why you’re surprised — with tensions rising in Hawkins due to Eddie’s disappearance and rumors of a demonic cult, it makes sense that the surrounding citizens would flock to arm themselves. You’re also in rural Indiana, which also means it could be busy just because.

Steve doesn’t like the idea of you staying in the RV with the Hellfire Club members while he goes in with the others — he can’t really stand the thought of leaving you right now. But Dustin’s right; if the basketball team’s looking for him, there’s a decent chance you’re on their list too. It’s not worth the risk.

“Get me some good stuff, yeah?” You say quietly, your fingers dancing across the skin of his forearm. Steve’s crouched beside the passenger seat with his palm smoothing over your calf, your legs still bunched up into your chest. He only lets a hint of his worry show on his face, his brows slightly furrowed with a small frown; he really really doesn’t want to leave you. He’d rather just crawl onto the seat and bury his head into your shoulder.

Steve scoots a bit closer, his hand hooking around the back of your knee as if it’ll keep him near you forever, “I’ll be right back, okay?”

You melt at the desperation in his voice; you can hear how much this pains him, even though you won’t be far for very long. You nod softly, the press of your fingers engraving the texture of your skin onto his. With your free hand, you reach over to brush a chunk of hair away from his cheek, “I know, Steve.”

Steve’s lucky Robin is in the middle of distracting the others with her rambling when he leans over to kiss you; his palms rise to caress your head between his hands, a firm but careful grip. It doesn’t last long, but you’re still breathless when he pulls away — everything the pair of you have been feeling over the last few hours is exchanged between your lips. You spy it in his eyes as well, a familiar intensity blooming in his pupils that’s mirrored in yours as well. Your gaze darts down to his cupid’s bow for a moment, half expecting him to kiss you once more but it never comes. Instead, Steve clenches his jaw as he tries to banish the influx of thoughts and urges that invade his mind.

It’s tough to resist but he’s helped by Robin calling for him; you don’t breathe again until Steve’s touch leaves you. Something about that felt different than it used to, like there’s words still left unsaid and feelings still unprocessed. Maybe you’re just craving the closeness and his skin on yours — it has been a few days since you had time strictly to yourselves. But whatever it is, it makes you feel like you’re burning.

Several minutes after Steve exits with the other girls, Eddie saddles up beside you. Although you’re parked on the side of the building and out of view from most patrons, he makes an effort to stay below the base of the windshield. He tosses an elbow over the armrest connected to the driver’s seat.

Eddie gestures blankly in the air between you, “Are you… alright?”

“Yeah, I’m a bit better now, thanks,” You reply, shifting your focus from out the window to him. His hair’s a little wild — wilder than usual — due to the lake water and from him fiddling with it. A few strands are twisted together, almost like he tried and failed to braid them.

“How about with the, um…”

Eddie doesn’t really know how to bring up the topic, so he’s lucky you’re smart enough to understand what he means; the realization flickers across your face.

“Right, uh, not gonna lie I kind of forgot about that,” You answer with a light laugh in your tone, “Considering what’s happened in the past few hours, that seems like the least important thing I should be worrying about.”

Eddie scoffs to himself — it should be obvious to him that you’re barely thinking about that. You’ve been through a lot since your conversation with him in the woods. He feels a little stupid for bringing it up now.

“Of course, yeah. I just…” He trails off, a clink of his rings echoing through the air as he brings his hands together, “Just wanted to make sure we were cool after that. Pretty sure Harrington wants to kill me now.”

That gets a proper laugh out of you. At the thought of your love, you instantly cast your eyes out to the sprawling concrete like it’ll cause him to appear in front of you. You miss him.

“Steve’s really protective of those he loves,” You smile, feeling beyond overwhelmed that you get to include yourself in that group of people, “Trust me, you’re not the one he’s holding a grudge for.”

Instinctively, you trace your thumb along the back of your left hand. It falls into a small divot below one of your knuckles — a section of your skin that never grew back quite right. There’s not a day that goes by where you don’t regret him. All it brought you was anger and sleepless nights, terrifying dreams and painful memories you still haven’t healed from, like an unclosed tomb that won’t let you mourn what you lost.

Eddie might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he can read through the lines when he has to. He remembers the brace on your hand and the bruises on Harrington’s face. It was obvious that Billy had been the cause of the boy’s injuries, especially when he practically bragged about it, but he never figured Hargrove could’ve been responsible for yours as well. Suddenly it hits him — Billy Hargrove did a lot more damage to you than spreading a few rumors.

Before either of you has the opportunity to speak again, the door to the RV bursts open and the rest of your group piles in, plastic bags filled to the brim with all manner of supplies. It’s ridiculous how warm you feel when Steve takes his place in the seat beside yours; all he’s able to offer you as a greeting is a loving smile before he’s changing the gears and speeding off in a hurry. He shouts something back to your brother in argument as you start to peek through the bags placed by your side.

There’s a larger selection of medical supplies, meant for use in the event of any more injuries and to tend to those previously sustained. One is filled with bundles of thick clothes, another with a smattering of assorted items to make molotovs — gasoline cans, liquor bottles, and cheap t-shirts to slice up. Bullets knock against each other as you search a fourth bag and you instantly grow tense; you can spot Nancy’s shotgun out of the corner of your eye, making you worried what they could’ve gotten you in your absence.

Steve watches as the anxiety creeps up behind you like a shadow. He runs the back of his hand along his jaw, a light wash of stubble beginning to coat his skin, “Robin has your stuff. She insisted on finding you an outfit.”

Instantly, Robin materializes behind you, as if she was just waiting for someone to bring it up. As bubbly as ever, she pulls out a military green flight suit and a thick protective vest to be worn on top. She also hands you a thigh sheath, already containing a decently sized hunting knife, before passing over a much larger one. It’s a large machete bound in a brown leather sling with a wooden grip; it’s a bit too big for your hand but you’ll manage. As if she already thought of this, Robin finally reveals a set of fingerless gloves to assist with your grip on the weapon.

“Nance wanted to get you a handgun but I… figured this was probably a better idea,” Steve says as Robin returns back to the others. Your eyes dart over to him and you’re now able to properly take in his outfit change. It’s stupid how hazy it makes you feel — the sight of your boyfriend clad in the warm browns and greens of leather and camouflage. He looks strong, tough for the journey ahead. The contrast of his exterior with the soft vulnerability you know lies within has you swallowing harshly; it doesn’t help that Steve understood what you needed and pushed for another way for you to defend yourself. To say you’re overwhelmed would be an understatement.

“Thank you,” You whisper as you outstretch your hand to him with a grateful grin spreading across your face. Steve takes it immediately, his warm fingers curling around the side of your palm. As a response, he smiles too and leans over to press a kiss to the mark on the back of your palm. Your cheeks heat from the gesture.

After nearly thirty minutes of driving, Steve parks the RV off a deserted stretch of highway; the next exit isn't for another few miles, no one should find you all the way out here. As the group begins to stir, grabbing the supplies they’ve acquired, you stop Steve with a hand to his arm.

“Can I patch you up now?”

Right — Steve nearly forgot the promise he made to you. He nods once before lifting the bags he holds, “Yeah, of course. Just lemme drop these off outside.”

You’re taking stock of the contents below the sink when he enters a couple minutes later and shuts the door behind him. You’ve found a half-used roll of paper towels and some spare rags that seem clean enough. As you start to wash your hands, Steve peels off the jacket with ease and drapes it over the small booth.

“Alright, Henderson,” He says before yanking the shirt off by the back of the collar, “Where do you want me?”

You sweat your brain short circuits. Luckily, you gain your thoughts back to reply fairly quickly, but Steve knows you better than he knows himself. The miniscule drop of your jaw, slight pause of your hands beneath the water, and the pass of your eyes across his chest did not go unnoticed.

“The couch is fine,” You answer as you try to forget about the warmth in your stomach. You’re unsuccessful — you have to push out a deep exhale while drying your hands. The tension’s building inside your body with nowhere to go.

You’re almost jealous Steve gets to relax against the back of the cushions while you tend to him, but all you want is for him to be comfortable through this. Using a foldable beach chair Robin found stashed beneath the bench, you situate yourself in front of him, one of his legs between both of yours. You instruct him to grip your knee if he has to, which he does instantly, his fingers a tantalizing pressure as you continue to prepare. Steve watches you patiently.

You sigh and glance up to his eyes, which pinch shut in anticipation as you begin to untie the fabric around his wounds. Steve gulps as the final layer is peeled away, exposing the bites to the air for the first time in hours. You have to push away the instinct to tear up at the sight of his stomach smeared with his blood and littered with injuries. Rather than dwell on it for too long, you get to work.

It doesn’t take long to wipe away the blood on his skin, thankfully — Steve doesn’t react much other than a short grimace when the damp cloth passes over a rather sensitive spot. As you soak a gauze pad in the disinfectant, you finally speak again.

“This is gonna hurt,” You mutter, moving to re-adjust closer to him, your hand hovering over one of the bites, “I should know.”

Steve lets out a noise similar to a strained chuckle, his neck tensing as he anticipates the pain to begin; he realizes you’re waiting for him to give the okay. He nods, “Just do it.”

As soon as the alcohol is pressed to his torn skin, Steve winces, his jaw clenching immediately. You watch his reactions intently, ready to stop at a moment’s notice. Your free hand tapping his leg forces his head up from the back of the couch, “Don’t bite down on your teeth like that, baby. You’ll break ‘em.”

A whimper of pain leaks into his sigh as you continue to dab the gauze around the edge of the wound. Steve runs both his hands over his face in exasperation, trying to remember and focus on your words, “Right, right. Sorry.”

You laugh a bit at his apology. When he lets out a particularly restrained curse, brows tightly creased, you know that it’s time for a break.

Even though you’ve paused, his stomach continues to clench, the waves of pain still rolling through his body. When Steve drops one hand from his face, you grab it instinctively; it’s already warm and sweaty, another indication of the state he’s in.

“We’re gonna take as many breaks as you need, okay?” You assure him, tightening your grip on his hand as if it reinforces your words, “Anytime you need.”

You squeeze his fingers once more before preparing to continue the tedious work in front of you. This time, a choked whimper escapes Steve’s lips at the contact, his hand immediately back on your knee. You’re mumbling praises and comforts, not wanting to keep him in too much silence; Steve cuts you off, face still contorted in pain.

“Can…” He breathes through his gritted teeth, releasing them as he remembers your words, “Tell me about the apartment again. P-Please.”

You can’t help the heat that rises to your cheeks at his request. Given his current condition, you almost feel bad for being so giddy that he wants to know more about it. But you oblige, humming for a second as you think, tossing soiled gauze in the plastic bag.

“The walls in the bathroom are light blue, like the color of the sky today,” You say as you prepare another one, “The shower has a bathtub, which is very exciting and rare to find in the city.”

Steve can feel your words calming him down as he pictures every little detail you tell him. The cleaning goes quicker with your words with him seemingly distracted enough that you can work for longer before he needs a break. You save the details of the apartment for when you’re cleaning, and every break is the same; a rush of kisses to his hand, telling him how well he’s doing.

“There’s big windows, just like you said,” You add, a hint of a smile spreading on your face as you remember your first visit and switch your focus to the other bite, “You can see the park, and the sun comes into the kitchen in the afternoon.”

“The kitchen isn’t the biggest,” Your words continue, chewing your lip as you try to spring all the details back to your brain.

“Gr-green oven?” Steve asks, voice mostly breath.

“That’s the one. There might be room for some dancing maybe,” You grin up at him, referring to the many times Steve has swept you into his arms while waiting for the oven to ding, insisting on a waltz. His hand squeezes your knee — not in pain this time.

Steve can’t tell how long it’s been, his muscles aching from how they’ve been tensed for so long. While you’ve stopped using the disinfectant, you’re still working away at his stomach, fingers setting him alight when you graze his skin; it’s a type of fire he doesn’t mind. He shivers.

“Are you cold?” You speak up as you wrap his abdomen in a fresh layer of gauze. You must have felt his shudder. Steve shakes his head, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He’s having a tough time breathing with you taking care of him like this.

Steve feels his body relax in relief when you tape the bandage down, going a bit limp against the cushions, but the expression you carry stops him; you don’t seem finished.

“What? What is it?”

Your eyes rove over his skin before landing on his neck. You gesture to your own as you reply, “Your throat. I’m just gonna clean it up quickly.”

With the couch as deep as it is, you can’t reach him from here. An idea pops into your head that makes your heart beat a bit harder inside your chest. You sigh in defeat, knowing what you’re getting yourself into by doing this, before getting out of the chair.

Steve’s brow furrows in confusion until you throw one of your legs over his thighs. While you’re planning on hovering over him, his large hands instinctively reach for you and gently tug you down to rest on top of him. Both of you feel flustered by the proximity, regardless of how long you’ve been together. Your breath hitches with his fingers now pressing into your waist. Steve’s jaw slacks — he’s known for getting overwhelmed when you’re above him like this. Regardless, a boyish, proud grin pulls at his lips.

“You’re blushing.”

You scoff as the alcohol soaked gauze makes contact with the skin above his collarbone. You shake your head slightly as you tease, “Yeah, yeah. Be quiet.”

The way you’re taking care of him — almost in a controlling way — absolutely wrecks the man beneath you. He’s got no say in the matter, forced to let you tend to his wounds with nothing but love and care. God, if Steve doesn’t adore knowing how much you love him. But then again, you’re also nervous at the closeness, displaying the softer and shyer feelings you hold for him. He gets both from you at the same time?

“Stop that,” You mumble.

“What?”

When you glance down to him, you’re met with his loving eyes, the same ones you know you can never refuse. You have to swallow harshly to try and keep yourself in check.

“Stop looking at me like that,” You respond, remembering to swipe the gauze across his neck, “You’re distracting me.”

Steve’s brows raise, his grin growing once again, “Oh, I’m distracting? You got on top of me, y’know.”

You decide to bite your tongue, opting to continue working with nothing but a small smirk tossed his way. Steve doesn’t have the same thought — he clamps down on his lip for a moment before speaking, his voice low.

“Could use a distraction.”

His fingers move to the sides of your hips before dipping under your shirt to graze your skin. His chest burns delightfully as your expression falters, but you do your best to stay focused. The hand on his neck has paused, just for a moment before you steady yourself and continue despite his teasing touches.

Steve is glad the bruises on his neck don’t hurt nearly as much, but he was right — you provide the perfect distraction either way. His hands skim up, his nails scratching your ribcage. You inhale sharply.

“Steve…”

It’s supposed to be a warning. From the slight widening of his eyes, it definitely doesn’t come off that way.

The air is thick. It’s almost like you’re suffocating, throat closing up the longer you and Steve spend teasing each other with no crescendo. You’re not as strong as you thought — you drop your head a bit, your nose dangerously close to brushing against his. You need to kiss him, your eyes drifting closed.

After the day you’ve had, you feel this intense draw to each other, unlike any you have had before. Something’s different now, like your relationship’s shifted somehow. Maybe it’s the thought of making him the father of your children. Maybe it’s desperation after nothing more than a kiss or two for the last few days. Or even maybe it’s the fact you crawled out of an alternate dimension together, a place you could’ve lost each other to.

You’re both hesitating, no matter how badly you want this. If you start something… it could be difficult to stop.

Steve’s brain reminds him of something. His pupils are almost fully blown out as he stares up at you, “I locked the door behind you.”

The dam breaks — your lips are on Steve’s in a millisecond; he’s almost caught off guard by how quickly it happens. He snaps just as quickly and is kissing you back instantly. You’re discarding the paper towel, or cotton swab, or… whatever it was you previously held; your mind is far, far too fuzzy to remember. Your top priority is freeing both your hands, which settle down onto his bare shoulders.

Your breaths swirl together as one of his palms is removed from your back to cradle the nape of your neck. In a moment of courage, you tug slightly on his skin, a silent signal that you’d like to pull him up. He immediately understands, following you into a sitting position. The pain in his stomach doesn’t even cross his mind.

No, the only thing on Steve’s mind is your lips on his and your greedy hands, fingers digging into his shoulders in an attempt to bring him closer. He feels feverish — these kisses are hot and fast as opposed to the soft and slow ones that you usually share together. Both of you are spurring each other on, but not an ounce of passion is lost.

Steve’s hand on your waist grips you tighter, pulls you closer, and it forces another breath from you. The beginning of a whimper forms in your throat, your cheeks blazing as the sound escapes. His fingers slide into the hair at the base of your scalp as he moves his lips south, the warm press of his mouth finding its way under your jaw.

Anger surges beneath the desire that pools in his stomach. Steve thinks that he finally understands the foreign, sudden jealousy he’s been experiencing. As he sits here with your chest arching into him and his lips on your neck, the thought of literally anyone else, but especially Eddie Munson, getting to touch you the way he does makes him feel incredibly possessive.

To be quite honest, Steve’s not entirely sure how he feels about Eddie right now — there’s a lot of confusing thoughts running through his mind regarding that topic. But there’s one thing that he does know for certain.

You’re his. Steve only wants to be yours.

He only wants your wandering hands gliding across his skin, gripping tightly onto him when he pulls those beautiful sounds from you night after night. He only wants to hear your laugh in response to his terrible jokes, head thrown back in pure joy. He only wants your eyes to meet his from across the kitchen table, fully enamored with the domesticity of sharing a home-cooked meal together. He only wants your voice calming him from his horrific nightmares, tone full of understanding as you mumble gentle assurances. He only wants your lips brushing against his, smiling into his loving kiss.

Steve only wants you.

Instinctively, you tilt your head back for him; he knows where to go, which places to run his tongue and teeth along to earn those delicious mewls from your throat. Your hold on Steve tightens even further, hanging onto him as his mouth finds the spot on the side of your neck, almost close enough to reach your collarbone.

He mumbles something incoherent to you against your skin, his fingers on your head supporting you as you whine, Steve beginning to leave his mark on the expansive skin of your throat. Your hands grasp at his shoulders even more, fingernails embedding themselves in the muscles there. It’s getting to be too much.

Steve thinks he could do this all day, just to listen to the sounds you make when he brushes his tongue and teeth along your skin. Your entire neck is flushed, warm to the touch and he relishes in the darkening mark he’s left behind as he finally pulls back.

You’re his.

Your chest rises as you pant to get in some oxygen, head a little dizzy from the sensations you just experienced. Steve observes you with a proud grin, lips wet and eyes shining as he plants another kiss on your neck, then your jaw. You meet him in the middle, mouths melting into each other.

You still can’t get enough, drinking in the curve of his chapped bottom lip, the heat of his tongue — you pull back, trying to restrain from kissing him again when Steve chases your mouth.

“S’my turn,” You breathe, tilting your chin to gesture to his neck before you start littering your kisses along his jaw instead.

Steve swallows harshly as your lips descend further, his breaths beginning to quicken and you’ve barely begun. This — your teeth and mouth on his throat — is one of his favorite things. There’s no particular spot you have to search for because Steve likes everything. Wherever gets you the prettiest sound is where you’ll go to work. His hands are flexing and clenching in an attempt to control himself as you kiss along his neck, carefully avoiding any injuries.

It’s not until you reach a spot beneath his ear that you get the first groan, low and husky, and you can’t help but grin against him. A flare of pride sets you alight. You begin to suck on the skin, lips hot and soft. Steve curses, trying to restrain the noises building in his throat — there are some that could overhear after all. You’ll have to settle for whispers.

“Don’t stop,” He pleads, his palms sliding up the middle of your back; your shirt is caught on his wrists now, almost exposing your entire spine to the cooler air that surrounds you. It’s hard to tell if the goosebumps that litter your skin are from his touch or the sudden shift in temperature. He feels his skin growing hotter each second, desperate to envelop your lips in more searing kisses, but he’d be an idiot if he pulled you off him.

As Steve relaxes further into the sensation of your kiss-swollen lips on his throat, he finds it difficult to focus on one specific thing you’re doing; you’re all consuming. It’d be a disservice to you to only keep his attention on one element of your relentless teasing for so long.

Your hands have drifted from his shoulders, one firmly grasping his bicep and the other deeply twisting your fingers into the hair on the back of his head. His grip on your waist falters when you tug lightly at the strands in your fist, earning you another restrained whimper from him. The added pressure of your body on top of his doesn’t make this any easier; his head spins, especially when you shift your hips a bit to elongate your posture and continue biting at the determined spot.

Your nose bumps the shell of his ear every time you open your mouth; the light skimming is driving him insane in the best way. The light stubble that coats his jaw from the past couple days rubs against your soft cheek, further spurring you on in a way you can’t describe. Your fingers tighten in his hair.

His head finally falls backwards, completely giving in to your ministrations when your teeth not only pinch some of his red skin between them, but pull it away from his body. A full, unsuppressed groan vibrates his throat and fills the air; it goes straight to your abdomen in a pulse of electricity.

Steve barely recognizes the sound that you pulled from him, not particularly caring anymore if someone overheard. What’s the worst that could happen — he gets chewed out by Robin? He’d take that any day if it meant this happened prior.

Another curse spills from Steve; he shivers, a stream of cool air hits the growing mark, your lips pursed as you blow a small amount of your exhale onto it. You’re finally satisfied with the work you’ve done, pressing one more feather light kiss to the bruising skin before dragging your attention back up to him.

Steve’s eyes are still pinched shut, brow furrowed out of bliss; his face relaxes when your lips make contact with his chin, signaling your desire for further attention. He tilts his head back down, peeling open his eyes to see a smirk curling the corner of your mouth.

“How’d I do?”

You’re preening, still high off the sounds you were able to earn from him, glad to know that you did a good job in pleasing him. He can’t understand how you’re able to switch from some minx, leaving dark marks scattered across his skin, hips shifting dangerously in his lap to this: a bright gaze, cheeks flushed, begging for his praise.

He’s yours.

Steve actually manages to gather his thoughts enough to respond. His fingers splay out over your back as he quips, “I still don’t understand where you even learned how to do that.”

“That good, huh?” Your voice is laced with a chuckle, your eyes darting over his face as you brush a few strands of hair behind his ear. The moment is much softer than he was expecting, making his chest ache out of pure admiration for you. His voice is breathless, words mumbled as he cups the back of your head again, pulling you closer, “It was fucking fantastic.”

The kiss becomes heated immediately. There’s still this strong urge from your built up emotions, continuing to cloud your every judgment, especially as you continue to crave Steve’s skin on yours. He goes to whine in frustration when you pull your lips and touch away from him, only for you to grab the hem of your tank and tug it over your head.

Steve doesn’t know where to look as his hands frame the delicate lines of your ribcage. He’s nearly overstimulated by you — a common occurrence in situations like this.

In traditional fashion, he decides to make a joke. It’s an attempt to playfully bruise your ego a bit and give himself the high ground; you’re gorgeous, you’re perched on his lap, you just gave him the best hickey of his life, and now you’re topless.

He doesn’t know how he got so lucky.

“Y’know, this is a little less exciting now that Munson knows your bra color,” Steve pouts, lightly tracing his middle finger up the strip of your sternum before his palm settles at the base of your neck. Goosebumps erupt over your skin as he continues, his hand sliding across your collarbone to fiddle with the strap of your bra, “Thought that was supposed to be a reserved boyfriend privilege.”

You know he’s only joking; you can tell by the type of smile that toys at the end of his lips. The look in his eyes, those full blown pupils — you know how he really feels. Regardless, you can’t help the teasing scoff that his comment pulls from you, an attempt to try and rile him up as you play coy, “So? Robin saw it too.”

Steve pushes out a really deep exhale, trying to pretend like that doesn’t mean anything. He knows Robin would never try anything on you (for a multitude of reasons). But he couldn’t help but notice the nervous swearing that accompanied her quickly darting her eyes away from you, not before they widened slightly at the sight.

You return your hands to him, fingers skimming over his arms, “Besides, you took your shirt off too, Stevie. I think we’re even.”

His jaw tightens at the nickname, hands clutching you a bit firmer in a foolish effort to suppress the shiver that rolled up his spine with your tone. He clears his throat, “Well, it’s not a show every time I do it, is it sweetheart?”

You hum, winding your arms as loosely as you can around his neck, “I would beg to differ.”

Steve can’t help himself, crashing his lips onto yours once again. Your fingers thread into his hair, twirling the dark strands as you feel yourself growing more restless. When you shift again, hoisting yourself up higher, Steve stops abruptly. His hand, moving to re-adjust on your body, drifted over the bandage covering your skin — his throat goes dry.

With hooded eyes, Steve stares at your face, grimacing at the feeling of the bandage beneath his fingertips. It’s a cold shock, a terrible reminder of what nearly took you from him. You understand, the same worry mirrored in your expression as you meet his gaze, now soft and full of concern. You can’t help but run your hand along his chest until you reach his own wounds, swallowing harshly as you glance down at the sight of them almost resting against your stomach.

These pieces of your bodies are never going to feel the same. A part of you aches — you wish you had known there would be a final time the skin of his abdomen would be smooth and untouched; you would’ve spent hours worshiping the skin, saying good-bye to the familiar feeling beneath your hands. Steve would’ve done the same. Your back will never be the soft, delicate slope under his touch he’s learned over the last fifteen months.

Someday soon, the skin on your bodies will be marred and twisted. The pair of you will be marked by this for the rest of your lives. The realization settles within you both: you and Steve are forever bonded, with souls fused together and equipped with the matching scars to prove it.

No one will ever understand your pain like he does. No one will ever understand his pain like you do.

“Are you…” You start but the words get caught in your throat, eyes still intensely focused on his wounds, fingers brushing around the edge of the gauze you placed there; Steve’s stomach clenches under your gentle touch, “Are you okay to keep going?”

Steve takes another second to think — he’s more worried about you than himself. Your screams of pain are still rattling around inside his head, twisting his gut even now as he holds you close. He thinks he needs to be even closer to accept that you’re okay, that you’re still here with him.

“Are you?”

You drag your focus back up, taking the time to rove your gaze over his skin before landing on his face once more — the face of your protector.

Steve’s recounted his nightmares to you, at least the ones where he can collect himself enough to speak. You’re not surprised he’s so torn up about your injuries; it’s pretty damn close to the horrors his mind has previously concocted to haunt him.

He’s had numerous dreams about you dying — that tends to be what terrifies him the most. The difference between your nightmares and Steve’s is the intensity. You used to get nightmares almost every single night, your anxious mind swirling about anything and everything, concocting a mix of the worst moments of your life to torture you with.

When Steve gets his, one every couple months, they’re destructive. He’s always a step behind, a split second away from saving you when you’re taken from him. He’s shown images of you being swallowed whole by one of those creatures, or torn apart by a pack of demodogs, or beaten until your face is unrecognizable. It takes him hours to be able to fall back asleep, if he even does it at all.

But you’re here this time. You’re alive.

You swipe your thumbs across his cheekbones before cupping his jaw. Instinctively, Steve nuzzles further into your touch, turning his cheek to your palm and shutting his eyes for a moment. As he lets himself relish in the warmth you emit, he presses a firm kiss to the heel of your hand, sliding his nose along the side of your thumb.

The burn in your torso grows even more with Steve’s gentle affections; this is the man you love. The careful, passionate, amorous lover. He’s not a fighter, he never has been. But god, would he fight for you. He’d do anything for you.

You confirm your answer with a kiss, which Steve graciously returns. His hands slide to the slope of your waist, with his left curling around to press into the small of your back and arch you even closer. With your thumb, you pull down on his chin to deepen the kiss; a sigh escapes you at the hot glide of his tongue.

Your mind is going fuzzy again. You can’t focus on anything other than Steve’s soft groans and the slow drag of your lips against his until his fingers dip below the waistband of your bottoms.

The RV shakes — someone’s trying to open the door. They do it so aggressively that it shocks both of you back to your bleak reality. Thank god the door was actually locked.

You’d probably fall backwards in surprise if it weren’t for Steve’s hands already on you, moving quickly to support your back before you can tumble. You grip his shoulders tightly to steady yourself. Eddie’s voice just barely pierces through your Steve-induced haze, eyes blinking as you try to adjust to the sudden change in atmosphere, “Open up in there, Henderson. Gotta grab something, it’ll be quick.”

You lock eyes with Steve and neither of you can help it — you share a breathless laugh, faces scrunching up in bright smiles, knowing how close you were to being interrupted far more dramatically. Steve can’t stop himself from kissing you through it, humming as you arch into him once more. A knock on the door has him sighing in frustration.

“Fuckin’ Munson,” Steve mumbles before you press one final kiss to his lips before you have to start removing yourself from him, leaving your fingers on him the longest to draw it out. He passes you your shirt as you stand, watching with hooded eyes as you put it back on with a wink.

His jaw clenches as you make your way to the door, twisting the lock and pulling it only part way open. Your annoyance leaks into your tone, but you try to sound pleasant.

“What do you need, Eddie?”

Eddie shifts his weight, gesturing to the interior of the RV, voice slightly muffled by the cigarette between his lips, “My lighter is in there.”

You roll your eyes. This is what you stopped for?

“Alright, where is it?” You ask between clenched teeth, pointing for him to stay there when he tries to enter.

He brings his hands up in a silent apology as you disappear, shouting the answer to your question, “Should be in my vest on the booth!”

Steve laughs slightly, watching you flash a frustrated glance in his direction as he, unfortunately, tugs his shirt on over his head. The door’s shut as soon as you toss the small metal rectangle outside — Eddie just barely catches it.

“Nice hickey, by the way!” He calls through the door. You’re tempted to open the door again just to slam it. Your cheeks are glowing hotly as you sigh, turning on your heel to return to where Steve is.

Steve himself seems to recall the gravity of the situation, and how far off track the two of you had stumbled in your little endeavor. His eyes track up and down over your figure as you pad back over, collapsing next to him on the couch, gaze eventually catching on the mark on your throat. He has no doubt that there’s a matching one on his skin, feeling it pulse in time with his heartbeat as the blood rushes beneath it.

“Rain check?” Steve offers weakly. You roll your head to grin at him, an unexpected laugh passing your lips. It feels silly to be stealing these moments when the world is going to shit but grazing your eyes along the expanse of his skin, lips pinker than normal, you can’t find it in yourself to have any regret.

“Definitely.”

You don’t want your little bubble to end, but you suppose it has to eventually. You hate the thought that spills into your mind — this could be the last time you have him alone like this. Regretfully, you get up from the couch, but extend your hand for Steve to take. He waves it off, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips.

“I’m gonna need a minute.”

—

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrinton smut #almost paradise

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yvtro · 1 year

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Two questions that I'm genuinely interested in your answer for (bc I love your metas ngl) but I totally get it if you don't answer.

What's your biggest unpopular opinion on Jason, and your least favorite popular/fandom opinion on him?

disclaimer: i’m moving blogs. still here to go through my askbox, but you will find me at @boyfridged most of the time.

i'm very flattered, thank you!! and sorry this took me so long to answer. and it did take me so long 1. because it’s really hard to tell what is actually an unpopular opinion (i did thankfully find myself in a circle of mutuals who mostly share the same intuitions when it comes to his character) and 2. because I mentally put a label on it “asks to get me assassinated.” and I guess the take that i have requires quite careful wording.

so, my unpopular take is that from in-universe point of view, jason shouldn’t be a vigilante, and it would be best for the storytelling around him to focus on this fact. and i’m not saying that in a mean, moralistic nor diminishing way. i just think that jay’s storyline is a story of everything that can go wrong with a sidekick, and of how vigilantism can traumatise people into oblivion, and completely annihilate their ability to function normally. part of it is a result of the fact that imo jason isn’t naturally suited for vigilantism (that is not to talk about his skills nor efficiency in it, i will get back to it shortly), and part of it is a result of the circumstances in which he was introduced into it, and of course the subsequent trauma.

you could say “uhm every superhero story is like that, he’s not special,” but typically, when you think about characters such as bruce wayne or dick grayson etc., the event that comes to mind when you think about their biggest trauma is something that… pushed them into vigilantism? and vigilantism supposedly helped them in some ways? (it can be argued against, but that’s an underlying assumption) (+even without a tragic backstory, characters usually have much more agency in their decision to become vigilantes). and in case of jay, his biggest trauma isn’t anything that came before robin, and his life was awfully fucking sad, so i think that it says something. his biggest trauma is associated with what he went through already as robin and then retraumatising events that followed his resurrection.

it’s really puzzling to me that this distinction is never deliberately written about nor truly brought up in comics…? i think the closest we came to this was, ironically, starlin’s run (when alfred straight up suggests that maybe robin just isn’t good for jason) and countdown (where jay intends to leave the superhero community altogether).

okay, so you can say: vigilantism is kinda shitty for you. breaking news, we’ve known this already.

except there's something, in my opinion, that makes jason’s case special and more nuanced. it seems, at first glance, that with all the love and compassion jason has, he should be great material for a vigilante still. but he clearly isn’t. why is that?

the crushing proportion of other characters have moral systems, coping mechanisms, and understanding of vigilantism that make this life at least possible for them. on the other hand, jason’s personality, his lived experience, and his moral stance makes vigilantism extremely unsustainable. i mentioned it before in my post about eoc, but most (especially 1st gen, but not only, i’d argue that most former teenage superheroes also came to this point as well) vigilantes, even if associated with love and compassion as the core of their actions, have understanding of vigilantism and moral codes that jason doesn’t possess. (for a long while i was on a “jason has a moral code but it’s casually bastardised by most writers” team but since then i have thought about it a lot and my current take is that he was good at following orders as robin, and has some provisional rules as the red hood, but they’re nowhere near an actual code. as i said in the linked post, i think morality is more of an on-going emotional practice for him). and it all makes sense! let's circle back to bruce for a moment. of course, the reason for which he doesn’t kill is grounded within his own beliefs, but he is also very painfully aware of the thin line that vigilantes walk on when it comes to the law and being trusted by the public. i'd argue he is very conscious of the fact that being a vigilante comes with responsibility of cultivating a certain ethos. he had a lot of time to think about it! in many ways, he invented it. and it’s practical. it's what makes this life possible.

jason doesn’t have it. jason’s idea of vigilantism isn’t carefully designed nor sophisticated, jason’s idea of vigilantism is that he is in the field and he has power to do things, so he has to do them. he has to trust his moral intuitions. and in many ways, he’s not wrong – it's not a flawed view to hold, especially not in the ordinary life. but that also means that there are no lines that he won’t cross if he thinks he can help or fix the situation. but in the world that batman introduces us to (a world in which, to quote le guin on an unrelated matter, there’s no ends, but only means), it’s self-destructive. to compare him again to bruce, bruce is self-sacrificial, but his conceptual understanding of vigilantism and his moral code protect him in some ways. jason’s moral judgements and actions are unrestrained and radical (not to say that they’re reckless or inefficient; he’s still a great strategist and can be even overly careful if it’s required). and that is set in a world where evil never stops. we already know that the joker will always come back, for example. what does it mean for jason? he will try to match the energy, of course, and he’s not stopping either. bruce is similar in that aspect, yet he has a whole insurance set that helps him deal with extreme situations. there's an offset. and jason doesn’t have any. he won’t ever hit the breaks. i think you know where i’m going with this metaphor.

so i guess my take is that… bruce’s outlook on vigilantism is, against the popular opinion, very rational. but jason just brings his heart into it and nothing else. and that’s just catastrophic.

this is really me just pushing the “love is his fatal flaw” agenda again tbh, but with additional emphasis on why the same trait isn’t that tragic for other characters who share it. also this is why it’s so crucial to me that he should have a civilian arc…

and as to my least favourite fandom opinion on him, i can't think of anything very specific right now, but my general pet peeve is anything that divorces his characterisation from his 80s personality. i think you can tell that i really dislike painting him as resentful towards dick, and all takes that indicate that he's always been cynical and distrustful toward the world. i think a lot of people want his storyline to be one of someone who has, from day one, been full of rightful anger, but the thing is that it has not been his story to begin with. he had to be pushed really far for this to happen. and this is what makes him so special compared with most anti-heroes – that his story starts from a genuine place of innocent and naive hope and love despite all he suffered.

#dc #this is a mess but it's been in my drafts for a while. and i don't think i have energy to say anything else #btw i think that my *actual* unpopular take is on batman!jason but i already talked about it lots

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softbobamilktae · 9 months

Text

Who Are You Attracted To?

Pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Clothing Designer!OC

Genre: fluff, kinda a teeny bit of angst?

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: drinking

Summary: Mutually drunk, Yoongi and Rosaelia finally talk about their sexualities.

Rosaelia draped herself across Yoongi’s lap. The two of them were in their hotel room, seated on the couch, and she had a bit too much alcohol in her system. The day had been stressful, and she’d been attempting to get her mind off of it.

“Hey, Yoongs?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Can I talk to you about something?”

He set his drink down on the table, deciding he wanted to stay sober enough to actually be able to attend to this conversation. She sounded like she had something serious to talk about, so he wanted to be able to talk about it seriously.

“Sure, Rose. What’s up?”

She blew out a long breath. “Have you ever questioned your sexuality?”

He furrowed his brows. That was not what he’d expected her to say.

“Yes. Why?”

She pouted. “Because. I don’t know. My mom acted like no one does.”

She lolled her head to one side, staring at the table in front of the couch. She was clearly pretty drunk, so he wasn’t sure this was the right time to have this conversation.

“Have you ever been with any guys?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked. “No,” he replied frankly. “I haven’t been with many girls either.”

She hummed. “Would you hate me if I liked girls too?”

“No. That would be stupid.”

He felt her relax against him. “Ok. Good.”

“Why do you ask?” he asked, too curious not to pry.

“Because…you’re the only guy I’ve dated.”

“Really?” he chuckled. “I was that good, eh?”

She laughed then. “No. Well…ok, yeah. You’re only my second relationship, though.”

“Oh. That’s it?”

She nodded.

“What happened to the first person?”

Rosaelia pressed her lips together. “Um…nothing.”

He nodded, realizing he’d pressed a bit too far. He simply tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, waiting for her to continue the conversation.

“So…you’ve questioned your sexuality?” she asked again.

“I have.”

She hummed. “You only like girls?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She glanced up at him then. “You like guys?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I care that much.”

She sat up and looked him in the eye. “Huh.”

He furrowed his brow. “What?”

“I dunno. I guess I didn’t expect you to say that.”

“Why not?”

She stared at him for a few moments. “The States is the only place I’ve really ever met queer people.”

He tapped her nose. “I think they exist everywhere, Rose. You’re not from there.”

She continued to stare at him for a few seconds. “I know.” She glanced down at her hands. “I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter anymore since I’m with you, right? I’m normal now or whatever.”

“Why would you say that?”

“That’s what my mom would say. That I’m ‘fixed’ now.”

“Well,” he sighed, “People are like that. You shouldn’t let that take away from how you feel.”

She glanced back up at him. “So…you don’t care that I’m attracted to girls?”

“No.”

He could only hope she’d remember this conversation in the morning. He could feel her shaking from nervousness on his lap, and he didn’t want her to have to ask him again. He wanted her to know that he loved her no matter what. The two of them weren’t very good at being emotionally vulnerable with each other, so he wasn’t sure they’d even have this conversation again.

“You’re not disappointed in me?” she asked.

“No. I couldn’t be. There’s no reason for me to be.”

She pouted, and he leaned forward to kiss that pout off her face. “Rose.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, still very much drunk. “Yes?”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re bi?”

She blinked at him, and then she nodded. “Are you saying you are too?”

He shrugged. “I don’t need a label.”

She hummed.

He pushed her rumpled hair out of her face, trying to figure out how to word what he wanted to say to her.

“You’re not any less bi just because you’re dating me, Rose, just like how dating a girl wouldn’t make you any less bi either.” He tapped her forehead with his finger. “Don’t let your mom’s voice in your head get to you.”

She smiled, and then she threw herself into his lap again, resting her head on his shoulder and letting her full body weight sink into him. “I love you.”

He chuckled. “I love you too, Rose. I think we should get some water in your system and get you to bed, though. You’re very drunk.”

She groaned. “I don’t wanna sleep.”

“I’ll sleep with you, ok? I won’t leave you.”

She made another noise of disagreement.

“Rosa,” he whined. “Don’t do this to me. We can’t sleep on the couch.”

“Yes, we can,” she argued back in a mumble.

He poked her thigh. “Rosaelia.”

She groaned and pushed herself off of him. “Fine.”

She nearly lurched forward into him the moment she was on her feet, but he caught her shoulder.

“Do you need me to carry you?” he asked with a chuckle.

“No. I’m perfectly capable on my own.”

She wasn’t, really. She tripped her way over to the bed and faceplanted into it a moment later. Yoongi dug a bottle of water out of the fridge and brought it over to her. He twisted the cap off and took a sip of it before handing it to her. She smiled lazily and pushed herself up so that she was leaning against the headboard. Then she took the water from him.

“Cheers.”

She downed the entire bottle in less than a minute, and then she was hiccupping and throwing the bottle to the floor. She curled up on the bed and tugged the covers up over herself.

“Goodnight, Yoongs.”

◇◆◇◆◇

Rosaelia woke up the next morning with no memory of the previous night, and thus no real progress had been made in their relationship. Their mutual hesitation to have conversations about anything serious, especially along these lines, would stall their progress on this particular topic for years to come, even if somewhere deep inside they both knew how the other felt.

This is part of the Dad!BTS series that can be found here

A/N: I literally was not planning on writing more fanfic anytime soon but these characters sucked me back in don’t @ me

It would be greatly appreciated if you reblogged the story if you liked it!

Taglist: @jiminie-and-his-pinky-finger @jinnie-forthe-winnie @thornedswan

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schrijverr · 1 year

Text

Mr. Kaspbrak's Office

Eddie and Richie seen through the eyes of Eddie’s secretary, Maria, as she slowly uncovers more of her boss’ private life.

On AO3.

Ships: Richie x Eddie

Warnings: none

~~~~~~~~~

Maria was the secretary of the old LA department manager before he is replaced by Mr. Kaspbrak, who keeps her on as secretary, because she obviously functions well within the company thus he sees no reason to replace her.

She appreciated him for letting her keep her job, however that does not mean she is ready to work with Mr. Kaspbrak. If she is honest, Mr. Kaspbrak is a mystery and a stern mystery at that. He has been her boss for six weeks now, which means she knows all his habits and oddities. Currently she is ordering lunch from the list of approved places, making sure to put in careful instructions as to how the food is supposed to be prepared and send over.

It’s not that Mr. Kaspbrak is rude to people working lower wage jobs that his, she has discovered, he is just very particular. The same way he carries hand sanitizer everywhere he goes and has a handkerchief to open doors with or push elevator buttons.

Mr. Kaspbrak is a clean man.

But that is not the only odd thing about him. If Mr. Kaspbrak was merely a tad too clean and particular then Maria would count her blessings and continue on. As stated before, Mr. Kaspbrak is a mystery, which shouldn’t be possible for her, since her job is literally to manage his time.

Yet in his Google calendar most of his nights are blocked out in a color coded system that simple states busy with no further explanation. She is sure there must be a system, but she can’t figure out why or what. It is even more irritating, since all of his other appointments and meetings are in another color coded system, but all of those are clearly labeled in a system Mr. Kaspbrak had made her learn. So, why did it only apply to business?

Yeah, yeah, she understood that Mr. Kaspbrak is obviously a private person, but she can’t help the curiosity that clings to her.

It is not just how private he is or how clean that makes that curiosity worse, the fact is that Mr. Kaspbrak is a mystery to a bigger extend. He has a scar across his cheek and walks with a cane, something he never comments on. The rumor mill has it he is a mafia boss on the side, something that isn’t helped with his New York accent intermingled with words that belong in neither LA or NYC and the intense look he gets in his eyes or how he can snap if someone messes up.

Maria herself doesn’t believe these rumors, of course. Mr. Kaspbrak is her boss and she would never think any sort of thing about him when he pays her well and treats her with more respect than most other senior workers. A boss, who looks at her eyes instead of her boobs and doesn’t make weird comments about her immigrant status is a win in her book, so she won’t participate in that sort of gossip.

However, he does not make it easy for her. It’s the sixth week and she gets a call. Like always she picks up with: “Mr. Kaspbrak’s office, this is Maria Rivera speaking. How can help you?”

There is a snort over the line as someone mutters in an amused voice: “Mr. Kaspbrak.”

Unable to help the little offense on her overall good boss’ behalf, she says: “Sorry, but is there anything I can help you with?” in a pointed voice that tells whoever is there that she will hang up if he does not.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” the voice says and Maria thinks she has heard it before, wracking her brain to place it. “Eds left something important looking by the door. Knowing him, he’s probably talking himself into a breakdown trying to find it.”

“Something important?” Maria repeats. “I’m sorry, I can take your message, but I need more information than that, sir. What is your name?”

“Oh you can just connect me through to him,” the voice says casually as if it’s that easy. “I have no idea how to describe what I’m looking at other than ink on paper. And you don’t have to bother with the whole sir thing, I promise.”

“Alright, uhm, can you try and describe it better?” Maria asks, not just wanting to bother Mr. Kaspbrak without it being necessary.

“Well, it is a manila file with papers in it,” the man tells her in an unhelpful manner, though he is obviously trying, because he gives up with a sigh and asks again: “Can you just put me through?”

“I can ask, if he has the time,” Maria resigns herself to having to bother Mr. Kaspbrak and hopes it is truly important. “What is your name, sir?”

“Tell him his favorite trashcan is calling,” the voice says.

“Sir,” Maria replies in a ‘please be serious’-tone.

“I am quite serious about that,” the voice replies in an equally stubborn tone. “And please, no sir for me.”

Maria argues for a little longer, then decides that this might be above her pay grade. A mysterious caller, who uses a code name and claims that her very organized boss forgot something important. It sounds ludicrous, but if Mr. Kaspbrak is in the mafia, she’s not getting involved.

“Please hold for a moment, sir,” she informs the man on the line, before putting him on hold and getting out of her chair to knock on Mr. Kaspbrak’s office door, crossing her finger that he is in a good mood.

“Come in,” he calls, sounding annoyed. Not good.

“Mr. Kaspbrak,” she opens the door where Mr. Kaspbrak is standing, surrounded by all the stuff from his bag, as if he is trying to locate something important. The call is starting to look more and more legit. “Someone is on the line for you. Says you left something and told me to tell you the caller is your favorite trashcan. He wouldn't give me a proper name, sorry, sir.”

She expects Mr. Kaspbrak to get angry with her and send her away, instead he surprises her by smiling. Actually smiling. He rarely does that. Then he says: “Connect him through, thank you, Ms. Rivera.”

“I will, sir,” she tells him before returning to her desk. She hears the phone ring for only a second, then she hears Mr. Kaspbrak say: “Please tell me you are looking at my files from the Lemmin Inc. assessment,” before the door falls shut.

Safe to say, her curiosity is piqued. And yeah, she knows that she should just ignore this weird instance, never talk or think about it and hope it isn’t anything she can end up in a ditch about if she ever does.

However, then Mr. Kaspbrak has the audacity to leave his office after he hangs up, which never happens without it being on the schedule, coming back with the file and looking happier and relaxed than she has ever seen him at that time in the day. Not to mention that Mr. Trashcan as she named him in her heads starts to call more often.

The second time it happens she doesn’t fight him on not giving her a name, since Mr. Kaspbrak obviously hadn’t minded the first time. The third time Mr. Kaspbrak told her to just connect him through if he called, never giving her any more information than that.

Whenever Mr. Trashcan calls she can hear Mr. Kaspbrak laughing, like whatever is being said is funny enough to crack through the professional exterior. Maria doesn’t believe that anyone calling himself someone’s favorite trashcan had a sophisticated sense of humor to make Mr. Kaspbrak laugh.

But it isn’t just that. Mr. Kaspbrack often leaves after his calls, as if that is a thing he does. Spoiler, he doesn’t! Yet for Mr. Trashcan he leaves, often making her cancel the lunch order she just carefully put in.

It’s enough to make her curious. Very curious.

A part of her wants to ask. She has been working for Edward, as she is allowed to call him now, for six months already now. Half a year is long enough to be able to ask about your boss’ private life, right?

Yet Maria knows that for Edward it isn’t. He doesn’t like mixing his domestic life with business. Last week an intern asked if he was from Maine when he let ‘Ahuy’ slip and Edward raised such a pointed brow and told the intern that it was not relevant information for him to know, so why in the world was he wasting Edward’s time with asking it? The intern nearly cried.

Afterwards she saw him doing breathing exercises in his office. If the question if he’s from Maine is enough to make him do breathing exercises to calm his anger down, she can’t imagine how her questions about Mr. Trashcan will land.

So, she keeps connecting his calls through to Edward’s office and feeling curious. She tells her sister all about it when she calls her, the two of them gossiping like they always used to when they were kids.

Her sister wants her to ask, claiming it is better to know and get out now, before she is called out to bury a body. Though Maria suspects it is more because she has made her curious and she wants Maria to ask to satiate her own curiosity as well.

However, the theory that Mr. Trashcan is Edward’s lover that her sister concocted always makes her laugh. She can’t imagine Edward falling for someone like Mr. Trashcan.

Obviously she doesn’t know Mr. Trashcan at all and Edward barely all things considered, but Mr. Trashcan always makes stupid jokes or does silly voices when he calls, sounding like he is in the middle of some odd happening too. She can’t picture him next to stern, orderly, clean Edward, even if he were gay, which she thinks is a possibility. Edward wouldn't tell anyone at work if he were, that much is clear.

Still, whenever the phone rings she wonders if it’s him. Wants to ask. Burns to know more. But she doesn’t, she likes her job.

After seven months of working for Edward, however, she gets some more information. The phone rings and she picks up with her standard greeting: “Mr. Kaspbrak’s office, this is Maria Rivera speaking. How can help you?”

“Ah, Maria, hi,” Mr. Trashcan greets her.

“Hi, sir,” she replies with a friendly smile. He calls often enough that she knows him well enough to warrant, though she rigorously sticks with sir, fearing that she’ll slip up and call him Mr. Trashcan to his face one of these days. “Edward is in his office.”

“It’s still hilarious you call him Edward,” Mr. Trashcan says and it makes her wonder if Edward is even his name. A small ridiculous part of her wouldn't put it past him.

Electing to ignore the strange comment, she says: “I’ll put you through.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Trashcan says, before she pushes the right buttons.

As always she hears the phone ring for a second. However, unlike always Eddie doesn’t pick up, instead the phone rings until it goes still. Concerned, since this has never happened, Maria gets up and knocks on Edward’s door.

“Come in,” she hears Edward call out.

She pushes open the door, unsure of how to say this now that she has been let in. She opens the door to find Edward completely fine, which is a relief. A part of her had imagine him lying on the floor having a heart attack, something that seemed almost more likely than him not picking up the phone in a businesslike manner. Then she says: “You had a call, sir. Did it not go through right?”

“Oh, it did. I’m busy and I didn’t expect a call,” Edward tells her, indeed surrounded by stacks of work that only ever seem to grow. “Who was it?”

“Uhm, your- your favorite trashcan?” Maria answers, phrasing it like a question, because there is no other way to indicate who was on the line.

“Fuck,” Edward curses, something that has never happened, before digging his cellphone out of his bag, which he keeps in there as to not distract him while he works.

Maria stands on the threshold for a few seconds, unable to move and just staring at her boss. She has never seen Edward swear, or do anything unprofessional like it. He rarely doesn’t pick up calls and he never frantically digs out his phone, which he keeps away so it won’t distract him. Whoever Mr. Trashcan is, he might be more important to Edward than Maria first thought.

It is only when Edward holds the phone up to his ear anxiously that she snaps out of it and quickly retreats back to her desk. She vaguely hears: “I’m so sorry,” in a tone she has never heard Edward use.

Another fucking layer to the mystery.

At least until the next time Mr. Trashcan calls. As always she picks up professionally: “Mr. Kaspbrak’s office, this is Maria Rivera speaking. How can help you?”

“Hi, Maria,” Mr. Trashcan greets pleasantly.

“Hi, sir,” she replies. “I’ll connect you to the office.”

“Wait,” Mr. Trashcan says.

Maria halts, she has never saw this coming and is a little cautious about what Mr. Trashcan might want from her. So, a little apprehensively she asks: “What can I help you with, sir?”

“You don’t have to call me sir,” Mr. Trashcan answers. “I know I said that before, kind of gave up on it for a bit, thought you were really stubborn. But Eddie, sorry, Edward,” Mr Trashcan snorts, interrupting his own seemingly senseless rambling, “just – well not just, but last time I called – he said you still referred to me as trashcan, which explains a lot. And I mean, it’s not terribly off, but it’s just stupid. Eddie can get a little weird. I get it though, but still. Fuck, I’m rambling.”

“Just a little, uhm, sir?” she adds, unable not to despite just being told it was unnecessary. She has been trained to be polite.

“Ah yes, that,” Mr. Trashcan exclaims. “Just call me Richie, I’m Richie. None of that sir stuff. And nice to meet you, kind of. Sorry.”

Richie.

Maria has a name for Mr. Trashcan. It might not seem like much, but after seven months under Edward, she finally has a first name of the person, who calls the most. She grins and it might be obvious in her voice, but she doesn’t care as she replies: “It is nice to sort of meet you, Richie. Shall I put you through to Edward?”

“Yes, please,” Richie says gleefully, which doesn’t dissuade Maria’s smile as she puts him through to the office. His enthusiasm for her boss is kind of cute, if she’s honest. She hopes that her sister is right and that if there is something there, they hold on to it.

As she hears the familiar ringing that is cut off by Edward’s greeting, she turns the newly acquired information in her head. Richie. Mr. Trashcan is Richie, somewhere in her brain there is a connection, she thinks, but it escapes her.

Then she is reminded of another aspect of the conversation. Richie called Edward Eddie. It is almost comical to imagine anyone calling her boss such a nickname, yet there it was. It rolled easily off his tongue, thus must be used often. Wild.

Richie and Eddie. Her boss and his caller. She knows that now. Knows something private. It feels like she has a foot in the door.

It should be a little weird how badly she wants to know about her boss’ private life. Maybe it even is a little weird, but Maria can’t help it. She has moved away from her family and isn’t the most social herself either. This is the closest thing she has. Besides, being a secretary is mostly boring and nothing is more entertaining than imagining wild scenarios of a childhood filled with adventure and thrill for her boss, who wouldn’t come close to dirt unless he absolutely had to.

So, she cuts herself some slack about the oddness of her behavior and looks forwards to the next time Richie calls, wondering if she’ll get more information.

And she does!

Now that Richie has introduced himself to her, he stays to chat more often before being patched through to Edward. He is quite funny, but also asks after her well being and her day, which is a nice change from the corporate soulless being she often talks to.

Over the course of three months she learns that Edward swims, because he wants to do cardio, but running is out for him. His cane is due to an injury of some sort, since Richie refers to Edward being hospitalized, which is crazy. Edward also likes to read.

All in all, the list isn’t long, but it is something. Maria’s boss is slowly become more human all by a voice, for which she doesn’t have a face nor an indication of how he relates to Edward, just that he calls and makes him laugh and often leave.

Richie is also a mystery, but less so. Despite the fact that she knows even less about the man, he is so open when he talks that she feels like she knows more about him than she does. She knows about his visits to the coffee shop near him and his neighbors, but not what he does or how he knows Edward.

His voice is also familiar. At this point she isn’t sure that is because she heard it somewhere else or because she heard Richie so often. It is like he settled in alongside Edward, getting more comfortable calling more often as Edward got more comfortable at the company.

In short, her boss and the company he keeps, give her something to focus on as she slowly colors in the picture of who they are.

A big chuck of the picture is filled in, a lot of pieces clicking together, when she finally meets Richie in person. Not only that, but also sees Edward interacting with Richie, beyond the fact he picks up the phone and knows him by trashcan.

She has been working under Edward for the past ten months when it happens. They have been swamped by a big one and everyone has been working late. Maria doesn’t think Edward has gone home, except for the fact that he has a clean suit on each day.

The phone rings and she mentally crosses her fingers that it isn’t more work that she has to send Edward’s way. She likes her boss, despite the particularities. “Mr. Kaspbrak’s office, this is Maria Rivera speaking. How can help you?” she picks up.

“Maria, hello,” Richie greets her.

“Hi Richie,” she replies, mentally preparing for what she has to tell him. “I am so sorry, Edward is very busy right now. He is not accepting calls at the moment.”

It’s quiet for a second, then Richie asks: “He has been eating alright, right? Not skipping lunch breaks to work himself to the bone?”

“I don’t think I am allowed to give you that information,” she says apologetically, able to hear how concerned Richie sounds and thinking off all the half- or un-eaten lunches she has had to throw away.

“Fucking hell,” Richie mutters, not directed at her it seems, because he then says: “That is understandable, thank you, Maria. What floor is his office on again?”

“The 30th,” Maria answers, before realizing the implication.

“Alright, thank you,” Richie says and hangs up before she can ask more. It leaves her sitting there dazed and confused.

She wonders if she guessed correctly that he is coming by to check up on Edward. Her sister’s voice speculating about them being lovers echoing in her mind. Then immediately she wonders if Edward would allow such treatment during such a busy time and if she should warn him.

Maria looks back to the office. She can almost hear the frantic typing and see the thunderstorm above his head. Honestly, she doesn’t really need an angry snapping. If Edward is to let his frustration out on someone, let it be Richie.

So, she goes back to her work and tries to convince herself that she made the right decision, before trying to convince herself she misinterpreted his words.

However, twenty minutes later someone steps off the elevator that obviously does not fit into the office, which makes her question that. He is tall, scruffy and dressed in an odd print shirt with novelty socks peaking up from his beat up sneakers.

The fact that he looks like a college student hit by an aging beam, makes that it takes a second before she realizes that she has seen this man before. Because the man walking down the hall is Richie Tozier, America’s favorite Trashmouth.

Suddenly it all makes sense and at the same time it totally doesn’t.

What Maria means is that Richie makes sense. Mr. Trashcan. It clicks why Edward would recognize that name in relation to Richie. Why he wouldn’t just give her his name, hell he has just been nominated for an Emmy for that Bill Denbrough adaptation, of course he wouldn't want some random secretary to have his number. It now also makes sense why he is always making jokes. It is quite literally his job.

What absolutely doesn’t make sense is why Richie Tozier knows her stern boss. Nor why Richie makes time in his probably equally busy schedule to call so much. Nor why he is coming to check up on her boss.

Another fucking mystery.

The fact that Richie came out as gay after a two year disappearance flashes through her brain alongside her sister’s voice. But the idea of the man, who thinks asking someone if they’re from Maine is unprofessional, being together with someone, who tells dick jokes for a living, seems absurd. Plus that still leaves the question of how they met.

Yet there he is and very few other explanations spring to mind as he comes closer and closer with her trying to hide her shock behind some professionalism. “Mr. Tozier,” she squeaks, when he gets to her desk.

Richie laughs a bit awkwardly, but smiles kindly: “Ah, so you caught onto that. Sorry for being odd on the phone, I felt like I was in a terrible spy movie.”

“Totally understandable, sir,” she replies.

“Please stop with the sir,” Richie says. “And Richie is fine too, I promise. I’m more laid back than Eddie over there.” He nods to the closed door, Edward hasn’t noticed him through the glass wall, still furiously working.

Maria remembers this is her job and tells Richie: “I can let Edward know you’re here, but he might not be open to visitors at this time. This might be a wasted trip.”

Richie smiles as if he knows something she doesn’t. However, she has gotten used to not knowing something during her time under Edward, so she takes it in stride as Richie requests she alerts Edward to his presence anyway.

So, she gets up and knocks on Edward’s door as she opens it. He looks up with a snap and grimaces apologetically as she says: “There is a visitor here for you.”

“That’s not on the schedule,” Edward frowns.

“I know, but-” she starts, before she is cut off.

“Eddie Spaghetti!” Richie exclaims behind her, waving manically. “I have sat through all your lectures about proper nutrition and how bad stress is for you, so I am here to repeat them to you over lunch. Get packing, dickhead.”

Maria is sure her eyes are falling out of their sockets, they must be by how she is staring at Richie, because he is insane. No one calls Edward Eddie, what is he thinking with Eddie Spaghetti or dickhead. Not to mention that pulling him away from his work is neigh impossible, trust her, she’s been trying for nearly a year.

However, instead of exploding Edward chuckles. Chuckles! Maria looks back around to see the most unlikely look on Edward’s face, a relaxed grin is right there on his lips and he looks fondly at Richie. When he replies, it is equally out of character. “Like you can repeat what I told you in any way, fucker. You tell dick jokes for a living.”

“You love my dick jokes, besides your mom said I was pretty close to you when we were making sweet sweet love last night,” Richie shoots back.

“Don’t you think you should stop those jokes now that she’s dead?” Edward asks, a revelation which is horrifying to Maria, but both men are smiling fondly, so she decides to try and disappear into the background.

“I stop the moment it stops being funny,” Richie defends himself.

“It was never funny.”

“Agree to disagree,” Richie shrugs. “Now get up, I’m hungry.”

“Your treat,” Edward surprises Maria by getting up without protest, shrugging on his coat, before turning to her. “Maria, please tell anyone that comes by to come back later. I am out for lunch. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

“Make it 45,” Richie protests.

“Alright, 45,” Edward gives in with an easy smile, stepping into Richie’s space with a familiar ease that makes Maria’s heart ache in a good way.

She suddenly realizes that her sister was right as she watches Richie throw an arm around her boss, which gives him a blush, though he doesn’t shrugs the arm off, instead leaning into it. She also realizes that right now, she is not looking at her boss. She is looking at Eddie, Richie’s boyfriend, who usually doesn’t exists on the work floor.

Being allowed to witness this is a privilege. He is letting her see a more private part of himself, something he doesn’t allow anyone else at work. It gives her a sense of accomplishment, so she gives him an assuring smile and says: “Of course, sir. I can try to move your two o’clock and get you an hour and a half.”

Eddie looks between his desk and Richie with anguish, trying to decide which he should prioritize with the pressure everyone is under right now. Then Richie nudges him and softly says that it’s okay, which is enough for Eddie to say: “That would be great, thank you.”

“No problem, sir,” she responds, before sitting at her desk and grabbing the phone, trying to make it seem she is focusing on that instead of watching the two men leave.

Richie dives into some elaborate story it seems and Eddie is laugh at some points, raising his eyebrow at others and seemingly arguing as well. It’s a little odd, but they look happy and domestic. It’s sweet really.

Maria doesn’t think she will ever fully solve the mystery that is Edward Kaspbrak. However, he kept her on, because she functions well and she is grateful for that. Beyond that, he has proven himself to be a good boss and she likes working for him.

If functioning under Eddie means keeping gossip away and creating lunchtime with his boyfriend, later husband, during busy periods, then that’s just fine with her.

Maybe he’ll tell her how he met famous comedian Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier when they’ve been working together for ten years. She doesn’t get her hopes up, but a girl can dream.

A/N:

For those who read my Suits fic, yes Lemmin Inc. is back, whoooo

Also I love POV Outsider fics, they are so so good and I have read all of them and I needed more, so here I am, enabling myself xppp

#rr writing #it 2017 #it 2019 #it stephen king #reddie #OCs #outsiders pov #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #richie x eddie #post it chapter 2 #eddie kaspbrak lives

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