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sunshinesfreckless · 1 month ago

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His Spoiled Babe

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Han Jisung × fem!Reader

Summary: The final and last part of the SKZ boys loving their girlfriends ☺️ Enjoy being Han’s girlfriend.

Warnings: Definitely smut smut smut… Han’s tattoos! (If JYP is reading this 👀)

A/N: THIS IS IT. Done with the Spoiled series.

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Leeknow ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Changbin ୨ৎ Jeongin ୨ৎ Seungmin

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

She remembered the first time Han Jisung made her feel like the only girl in the world.

It was raining—of course it was. The kind of cinematic downpour that turned city streets silver, where every sound seemed muffled but every feeling turned up louder. She’d just gotten home from class, umbrella dripping, tired and cold and very much not in the mood to be perceived.

But then she heard it.

Music.

Off-key and desperate and beautiful.

And there he stood. Right in the courtyard of her apartment, soaked to the bone. His hoodie clung to his arms like second skin, black curls plastered to his forehead, guitar nearly slipping out of his hands—but God, the smile on his face.

Like he didn’t even notice the rain.

Like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

Felix was next to him, barely holding up a half-ruined sign made of printer paper and smudged Sharpie.

“I love you, Y/N.”

And Han?

Han was singing.

A song she’d never heard before. Something soft, laced with longing, and rough around the edges. A little like him. A little like the night she fell asleep on his chest and murmured nonsense against his skin—except he remembered every word she said and turned it into a melody.

She thought her heart might fall right out of her ribs.

And that was only the beginning.

Now?

────୨ৎ────

Their matching Vivienne Westwood necklaces were the talk of the fandom. His stayed tucked beneath his shirt, where only she could tug it out with her teeth. Hers sat proudly on her chest. One night on tour, he kissed his before walking onto stage. Cameras caught it. It trended worldwide.

People speculated. People guessed.

But no one knew.

No one saw what was beneath the fabric of his oversized tee—right at the tender dip of his inner upper arm.

Her name.

Tattooed in her own handwriting.

Flawless black ink.

Bold and sacred.

Just above the muscle he flexed when he pinned her to the mattress.

She’d kissed it. Moaned into it. Bit it.

It was her favorite place on his body—because it meant he was hers.

────୨ৎ────

The world called Han chaotic, eccentric, unhinged.

But with her?

He was devoted.

Soft when she was sleepy.

Obsessed when she smiled.

Absolutely whipped every time she giggled into his chest and played with his fingers.

He spoiled her not just with luxury, but with detail.

Her favorite chocolate, flown in from a tiny shop in Switzerland.

A Balmain jacket in his size, because she once joked about wanting one and she liked her Clothes better if they fit him.

Studio dates where he made her sit on his lap while he mixed tracks, headphones pressed to her ears while he whispered, “Tell me if you like this, babe. I only want to make things you love.”

Even her favorite pillow brand—he stocked his studio couch with them just so she’d be comfortable when she inevitably fell asleep waiting for him.

────୨ৎ────

Han Jisung had money, sure. Fame. A wardrobe of Balmain leather and Westwood chains.

But the only thing he ever really wanted?

Was her.

Soft. Spoiled. Sleeping in his bed. Wearing nothing but one of his shirts and the necklace he’d clasped around her neck himself.

And when she looked up at him with those sleepy eyes and whispered, “Hannie, can I wear your jacket today?”

He grinned like he won the lottery.

“Baby,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hair, “you can wear everything I own.”

Han didn’t just spoil her.

He ruined himself for her.

────୨ৎ────

A necklace here. A pair of shoes there. A handwritten letter folded into her passport when she flew out to see him on tour.

But Jisung didn’t do small for long.

One rainy afternoon, they passed by a Balmain store in Gangnam. She paused at the window—just for a second—and tilted her head at a soft ivory dress on the mannequin. Ruffles, cinched waist, delicate buttons like pearls.

She didn’t even say anything.

Just a tiny, thoughtful hum.

He noticed.

And the next day?

The entire Balmain spring collection showed up at her door. Still tagged, perfectly steamed, wrapped in tissue paper that smelled like him. Every piece had her initials stitched inside—just under the label, where only she would see.

────୨ৎ────

He kept her closet full. Not stocked—curated. His stylists begged him to stop flying in racks from Paris every time she complimented a runway look, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“She liked it,” was all he said.

That was enough.

Her playlists?

Updated weekly. With demos he never released.

Love songs no one else heard.

Songs he wrote when she was asleep on his studio couch, breathing softly, curled up in his hoodie with one of her hands in his hair like she knew he needed the grounding.

Sometimes, he’d open her phone, tuck in a new audio file, and wait to hear her reaction the next morning.

The soft gasp. The slow smile. The inevitable text:

Ji, you wrote that for me?

And his answer was always the same:

Of course. Who else would I ever write for?

Han Jisung didn’t care if it was too much. He didn’t care if the world called him impulsive, dramatic, unhinged.

He’d burn through every cent he had if it meant seeing her eyes light up like that.

He’d carve new lyrics into his skin if it meant keeping her name there forever.

He’d give her the world if she even hinted at wanting it.

────୨ৎ────

It was a gift. Of course it was.

Everything was, when it came from him.

He’d had the corset custom-made in London. Cream silk with delicate boning, tiny laces up the back, and just enough ruffle at the top to make his mouth go dry. He hadn’t stopped thinking about how she’d look in it since the designer sent the sketches.

She didn’t know he’d cancelled an interview to wait at her apartment while she unboxed it.

Now, she stood in front of the mirror—hair up in soft pins, the corset hugging her waist like sin. She was still tugging at the ribbon ends when she heard it:

His breath.

Right behind her.

“I’ll do it,” Jisung murmured, stepping closer.

She stilled, eyes meeting his in the reflection. He looked flushed already, knuckles flexing like he was holding back from grabbing her on the spot.

“You sure?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Just took the ends of the ribbon and began pulling—slowly, reverently, into her back.

Her breath hitched with each gentle tug.

Tighter. Snugger. Closer.

“You’re… so pretty, baby.” His voice cracked with how much he meant it. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

She could feel him behind her, not touching—yet—but so close that she could feel the heat from his chest. She watched his hands move down, smoothing the sides of the corset. Palms heavy, thumbs brushing the top of her hips.

“I should’ve made this earlier,” he whispered against her neck. “You look like a dream. A fantasy. Mine.”

She barely had time to answer before his hands slid to her thighs. She gasped. The hem of the corset ended just above her hip bones—and he was already there, already parting her legs from behind.

He dragged her with him, easing her toward the vanity stool.

When she sat, he sank to his knees.

He was kissing up the inside of her thighs. Her reflection was flushed, her eyes glazed. His hands wrapped around her legs, steadying her while his lips found her softest, neediest place.

“You take everything I give you so well,” he said against her skin. “Even this corset—you wear it like it’s made of gold. Like it’s my name wrapped around your waist.”

And in a way, it was.

Because when she came—shaking, gasping, thighs locked around his head—the only thing she could feel tighter than the corset was his hold on her. Hands clutching her hips, arms trembling, heart pounding between her legs as he ruined himself to worship her right.

He helped her out of it later, too.

Lips brushing her shoulder like she was breakable. “Gotta take care of my favorite gift,” he said with a sleepy grin, cuddling her in the aftermath. “You. Always you

────୨ৎ────

And that look in his eyes. That Han Jisung look.

The one that said he was already imagining her ruined. That he wanted her messy and moaning, her lips on the spot that was his and hers alone. Her Name on his Arm. And she loved his Tatto. No one else ever saw it. No fans. No stage lights. Not even the boys.

Only her.

He always said it felt like a secret vow. Something just for them.

And when she kissed it?

God, he lost his mind.

Tonight she straddled his lap on the couch, fingers sliding up his sleeves. His hoodie bunched at the elbows as she leaned in, mouth warm on that sacred spot.

She kissed the letters. Slowly. Softly.

Then—bit.

A light scrape of teeth, just enough to make his breath hitch and his hips jerk beneath her.

“F–fuck,” he gasped, muscles flexing under her touch. “Do that again.”

So she did. Open-mouthed kisses. Teasing licks. Little nips right on the curve of the Last Letter of her Name.

All while his biceps bulged and his honeyed skin flushed under her mouth.

She loved his arms. Loved how he used them to cage her in, to lift her like she weighed nothing, to pull her down onto him like he couldn’t wait another second. And god, when he finally grabbed her hips and thrust up—it was over.

Her fingers curled around his tattooed arm like a handle.

“I got this so you’d never forget,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down her collarbone. “That I’m yours. Always yours.”

“Mm,” she moaned, grinding down on him. “Then claim me.”

And he did.

Right there, on the couch. Hoodie halfway off. Hair clinging to his forehead. His arm flexed and trembling beside her head while he fucked her like the world was ending.

And the whole time?

Her name was right there—pressed to the sheets, kissed raw, marked into his body.

────୨ৎ────

The studio lights were low—just a soft amber glow behind the monitors—and the only sound was the gentle thrum of his guitar as he tuned it, absentmindedly plucking at the strings with those unfair fingers. Rings glinting. Veins peeking.

She was already squirming in his lap.

“Baby,” he drawled, not even looking up. “You keep moving like that, and I won’t get this demo done.”

She barely heard him. Not when his fingers—calloused from years of music, fast from nights of practice—slipped under the hem of her skirt and pressed against her without warning.

“Ji—”

“Shh.” He looked at her then. Big eyes, sharp grin. Dangerous. “You can be quiet for me, yeah?”

She nodded, dazed, but the second his fingers started moving—really moving—all she could do was bite her lip and cling to the edge of the mixing desk.

And he kept talking.

About her.

“You know that Hermès bag you liked?” he said casually, like he wasn’t knuckle-deep inside her. “The new one. Rose tea color. I ordered it. Custom engraving on the charm.”

He curled his fingers just right, and her entire body jerked.

He smirked.

“She’ll deliver it next week. Maybe I’ll make you wear the corset with it.”

She tried to glare, to sass him back like always—but then he slid his thumb higher, slow circles with maddening pressure. All she could do was whimper.

His rings caught the light every time he moved.

Vivienne Westwood. Sharp, elegant, gold and black. One of them was engraved with her birthdate—his “lucky charm.”

“You hear this melody?” he murmured, guitar abandoned now, fingers moving in rhythm against her wet heat, while the demo was playing“I wrote it for how you sound when you fall apart.”

And then—

kissed her.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Just teeth and tongue and hunger, his hand still playing her like an instrument he knew better than his own guitar.

She came with his mouth over hers, her fingers in his hair, hips grinding into his palm like her body was begging.

When it was over, she collapsed against his chest, panting.

“Jisung,” she gasped.

And he just held her, stroking her thigh like he hadn’t just short-circuited her brain.

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” he whispered, grinning. “I still gotta feed you, baby. I picked up those stupid expensive rice cakes you like. And you’re not allowed to say no after I fingered you to my demo.”

────୨ৎ────

The tattoo machine buzzed low in the private studio. Tatto Fresh up. She sat across from him on a velvet bench, legs crossed, trying not to stare—but failing completely.

Han Jisung was shirtless.

Not for attention. Not this time. Just because his artist needed clean access to the inside of his upper arm, where her name was inked in delicate script. Right above the muscle that flexed when he held her close. Right where only she got to see it in full.

He sat there, breathing slow, gaze locked on her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You’re watching,” he said.

She blinked. “Of course I’m watching.”

He bit his lip at that—hard. The needle dragged across his skin and his fingers curled into the cushion, jaw tense, a barely-there hiss escaping his throat.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered.

He looked at her, eyes blown wide. “Yeah,” he breathed. “But I like it. You’re worth it.”

The artist kept working, careful and focused. And Y/N?

Y/N couldn’t stop staring. At the way the lines of her name deepened, darker now. Sharper. Permanent. At the way his other hand gripped his thigh—tense, trembling slightly—as though holding himself back from something. At the sweat that glistened on his golden skin, dampening the curls behind his ear.

The studio was warm. Too warm. And she swore she could feel it in her throat—that slow, sticky kind of want that started somewhere behind her ribs and pulsed all the way down.

When it was done, he stood. Walked over. Still shirtless, the new ink tender and glistening. He didn’t say a word.

Just offered his arm.

“Kiss it,” he whispered.

And she did.

Soft. Reverent. Lips to her name.

Then she bit.

Just a little. Just enough.

And he groaned—full-body, wrecked, neck tipping back like she’d ruined him in that one single second. “Fuck,” he mumbled. “You’ll kill me, baby. You know that?”

She just smiled, smug and sweet.

────୨ৎ────

Later, when they were tangled up in bed—her wearing nothing, him tracing her body like it was the only song he ever wanted to learn—he fed her sweet melon slices and kisses, made her tea and rubbed her feet, and whispered all the things he didn’t let the world see.

“I’d give you everything,” he said once, voice thick. “All of it. My awards, my money, my name—”

“You already did,” she whispered.

“Not enough,” he said, pulling her closer. “I’ll find more.”

And he always did.

She never had to ask.

He remembered everything. From the way she took her tea to the shade of pink that made her glow. From the size of her rings to the day she looked at a dog in a Adoption Center ad and said, “He looks like he wants to come home with us.”

He’d got the dog. Of course.

He filled her days with music, flowers, warmth.

But none of it compared to him.

Because it wasn’t the gifts, or the bags, or even the Vivienne Westwood necklaces. It wasn’t even the way he wrote her into every love song he ever touched.

It was the way he loved her.

All of her. Loudly. Delicately. Unapologetically.

And if she ever forgot it for even a second?

All she had to do was look at his arm.

Right where it said her name.

#felix #felix stray kids #felix x reader #felix yongbok #lee felix #skz felix #stray kids #lee felix smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #han jisung #han jisung smut #han skz #han jisung skz #han jisung fanfic

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eddiesghxst · 4 months ago

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ARE YOU BORED YET? - part one

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: you're steve's “bitchy” step-sister and are spending the summer in hawkins; eddie is steve's annoying best friend who you can’t seem to shake, but things take a sharp turn when you find yourself sneaking around and ultimately falling for him

contains: slightly enemies to lovers trope, drug and alcohol use, smoking, secret relationship vibes, tension, and eddie being a certified tease <3

word count: 7k

chapter song: foxey lady x jimi hendrix

| next part |

| series masterlist | their mixtape I -main masterlist- I

Eddie hates summer.

Most people hate summer due to boredom, but if Eddie’s being honest, he’s never been bored a day in his life— Eddie can make staring at the wall a fun game if he wants to— so, no, Eddie doesn’t hate summer because of boredom. Eddie hates summer because it’s so fucking hot. It’s hot, and the sun is always out, and Eddie burns like fucking bacon in an oven— and it doesn’t help that over half of Eddie’s wardrobe is the color black. Do you know how hard it is to be a metalhead with long hair and black jeans in the middle of a summer heatwave? It’s hard.

Now, you would think that with this knowledge of his undying hate for the heat, Eddie would do everything in his power to stay out of it— except Eddie’s friend is kind of a picturesque summer lover boy and drags Eddie everywhere with him no matter how intense satan’s wrath feels that day. So now, Eddie sits in the airport carpool lane, nearly drowning in his sweat as he waits for Steve’s step-sister to get off the plane.

“I just don’t understand why you couldn’t ask Robin to come with you,” Eddie grumbles as he tugs the front of his black muscle tee open and shut in a fanning manner. It doesn’t do much to cool him down, considering the dry heat that’s settled over Hawkins. Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever been this hot in his life if he’s being honest.

Steve rolls his eyes, watching people filter out of the airport, dragging luggage behind them as they spot their rides. Steve doesn’t bother looking Eddie’s way when he responds, “I already told you— Robin’s been too busy shoving her tongue down her girlfriend's throat all summer,” he grimaces, “Plus, I know my step-sister, and I know she has at least three suitcases— all of which will fit perfectly in your van.”

Eddie’s the one to roll his eyes now, irritation settling in his bones as the seconds pass like minutes. “Asshole,” Eddie mumbles as he shifts in his seat. He’s sticky everywhere. Sticky, wet, and gross, and he’s sweating in places that he’s almost one hundred percent sure shouldn’t be sweating. He huffs as he turns his attention to the exit of the airport, eyes scanning through different people as he asks, “...Well, what’s she look like anyway?”

Steve scoffs, “You’ll know it’s her when you see her. Just look for a girl that looks like she came straight out of a Baywatch episode.”

Eddie thinks for a moment, brows furrowing before he speaks, “So… someone hot?”

Steve grimaces and turns to Eddie, “Ew. Gross, dude, no— that’s my sister—” “Step-sister.”

Steve shakes his head and turns back to people watching, “She’s from California, pervert. I meant look for someone who looks like an asshole from California.”

Eddie’s not sure why Steve would ever decide to associate Baywatch with anything other than hot, sun-bathed babes, but Eddie’s too irritated with the heat to argue his point and instead nods his head in understanding.

“She’s probably wearing heels, and she’s probably in some over-the-top girly outfit— and again, she’s probably lugging at least three suitcases.” Steve further explains.

Eddie nods and purses his lips. “So…” he pauses and thinks for a moment, “Malibu Barbie?”

Steve snaps his fingers and points to Eddie as he glances at him, “Exactly. And forewarning— she’s a total bitch.”

Eddie nods, lips pursed as he takes the information in. Eddie scans the crowd of people for some time, growing frustrated when he finds no sign of a bitchy-looking Malibu Barbie running around Hawkins, but then…

It’s as if a cool breeze drifts through the devil’s heat, and Eddie feels something other than absolute dread when the airport's sliding doors open and out steps a girl that fits the very description Steve had just given— only, you’re even better in real life.

Eddie swears time slows down when he sees you— pretty, glowy skin glistening in the summer sun, the light wash jean skirt you’re wearing is hugging your waist sinfully, leaving little to nothing for Eddie’s imagination as his eyes travel down your legs. Soft, shiny, perfect legs with doughy thighs that Eddie thinks would make his brain short-circuit if he ever got the chance to feel them.

Eddie’s mouth may as well become a fountain with the way it fills with spit at the sight of your soft tummy, peeking out from the tiny sliver your top leaves— god, is that a fucking belly ring? Your shirt hugs your tits in an ungodly way— well enough to make Eddie stir within his pants because, seriously, how do they look so perfect? Eddie thinks you’ve come straight out of one of the porno magazines he’s got stuffed in his junk drawer.

You’re a dream. Dreamtime fucking central.

Sex on legs or whatever they say— Eddie doesn’t know; he just knows you’re really fucking hot, and you’re about to get into his disgusting, old, and dirty van.

Eddie’s hand nearly caves Steve’s chest in when he smacks his friend, “Dude,” his face twists in disbelief, “Why didn’t you tell me she’s like—” “Jesus Christ, Eddie, do not tell me you think my step-sister is hot.” Steve groans as he rolls his head on his neck.

“But she is!” Eddie exclaims.

“Well, she’s off limits,” Steve quickly shuts the idea down, "For everybody in this town, especially you.” He points an accusing finger at Eddie, and Eddie can’t help the way his eyes roll. What could Eddie possibly do to somebody like you? As if you would even give him a chance.

“Plus, I’m pretty sure she’s dating some douchebag quarterback from her school. She’s got a new boyfriend every time she comes home.” Steve grumbles— which immediately confirms it; you would never give Eddie, someone who has never willingly touched any set of balls other than his own, the time of day.

That doesn’t mean Eddie can’t admit you’re drop-dead gorgeous, though. Because you are. And Eddie kind of forgets what he’s doing here in the first place until Steve unbuckles himself and gets out, and Eddie remembers— oh yeah, I’m here to pick up this extremely hot girl in my extremely run-down van.

Whatever.

Eddie will live, he thinks. He unbuckles and gets out of the van, rounding the front of his van to step onto the sidewalk, where Steve calls your name and grabs your attention. You spot them immediately, your expression unreadable as you wave a flight attendant over to follow you. And yeah, that’s more than three suitcases being pushed behind you.

You glance at Eddie when you get closer, your cute little kitten heels clicking against the cement floor— who wears heels to the airport?

“This is disgusting.” You say as you gesture to the air. And Eddie couldn’t agree more. This heat is disgusting, and he couldn’t imagine being in it with heels.

Steve hums, “Welcome back to paradise.”

You roll your eyes, handing your carry-on to Steve. Steve grunts at the weight of it, glaring at you as he stumbles from your force, “Did you fucking move out?” he stresses when he sees the cart of suitcases behind you. You grimace, “Like I would ever move here. Where’s your car?”

You don’t acknowledge Eddie as you glance around, and Eddie’s honestly too stunned to speak— and is that your perfume he’s smelling? Jesus Christ, Eddie wants to fall to his knees right here on this cracked pavement.

Steve rolls his eyes at your response and turns to open the back doors of the van, “My car wouldn’t be able to hold your fifty suitcases, so I came prepared,” he throws a fake smile as he tosses your bag in, ignoring your warning to, “Be careful with my stuff, asshole.”

Steve waves you off before he gestures lazily to Eddie, “This is my friend, Eddie, by the way.”

And for the first time, you look at Eddie. It’s then that Eddie’s bodily autonomy finally comes back, and he remembers that he has control over his limbs. He waves, tossing out a lazy hey as he opens the back doors of his van, “Heard tons about you,” he grunts as he loads in another suitcase.

You huff as you cross your arms, “I doubt it.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh, “Yeah, not much.” He admits. “But when I heard Malibu Barbie was coming into town, I knew I had to see her for myself.” He winks.

You grimace, rolling your eyes with a groan, “Gross.” You grumble before yanking the side doors open and stepping in.

Eddie can’t help but smile as he finishes loading your suitcases.

Steve had run off somewhere to find an ATM; something about needing to tip the attendant who helped you with your luggage, so it’s only you and Eddie in the van when Eddie hops back into the driver's seat.

It’s silent for a moment, achingly so, and Eddie takes it upon himself to turn the radio on, forgetting that the volume had been amped to the highest level. The music blares through his speakers— nearly blows them out— and Eddie almost jumps out of his seat as he scrambles to reduce the volume, awkwardly laughing as he glances back at you and speaks, “Sorry about that…”

You don’t say anything. Instead, you stay seated, arms crossed over your chest, legs crossed, and your glossed lips pouted in boredom. Eddie turns back to the front, the radio now a soft hum as he taps his decorated fingers on the steering wheel. He purses his lips briefly, his skin itching because Eddie has never done well with silence, so— “You listen to Iron Maiden?” He asks.

“No.” You flatly respond.

Your tone is dull and bored, and Eddie nods again as if it softens the blow. Eddie avoids opening his mouth again, too afraid that whatever comes out will just piss you off even more, so he keeps quiet. But he can’t help it when his gaze flickers up to find you in his rearview mirror, watching as you huff and gaze out the window.

It’s silent for a few long, crippling minutes before you speak, “Does this thing not have AC?”

Eddie purses his lips, fingertips tapping against his thigh as he shrugs, “Just takes a second.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest as you mumble, “Course it does.”

Eddie lets it fall silent for a moment again, but Eddie’s never been one to like silence, so— “How’s college?”

“Do you usually talk this much?” You suddenly ask, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes at him. Eddie snorts, glancing around the airport for any sign of Steve, and he responds, “No, actually, I usually talk more than this. Wait ‘til you get me going about D&D.” He scoffs.

Your face twists in confusion, “D&D?”

Eddie waits for a moment before turning to gaze at you. You look at him, an unwavering expression plastered across your face as you wait for Eddie to speak.

“…You don’t know what Dungeons and Dragons is?”

You blink at Eddie, definitely contemplating if you could catch a flight back home before you respond, “Am I supposed to?”

Eddie shrugs, “Well, I mean, it’s only like the greatest game to ever fucking exist.” He stresses.

You roll your eyes and softly groan in disgust, “Ew. If you’re about to nerd out on me, I’d rather walk home in the heat.” You grimace.

And Eddie pauses, contemplating the amount of damage he’ll do if he continues to ramble about his favorite game— then he’ll really have zero chance with you, that’s for sure. But it’s not like he ever had one in the first place, right?

Eddie turns back around, watching as people bustle around the airport. “Do you like games?” He can’t help but ask.

You take a slow and long breath, gathering your patience before you reply, “I can’t remember the last time I played a game, so no.”

Eddie’s face twists in concern, “What do you do for fun?” He glances in the mirror, watching as you gaze out the window.

You shrug, watching people as you speak, “Spend my dad’s money.”

Eddie lets it fall silent for a moment, a few responses rolling around in his head before you roll your eyes and speak again, “It was a joke. I’m not a spoiled brat.”

“Oh,” Eddie awkwardly laughs before glancing at you. “Well, the heels and cart full of suitcases didn’t exactly sell a ‘humble woman’ picture.”

You laugh then, “I didn’t say I was humble; I said I’m not a spoiled brat.”

“What’s the difference?”

“There’s a difference.” You mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. Eddie thinks it’s cute, the way you get flustered by his smart mouth. He wonders how much he can push and prod before you explode.

But before he can respond, Steve is swinging the passenger door open and hoping in, glaring back at you when he speaks, “Next time you come here— and god forbid you do— maybe try to keep the bags to a minimum of two. I just tipped that dude a hundred bucks.” He complains.

You teasingly coo at your step-brother, “Poor Stevie, having to use my dad’s money to pay for things.”

Eddie snorts at that, earning Steve's glare, which quickly directs Eddie’s attention to pull out of the airport. Steve settles in his seat, ignoring your annoyed mood as he grumbles, “Told you she’s an asshole.”

“Not bigger than yours.” You quickly whip back.

Eddie can’t help but chuckle. So, the princess does have humor.

The house is quiet, something you hadn’t expected given how obnoxious Steve is, though you don’t take it for granted as you flip through a magazine and let the TV play in the back.

You don’t like coming into town, you never have. It’s dull and dreary in Hawkins, and you’re not quite sure why your father would give up the sunny California weather for this. Conservative townies that grow and die here— that’s all this town has to offer.

But there’s no point in complaining; you’re stuck here for the whole summer; otherwise, your dad will stop paying for your school. So, you do what you can to take your mind off of it, which includes drifting through magazines and wasting away with shitty TV shows.

Your stepmother has been home from work for nearly an hour, but you hardly give her complete sentences, so she made herself scarce. Her son, however, doesn’t get the memo as he bursts into the room. You say nothing, eyeing him as he sits on the opposite side of the couch and puts on his shoes.

“Get up, we’re going out.”

You train your eyes back on the magazine in your hands as you boredly mumble, “Not interested.”

Steve hums in annoyance as he shoves his right foot into a shoe, “Mom said I have to include you in shit, and I’m not in the mood to get bitched at for your shitty mood, so— get up, we’re going out.” He repeats before standing up to place his hands on his hips and look at you. You glare at him from behind the magazine before closing it, folding it over your stomach as you tilt your head, “And where exactly are we going? I can’t imagine there’s anything fun in this town— at least none that you would know of.” You jeer.

Steve sneers at you, stepping forward to dig the toe of his shoe into your shin, earning an annoyed kick from you. You swat at him with the magazine, striking him and earning a few curse words as Steve rips it from you and tosses it on the coffee table. He huffs as he turns to you with a huff, “Eddie’s band is playing tonight.”

And that’s rich. It’s incredibly bold of Steve to believe you would ever willingly submit yourself to hear his weird, gross friend spit out nonsense into a mic. As if you hadn’t had enough of them two on the drive here. You scoff, leaning forward to grab your now crinkled magazine before laying back on the couch with a scoff, “Absolutely not.”

Steve snatches the magazine yet again, tossing it onto the opposite side of the couch as he glares down at you, “Too bad.” He snaps, stepping over your legs and walking over to the front door, “I’m leaving in ten,” he grabs his keys off the mantle, “Be ready, or I’ll drag you out myself.”

You watch him walk out with a slam of the door, a refusal dancing on your tongue. And Steve is, in no way, your boss. You’ll cut off your limbs before you let Steve boss you around— but fuck. If his mom is this hellbent on you two spending time together, you’re sure she’ll throw a fit at your refusal, which will ultimately end up being your dad’s problem, and he won’t hesitate to cut you off money-wise. So, with a dramatic huff and an undeniable reluctance, you stomp up to your room and get dressed.

The bar is exactly what you’d imagined— loud, grungy, and somewhere you would never be caught dead in. Yet, here you stand, arms crossed with a tabletop dogging into your lower back and a scowl etched across your face.

The smell of sweat, liquor, and cigarettes wraps around you like a dusty old jacket, sticky floors snapping beneath your shoes with every move you make. The walls are covered in graffiti, posters, and old stickers, and the crowd is primarily full of ripped denim, fishnets, and loud groups of friends.

It's not your scene.

Though you can’t seem to stop watching.

It’s like a movie. Something is happening in every corner of the place, with loud music blaring through the speakers and dancing lights kissing the grimy space. It’s chaotic. It’s noisy and dirty. And you feel so… misplaced.

Your outfit isn’t screaming country club, but it surely isn’t screaming anything close to this.

Steve brought a few other friends along, none of whom you care to learn the names of or attempt to hold a conversation with. You’re too busy trying to ignore the intense burning sensation of smoke in your eyes.

“So, how long are you in town for?”

You glance over at the girl; you think her name is Robin, and shrug, “Unfortunately, the whole summer.” You sigh.

Robin hums, lips pursing in an apologetic look, “Bummer. Can’t imagine giving up a Californian summer for Hawkins.”

You huff, something like a grim smile splitting your lips, “Wasn’t exactly my choice, but,” you shrug again, “No point in crying now.”

Robin raises her glass to that and takes a sip, allowing you to turn back to gaze about the room. You catch a few people headbanging near the stage, smiling as they enjoy the music pouring through the speakers. After a few moments, you lean into Robin. “Is it always this… rowdy?” you ask.

Robin follows your eyes to the group of friends by the stage and smiles, “This place was a shit hole a few years back, actually. Wasn’t much of anything, but Corroded Coffin brings some traction and, well, their music is pretty intense, just like their listeners.”

Your face twists in confusion then, “Corroded Coffin?”

Robin smiles with a nod, “Yeah, Eddie’s band.”

You nod and drag in a breath, diverting your attention back to the stage. So these people listen to Eddie’s music, or at least music similar to Eddie’s. You find yourself annoyingly intrigued.

You gaze at the empty stage that awaits the band, and you hardly realize your mind has wandered as you begin to wonder what kind of show Eddie’s band will put on. Are they any good? You doubt it, honestly— you’re two minutes from a headache already.

You’re not left wondering for long before the boys step onto the stage— four of them, all incredibly different in style yet cohesive in presentation.

The lights shift, reds and blues pouring over the stage as the band takes their place, adjusting instruments and whatnot. You recognize Eddie immediately as he steps up to the mic, testing it for feedback.

He looks different up there. He looks like he belongs. Like this is his place, where he’s meant to be. The messy hair that you’d wrinkled your nose towards at the airport fits perfectly beneath the dim, flashing lights. His tattoos almost look as if they’re on display, like this is an art museum, and he is presenting the art on himself, there on the stage beneath the red hues.

He’s wearing a worn-out band tee with a name you don’t recognize, the sleeves cut off, and the sides ripped open just enough to be irritating. You can see his muscles working beneath his skin, tensing and relaxing as he moves about. He adjusts the mic, entirely at ease, like he’s done this a thousand times before.

He greets the small crowd, humble with the low rumble of his voice, and beside you, Robin hollers out a small cheer that makes you jump— you’d been so lost in watching everyone that you’d almost forgotten you weren’t here alone.

His eyes drift towards the back where you are seated with Steve and his friends, mumbling a low thank you to Robin in the mic before his eyes dance a little to her left, and he meets yours. It’s only for a second before he looks away, and you find yourself relieved not to have been caught in that situation as he glances down at the guitar slung across his body, skilled fingers working the tuning pegs.

And then he smiles to himself.

It’s lazy and confident, the kind of smile that says I know you’re watching.

Your teeth dig into your tongue, your gaze immediately snapping away as if you’ve been caught looking at something you shouldn’t have been looking at.

And as if he knew you were grappling with your resolve and only aimed to torment you more, the first note crashes through the speaker, and the show begins.

It’s loud and raw. Nowhere close to the polished music you listen to, but despite your innate desire to hate everything about it— the rowdy crowd, the thrumming of bass on your chest, the chaos of it all— you only find yourself fascinated more than anything.

You sneak a few glances at Eddie every now and then. Quick ones that you will, later on, string together in your mind to create a stop-motion picture. He’s lost in it. He sings like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do besides breathing. His fingers fly over the fret of his guitar like he was born with it in his hands— and he works the stage like it’s nothing. He owns every inch of this room whether you like it or not— and the scary part is… you don’t seem to dislike it.

And as if that isn’t bad enough, Eddie keeps looking at you.

At every glance, no matter how little or discreet you try to be, Eddie’s eyes always find yours first. As if they never left. And in between songs, when he’s changing the tuning of his instrument or addressing the crowd, his eyes drift off towards the back and onto you, lingering long enough for you to feel it.

And you refuse to react. You know what this is. You know what he’s doing, teasing and provoking your disdain for this night, and you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you crack.

After what feels like an eternity, the set ends. The bar erupts in applause, hoots, and hollers, and the band thanks them all as they hop down from the stage.

You stay glued to your seat, untouched drink resting on the table beside you as you watch Eddie and his band pack up the stage. You lose interest after some time, eyes going back to watching the different scenes of the room. And you had been so focused on everything around you that you didn’t even notice the curly-headed boy make his way up to you.

“Didn’t peg you for a metal fan, princess.”

You look at him, the devilish smirk on his face as he drags a barstool next to you and swings a leg over— invading your space. You can feel how warm he is, seeping through your clothes and penetrating your very soul as you wonder if he knows the concept of personal space.

“I’m not.” You boredly reply.

His brows raise for a split moment, taunting just like his voice as he asks, “No?”

“No.”

“And yet here you are.” He gestures to the dingy bar.

You scoff out a humorless laugh, “Not by choice.”

Eddie grins, shifting on the barstool to let his legs hang more open. You look— just for a second. The thickness of his thighs, the way they strain against his jeans. Stupid. You snap your gaze away before he can notice.

Eddie snags your drink without asking. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.” He says, briefly sniffing the drink before deciding it’ll do. His lips press right over the stain of your lipstick. You know he notices.

Your stomach tenses, but your expression never falters from neutral as you watch him toss the drink back. He drags his pink tongue between his lips, savoring the taste.

The sight is infuriating.

“Take drugs before your little show?” You ask, voice dry.

Eddie hums, snapping his tongue at the taste of your drink before pointing a finger at you matter-of-factly, “I did, actually.”

You condescendingly coo, “Must explain your hallucinations then.”

Eddie chuckles, slow and lazy, as if he expected that response. He shifts on the barstool, taking his time to think, swirling his finger around the rim of the glass a few times before tilting his head toward you, “No one’s gonna, like, lose it if you say you liked the show, you know?” He points out.

Your jaw tightens.

“I mean,” he continues, “given the few precious hours I’ve gotten to know you,” he places a faux-heartfelt hand over his chest, leaning in like he’s making some grand confession, “I don’t think you’d waste a second being somewhere you don’t want to be.”

You grimace at his theatrical performance. But the worst part?

He’s not wrong.

You hate wasting your time, and you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t stand. But did you really have a choice tonight? Not when Steve’s mom is at home, probably working out a million ways to make your life a living hell by forcing you to spend time with her perfect son.

You shrug, playing it off, “Again, not by choice.”

Eddie hums, clicking his tongue as he shakes his head, “Everyone has a choice, princess.” He lulls, slowly letting a lopsided grin split across his lips when he looks at you.

The heat that pricks at the base of your neck is aggravating. Not from embarrassment— from irritation. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. And you thank god the lights in here are dim because, god forbid, Eddie sees any physical evidence of his effect on you.

He’d probably misconstrue it and think you liked him.

You ignore him, “Don’t call me that.”

Eddie hums, tilting his head like he didn’t hear you, “What? Princess?”

“Yes.”

He purses his lips briefly, considering, before grinning again, “Would you rather be called Barbie— because those are my top names for you, doll.” He offers.

Your stomach churns at the thought.

You visibly cringe then, looking at him as you make a sound of disgust, “Neither.”

Eddie gives shrugs, “Why not? It fits you.”

You roll your eyes, unable to keep the annoyed look off your face, “Because it’s annoying.”

“So are you.”

You freeze.

Your eyes snap to him, glaring and hot. He’s smirking around the rim of your glass before tipping back the rest of the drink like it’s his.

“Excuse me?” You bite out.

Eddie puts the empty glass down and slides off the barstool with a deep sigh, swinging it back over to the table he’d stolen it from before throwing a wink your way, “Thanks for coming to the show, princess.”

And as he walks away, leaving you steaming, you realize—

This is going to be your entire summer.

The first weeks of summer are miserable.

A thick and relentless heatwave has settled over Hawkins, turning every breath into a chore. It clings to you, wrapping around your bones from the second you wake up to the moment you rest your head on your pillow again. It makes every movement exhausting.

You spend most of your days sitting in front of a fan, dreaming about California— the cool ocean breeze, the lack of mosquitoes, the ability to breathe without suffocating.

When the sun begins to dip behind the trees, you escape to the backyard, wasting hours by the pool, dangling your legs in the water, relaxing in the few hours of cool air the evening brings you

At night, you run up the phone bill, flipping onto your back and spending hours talking to friends from school, twirling the cord around your fingers, your friend's voices drifting through the static. You talk about everything— who’s dating who, what parties you’re missing, how much you want to be anywhere but here.

Inevitably and routinely, Steve ruins it.

He always does.

“Shut up!” He yells from the intercepted line, “Some of us actually want to sleep!”

You roll your eyes, pressing the phone harder against your ear. You don’t shut up, and you don’t ever plan on it.

Steve isn’t the only problem this summer, though.

No— he’s not even the worst one.

Because for the first time in the history of knowing Steve, he is not the leading cause of your headaches.

That honor belongs to Eddie Munson.

Eddie is obnoxiously, disgustingly everywhere.

And you don’t know why.

You’re not sure what path of destruction Steve has chosen, but suddenly, Eddie is constantly in your house.

It’s like some rotting, stoner apocalypse has overtaken the upstairs— video games blaring, pantry raids, the distinct smell of weed they air out through Steve’s window— it’s twenty-four seven.

And no matter what you do or where you go, Eddie makes sure you know he’s there.

— As you walk past Steve’s room:

“Bring up a soda when you come back, princess!”

“No!”

“Worth a shot.”

— Late at night, when you’re sneakily digging through your stepmother’s stash of chocolate:

“Don’t you get tired of having to match all of your pajamas? I’ve never seen you in regular shorts and t-shirts.”

“Don’t you get tired of wearing that ratty old t-shirt every day?”

Eddie grins, “You noticed. Cute.”

— Or in the backseat of Steve’s car as he drives you to a friend's house:

“You look good today, special occasion?”

“Stop trying to hit on me. Steve, tell your friend to stop hitting on me.”

Steve rolls his eyes as Eddie responds, “I think you like it.”

“It kills me inside a little, honestly.”

“God, that’s so hot.”

“Gross.”

It’s constant.

It’s guaranteed at this rate that if Eddie is in the vicinity, he’ll find a way to get on your nerves. And the most annoying part of it all is you feel something. There in the pit of your stomach, or sometimes your chest.

You think it might be early onset asthma from the amount of secondhand smoke you’ve had to endure around him.

That being said, since you’ve spent the past few weeks growing used to Eddie’s constant presence, you can’t help but notice how he has yet to bother you at the bonfire Steve has dragged you to— another courtesy of his darling mother.

You hadn’t seen much of Eddie all night, only at the start of the evening when he had first arrived. And with Eddie and Steve being your only ‘friends’ here and the former having gone missing, you’re kind of pissed when Steve says he’s going off to be with some girl for the night.

“Why can’t you drop me off at home now?” You frown as you storm after your stepbrother. Steve groans, “Because it’s a total boner killer— oh, sorry, I just have to drop off my sister at home real quick,” he mockingly says before cringing, “Are you kidding me? No.” He scoffs.

You’re the one to groan now, stomping after him as he weaves through the cars parked on the hill in front of the lake— “You can’t just leave me here, Steve!” You stress as Steve makes it to his car, which is already occupied by a girl in the passenger seat as she waits for him.

Steve glances at you, “Would you relax? I’m not leaving you stranded; I’ll be gone for an hour— maybe two.” He rolls his eyes when you dramatically groan. “Look, just talk to someone to pass the time. And if you really want to leave, find Eddie.” He shrugs before opening his door.

“I haven’t even seen him all night.” You point out, to which Steve just shrugs again before pointing over your shoulder, “Couldn’t have gone far if his van is still here.”

And sure enough, when you glance over your shoulder, Eddie’s van is parked just a few cars down. You turn back to plead for Steve to take you home but are disappointed to see him already in his car, waving a taunting hand in farewell as he backs out.

Then you’re stranded. You’re stuck, all by yourself, at a bonfire you could care less about with people you don’t even know.

And you miss home more than you can afford to admit.

You find yourself walking towards Eddie’s van, leaves crunching beneath your feet as you grumble your way to the front of the car. Given the height of the vehicle, it's hard, but you manage to climb your way up onto the van's hood, cool metal pressing against your thighs as you settle on it.

You’re hardly paying attention when Eddie walks up, too busy plotting ways to escape back to your home when he clears his throat. You look up, catching his gaze as he walks up to the front of the van, tilting his head in question as he looks at you perched upon his car.

“Didn’t know you’re so eager to see me, doll.” He smirks.

You roll your eyes, glancing away at the distant flicker of fire, “Don’t flatter yourself; Steve left me stranded here, so I need a ride home.” You grumble at the last part, glaring at him when he hums.

Eddie grins, walking closer until he can turn and rest against the car's grille, “Left you with good company then.” He teases as he digs out a cigarette from his pocket.

You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat of his body seeping into the skin of your leg. “I’d beg to differ.”

He snickers, pearly teeth peeking out behind his grin as he sticks the cigarette between his lips. You watch him light the end of the stick, thin trails of smoke leaving the side of his mouth before he pulls in one quick drag.

He exhales, a cloud of smoke wrapping around you both as he glances at you, shifting with a deep sigh before he speaks, “So,” he starts, “What’s it like? The whole college thing.”

You think for a moment, glancing at the bonfire some yards away before you shrug, kicking your heel again, “Fast. Loud. Always something going on.” You briefly reply.

Eddie hums as he takes another drag, “Sounds awful.”

You huff a small laugh, “Yeah, you’d hate it.” You agree— which is true. Most days, you hate it, too.

You nudge him with your foot, suppressing a grin when he nudges you back as you ask, “What about you?”

Eddie snorts, “M’not in college, princess.”

You roll your eyes, “I know that,” you dismiss, “I meant, like… Do you ever plan on leaving this place?”

Eddie hesitates momentarily, distracting himself with his cigarette before he shrugs, “Nah.”

You suspect he’s lying, but he doesn’t give you a chance to pry before he speaks up, “You ever smoked before?”

Your lips curl in disgust, “No. Gross habit.” You grumble.

Eddie glances at you, raising an eyebrow as he takes a drag. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he says, plucking the cigarette from his lips and raising it to you. “Go ahead, princess. Let’s see what you’re made of, " he challenges.

Your face twists in disgust as you glare at the burning paper between his fingers, “No thanks.”

Eddie hums, tilting his head tauntingly, “Scared?” He teases.

“No.” You snap.

He wiggles the cigarette at you, “Then take a hit.” He says with a teasing lilt to his voice.

You glare down at him, eyes slightly narrowed— and it’s so stupid. You know Eddie is only doing this as some silly way of provoking you. You know he wants you to do the predictable thing, which is snap back with some witty remark, but as you look at the curly-haired boy smirking up at you with that dark glint in his eye, you know there’s only one thing you have to do.

You take the cigarette.

“Fine.” You grumble.

Eddie raises a brow as he turns to face you. He now stands before you, watching you turn the burning paper between your fingers. “Pointers?” You ask.

Eddie’s lips twitch in a smirk, boots crunching against the leaves as he steps closer, the chain on his pants brushing against your ankle. “Don’t cough and embarrass yourself.” He teases, to which you roll your eyes, “Helpful.” You mutter.

He grins as he cages you in, one palm pressed to the hood of the car as the other gestures to the unlit end of the cigarette, “Lips here and just inhale slow; don’t overthink it.”

You nod, gazing at the cigarette before you shrug and bring it to your lips with not much of a mental preparation— because how hard can it be to smoke a cigarette? Apparently, it’s hard— because one moment you’re breathing just fine, and the next you’re coughing up a lung on Eddie Munson’s car hood.

You cringe, coughing violently as your eyes well up with tears. “Shit—” you hold up the cigarette with a grimace, “People actually like this stuff?” You question with a groggy voice, coughs still sputtering up from your chest. Eddie laughs, a real, guttural laugh, as he takes his gift from you, “Good, right?” He asks.

You shake your head, eyes wild, as you look at him. “No! Not at all, " you stress. “I won’t be trying that again.” You shake your head, watching as he takes a drag, lips pulled into a smirk as he looks at you.

He blows the smoke off to the side, still gazing up at you as he jokes, “You’re already halfway to a badass reputation, princess.”

You roll your eyes, pressing your palms onto the car hood as you slightly lean forward, your body slowly relaxing after having nearly lost a lung. “Right, because sharing a cigarette with a guy like you in the middle of a shitty bonfire is exactly how I pictured my future as a child.”

Eddie rolls his tongue behind his cheek for a moment, his lips twitching with something like a lazy smile before he asks, “A guy like me?”

You hum in confirmation, and he slightly narrows his eyes. “What does that look like?” He asks.

Your eyes dance, something charged dancing between you both that you, upon weak judgment, decide to ignore.

“Reckless. Irresponsible. Cocky.” You list off.

Eddie hums, feigning understanding, “Bad company for a girl like you, I assume?” He prods.

And you don’t have to ask what he thinks you are before you nod, “Absolutely.”

It falls silent momentarily, that charged sensation thickening between you both. And maybe you hadn’t been aware of it; perhaps you had been so wrapped up in the conversation, but you’re not exactly sure when Eddie’s hands had gotten so close to yours.

You can feel his warmth; right there, just inches away for you to grasp and sink your palms into. His calloused fingertips are ghostly sensations against your soft knuckles, daring you to inch forward and just touch him. The space between your fingers buzzes, like a current threatening to connect.

You could do it.

You kind of want to do it.

It would take nothing to close the distance.

And Eddie? He’s waiting.

His brown eyes— dark and rich like the earth you walk on— flicker downwards and take in the sight of the space between your hands.

And you know Eddie.

You’ve been around Eddie enough to know that he likes touch; Eddie communicates through it like his words won’t do his warmth justice. So, when his gaze flickers back to you, and there’s that look swimming in his gaze, you know what he wants to do.

You know he wants to let his touch speak for itself.

And you nearly let your desires win.

But in the distance, a bottle crashes, and an eruption of cheers lifts, and you’re back in your body.

Your spine stiffens. Your throat tightens. Your stomach churns. And your fingers curl away from him.

You pull away— not abruptly, but just enough that the moment feels as if it’s lingering like the smoke that had left Eddie’s lungs minutes ago.

You blink, pulling in the crisp summer air as you sit up, putting space where there was none.

“So, can you drive me home or not?”

Eddie blinks, the moment fractured between you— and you think he might speak on it.

But he says nothing.

Disappointment swirls in his eyes, barely showing before it’s gone. You take in a breath, glancing away as he pulls back and clears his throat, dusting his thumb across his nose in nervous habit as he nods, “Uh,” he blinks, flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his boot.

You hate the feeling that stirs in your chest, and you hate that you want to fix it. But Eddie nods anyway, fishing his keys from his pocket and forcing a half-hearted smile.

“Yeah, princess, let’s get you home.”

I wanna take you home

I won't do you no harm, no

You've gotta be all mine, all mine

Aw shucks, foxey lady

- foxey lady x jimi hendrix

part two.

cutie teeny taglist: @kellsck @your-nightmaredoll @hereforshmut @emxxblog @mdurdenpitt @glassbxttless @peculiarwren @aactuaaltraash @daveythorntonslocker

————

a/n: HIII if you’ve made it this far i hope you enjoyed the first part to this little 5 part series !! i’ve got a packed summer planned for these two so i hope you’ll stick along for the ride :) also, expect smut next chappy hehe. anyway, as always, thank you for reading, ily and appreciate any and all forms of feedback <3

#ALRIGHTY #LETS SEE HOW THIS GOES #ENJOYYY #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie x reader #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson au #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson smut #eddie x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson headcanon #eddie x fem!reader #stranger things au

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demie90s · 7 days ago

Text

ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ

Gf!Azzi x Ex!Paige x Tattoo Artist!Reader

NAVIGATION | MORE

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’ve been working nonstop, so your girlfriend says she planned something to help you relax—“Just us. You deserve it.” Private boat. Sunset. Chill vibes.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: ~ 10k

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Slow-burn smut, psychological seduction, love triangle chaos, threesome tension, “I’m the prize” energy

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUT. PURE FILTH. Alcohol use, explicit smut, oral (f. receiving), fingering, light teasing/edging, jealousy games, possessive behavior, power shifts, language, reader being down very bad, two fine ass women taking full advantage of your Henny-induced confusion

You didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a tattoo artist, but now you couldn’t imagine being anything else.

There’s something addictive about it—the buzz, the ink, the skin. It’s controlled chaos, and you like having that kind of authority in your hands. You like the quiet it demands. No one talks over a needle. They just breathe through the pain, squirm, whisper, hold on. Some cry. Some moan. Some grip your thigh and never say a word.

You work until your knuckles ache. Until your eyes are dry and your lower back feels like it’s grinding against bone. Until your head pulses with the echo of your own machine, long after the last client leaves. It’s the only time your brain shuts the hell up.

Azzi tells you all the time you need to slow down.

“You’re gonna burn yourself out,” she says, curling up beside you when you finally drag yourself into bed.

“I’m already burnt,” you mutter, cheek pressed to her chest, the scent of vanilla lotion thick in your lungs. “I wanna get fucked on a boat.”

She laughs quietly, fingers tracing the fresh ink behind your ear. “A boat?”

“Yeah. Somewhere sunny. No phones. No appointments. Just me, you, and a bottle.”

Azzi hums like she’s thinking it over. You figure it’s just talk. Something to fantasize about before passing out with her arms around you.

But three days later, she’s standing in your room with a little smirk and a zip-up half undone. “Wear something comfortable. I’m taking you somewhere. It involves water.”

You should’ve known something was off.

It’s a good-ass day. Warm sun. Light breeze. Lake water catching the light like a mirror. The dock is quiet—just you and her and the distant hum of cicadas. You’re in loose cargo shorts and a cropped black tee, sleeves rolled to your shoulders, gold chain swinging against your chest. Green bikini under. Azzi likes when you wear black. Says it makes your skin glow.

She’s a step ahead of you, hoodie tossed over her shoulder, walking like she’s floating. Calm. Confident. Like she owns the whole damn lake.

You squint through the sun. “What we waitin’ for?”

She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look back. Her curls bounce in a tight little bun and the smile on her face is… smug. Not in a mean way. But in that quiet I know something you don’t kinda way.

“Az,” you call, dragging your voice, “you tryna surprise me or set me up?”

Still no answer. She steps onto a long white boat like she’s done it a hundred times. Balanced, barefoot, completely unbothered. You’re two seconds from teasing her again when you hear it.

“Wassup.”

You stop mid-step. That voice—it slides over your skin like ice water. You lift your head, and there she is.

Paige. Your ex.

Sitting cross-legged on a bench cushion like she belongs there, shades halfway down her nose, blonde hair pulled up, smooth thighs on full display under that soft gray tank top. The light hits her skin just right—like it always does. She’s holding a red Solo cup and watching you like she already knows how this day ends.

Your mouth goes dry. You blink. “What the fuck..why the fuck.”

Azzi hops onto the boat beside her, dropping the Henny down between them like this is just another Sunday. She’s moving too casually. Like this isn’t batshit insane. Like this doesn’t break every unspoken rule about girlfriends and exes and boats.

You stay frozen on the dock.

“…You gotta be joking,” you say, finally.

Azzi only shrugs, peeling her hoodie off slow. “You said you wanted to get fucked on a boat.”

“I meant—with you.”

“Exactly.” You squint at her. Then at Paige. “Y’all know each other?”

Azzi hums. “Played against her.”

Paige takes a slow sip. “Fought her.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Fought her?”

They look at each other. That eerie, we’re not enemies anymore kind of look. Azzi stretches like a cat. “Last game. Locker room. Shit got loud.”

“Over what?”

Paige tilts her head, like she’s recalling a funny memory. “You.”

Your head jerks back. “Me?”

“She said I was obsessed,” Paige murmurs.

Azzi smirks. “She said she fucks you better.”

You stare, hands clenched at your sides. “So y’all fought each other—then planned a boat day?”

Paige shrugs. “We came to an understanding.”

Azzi nods. “A deal, really.”

Your voice drops. “What kind of deal.”

They ignore the question like you never asked it. Azzi pours a drink. Paige pats the seat between them.

“Come sit,” she says.

Your pride screams no, but your feet betray you. You climb on slow, eyes sharp, body tense. You sit down stiff. Far from both of them.

You cross your arms. “Y’all weird.”

Azzi doesn’t pass the cup. She holds it, swirling the amber liquid slowly like she’s thinking. Like she’s teasing herself just watching it move. You reach out for it without a word, palm open, fingers twitching—

And she pulls it back. Your brows lift. “Seriously?” She just smiles. That quiet, unreadable kind of smile. Sweet.

“Open up,” she says.

You scoff through your nose, leaning back a little. “Girl, I can drink myself—”

But she tilts the cup higher, and before you can finish that sentence, she’s tipping the rim to your lips. You tense. Only for a second. Then your mouth opens.

The Henny hits your tongue slow, and you swear you feel it before you taste it—warm, smooth, sinful. It coats your throat like honey and lights a slow burn in your chest, the kind that spreads down and settles between your thighs with no shame.

Azzi watches you drink like she’s studying art. Paige’s grin grows wider. You try to keep your cool, but your thighs shift without thinking. Your hoodie suddenly feels too thick, too hot, too in the way.

As soon as it hits your system, you know. You’re fucked. Literally. You swallow hard, the burn chasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding. The taste lingers, heady and strong, like it was made to weaken you.

Azzi sets the cup down, brushing her fingers against your chin.

“You good?” she asks.

You nod, barely. Your lips are parted. Your skin prickles.

Paige leans in with a smirk that’s all memory and intent. “You already look drunk. And we haven’t even started.”

You blink slow. Your mouth feels too soft. Your body too warm.

She places the bottle beside her on the bench and reclines, legs crossed, hoodie off, looking at me like she’s proud of herself. Like I’m exactly where she wanted me.

Then Paige speaks, voice soft but sharp.

“…Truth or dare?”

“Huh?” I blink slow.

She’s leaned back, hand draped over the edge of the seat, sunglasses off now. Her eyes are clear and locked on me. Calm. Dangerous. That same look she used to give me when she was about to drag me to hell and make me thank her for the trip.

“I said,” she repeats, “truth or dare.”

I laugh once, dry. “Y’all serious?”

Azzi shrugs. “It’s just a game.”

“Yeah, and I know y’all,” I mutter, looking between them. “Nothing is just anything when both of y’all involved.”

But Paige leans in a little, cup in her hand, ice clinking soft. “You scared?”

I tilt my head, teeth sinking into my bottom lip. “I don’t scare easy.”

“Good,” she says. “Then you know the rules. You fold—you drink.”

I roll my eyes but reach for the bottle again. “Y’all better not start no—”

“Truth or dare,” Paige interrupts, cutting me off with that smug-ass smirk. She doesn’t wait.

Azzi is already watching me with her chin in her hand, eyes soft and way too damn focused.

“…Truth,” I say, shoulders tense.

Paige takes a sip, licks her lips, and hits me with it.

“Which one of us made you cum harder?”

The air leaves my lungs. Azzi just raises her eyebrows like she’s curious too. Like she don’t already think she knows the answer. Like she didn’t spend last weekend with her mouth on me for an hour straight.

I hesitate. Just for a second. Paige tilts her head. “Drink.”

I scoff under my breath, but I reach for the bottle. Azzi beats me to it.

“Nope,” she murmurs. “Let me.”

I exhale through my nose and lean back just enough. And again—she pours. No warning. No teasing this time. Just slow Henny to my mouth like I asked for it. And I guess I did.

I cough once. Wipe my lips. And shake it off like it didn’t send a bolt of heat straight down my spine.

“My turn,” Azzi says, licking her teeth. “Truth or dare?”

I narrow my eyes. “Dare.”

Her smile shifts—just a little. Almost unnoticeable. But I know her too well.

“Kiss her neck,” she says. Simple. Even. Soft.

I hesitate. Not because I can’t. Not because I don’t want to. But because I know what happens if I do.

Paige turns her head, baring her neck like she’s already got the win. Her throat is smooth, tan, barely freckled. I hate that I remember how she tastes. I hate more that I’ve thought about it.

But I lean forward slow, palm brushing Paige’s thigh as I find the angle, and press my lips just under her jaw. Just once. Soft. Her breath catches. So does mine.

I pull back too quickly, and Azzi’s watching my mouth like she wants next.

Paige grins, voice husky. “You still kiss like you miss it.”

I roll my eyes and lean away. “Next.”

But the Henny’s in my system now. Heavy. Spinning. My stomach is tight, my skin hot. My thoughts are foggy and slow and soft like velvet—and the way both of them are looking at me now?

Yeah. I’m the game. I’m already losing.

Azzi lifts the glass again. She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait.

I’m mid-breath when the rim touches my mouth and she pours it slow, like she’s feeding a craving I can’t name. I don’t even get a chance to protest this time. The burn slides over my tongue, down my throat, and settles low in my belly—warm, deep, curling in places that shouldn’t be awake yet.

I swallow thick. My mouth tingles. My head’s getting hazy. She taps my chin with two fingers and sets the cup down.

“Truth or dare?” Paige’s voice cuts through the heat like silk.

I blink hard. “Dare. Yall not playing ri-“

Paige smirks. “Unbutton your pants.”

I laugh. “Excuse me?”

She leans forward. “If you’re not scared.”

Azzi just watches. Like she doesn’t have a single opinion. Like this ain’t her girl sitting here with thighs spread and lips wet from Henny.

I hold Paige’s stare as I pop the first button. Then the second. Slow. Deliberate. I don’t pull them down, but I spread my legs just enough to let the air kiss my hips. My skin jumps at the breeze, sensitive now, tight with anticipation. They both look. And I feel it.

Azzi reaches again. Another pour. They not even playing right. The Henny’s like oil now—gliding, thick, sultry. It coats my tongue like syrup and makes my whole body heavy. My nipples are hard. I can feel the pulse in my throat.

“You tryna fuck me or drown me?” I murmur.

Azzi smiles with her eyes. “Yes.”

I don’t even respond. I just lean back and let the liquor do its thing. Next round.

Azzi: “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Take your top off.”

Paige whistles under her breath. “Y’all playin’ dirty.”

“Only fair,” Azzi says, sipping slow.

I roll my eyes but pull my tank over my head. Sports bra underneath, snug and black. My tattoos stretch as I shift, and I see them both looking again. Paige’s eyes drop to my ribs. Azzi’s linger on my chest.

Another pour. This one hits harder. I close my eyes as it coats my throat, and this time I feel it roll all the way down between my thighs. Everything under my waistband is hot. I don’t even blink anymore when they pass the bottle. I just open my mouth and let it slide in.

I don’t know how many dares we’ve gone through. Five? Seven? The Henny’s made time slippery. I’m loose, open, throbbing in ways I can’t show—yet.

I sit forward, legs still parted, lips glossy. My voice is lower now, thick with liquor and want.

“My turn.”

They both look at me.

I turn to Azzi. “Truth or dare.”

She arches one perfect brow. “Dare.”

My lips curl. “Kiss my thigh.”

She moves without hesitation. Slow. Sensual. Her hand grips my inner knee, and her mouth grazes just above where my tattoo ends. Her lips are soft. Warm. I exhale harder than I mean to. Paige shifts beside me.

Azzi lingers. I grip her curls once, just enough to remind her who’s watching, and she smirks against my skin before pulling away.

Paige’s voice is low. “You like making her perform?”

I turn to her. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss this.”

Then Azzi—calm, casual—leans back and says it.

“I dare you to kiss Paige.”

My head snaps. She ain’t even ask. I stare at her. Then at Paige.

I blink. “You want me to…?”

Azzi shrugs. “You’re the one who keeps staring.”

Paige. She doesn’t say shit. Just licks her lips and leans in—like she’s been waiting. My mouth drops open. “You lucky I’m horny.” Then I move. I kiss her.

Not a peck. Not a fake, awkward brush. A kiss. Full lips, soft tongue, mouth open, like I’m proving a point. Like I’m trying to shut her up and remind her why she used to lose her mind behind closed doors. Paige grips my waist, pulls me in closer. I let her.

I forget where I am for a second—until I feel it. Warm breath. Right at my neck. Azzi.

She’s behind me now, lips grazing my throat, kissing the space just under my ear. Her hands glide around my ribs like she’s claiming territory while Paige’s mouth is still on mine.

I break the kiss fast. Chest heaving. Mind racing.

“Nah,” I whisper, heart pounding. “Y’all not slick.”

Azzi kisses the other side of my neck. “What?”

I shift back slightly, eyes flicking between them.

Azzi kisses the other side of my neck, and I don’t flinch.

I lean into her, slow and fluid, the weight of the liquor in my system making every move feel syrupy and warm. My body’s buzzing now—every nerve on edge, lips swollen, heart hammering steady in my chest.

I keep my eyes on Paige. She’s still close, lips slightly parted, that look in her eye like she wants more but doesn’t want to ask.

So I help her.

My hand slides up her jaw, slow. Confident. I hold her there for a moment, thumb brushing across her bottom lip like I’m checking the quality of something I already own. And then—with no hesitation—I guide her forward.

Straight into Azzi. Azzi doesn’t question me. She just turns her head and meets her halfway. No pause. No resistance.

Their lips brush once—soft, teasing—and then they melt into it.

And I sit back. Just watching. Eyes glazed, mouth slightly open, head tilted like I’m admiring a painting that moans.

The way their mouths move is almost too perfect. Like I really made my Barbies kiss. Tongues grazing slow, lips parting deeper with each pass. Hands lightly brushing each other’s thighs like they’re getting used to the idea—then suddenly needing it.

Azzi hums softly, and Paige tilts her head just a little more, mouth opening wider. They’re tasting each other now, letting it build. Messy. Sexy. Hungry in that slow, grown way. No rush. Just tension.

I’m leaned back, legs open, Henny still warming my chest and making my clit throb, just watching like a goddamn pimp.

“Yeah…” I whisper, eyes dropping to their mouths again. “Y’all look good together.”

My voice is low, sweet, but the power in it is loud as hell. This wasn’t their idea. It was mine.

Azzi’s hand slips into Paige’s hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back. Paige moans into it, soft and sweet, and their mouths move like they’ve done this before—like they’ve wanted to.

I’m watching like I’m not real. Legs spread, skin hot, chest rising and falling. My head’s tilted back against the cushion, but my eyes won’t leave their lips. Their tongues. The soft wet sounds between them.

It’s too good. My hand slides down without me even noticing.

Fingertips grazing the curve of my stomach, just barely brushing the waistband of my cargos—unzipped, loose, begging for a slip of skin.

I drag my hand lower. My breath catches. My thighs twitch. And then I stop. Right there. Palm resting, fingers hovering. Because as drunk and needy as I am, as much as my body is screaming to be touched—I don’t want me.

I want them.

I want Azzi’s fingers—slow and strong and careful, like she’s drawing her name into me. I want Paige’s mouth, fast and cocky, daring me to beg. I want them both on me like they are on each other—hungry.

I swallow hard and pull my hand back up, slow, clenching it into a fist like restraint.

Paige and Azzi are still kissing, all heat and wet mouths and smug hands tugging at each other’s shirts like they don’t even remember I’m here.

So I remind them. My shorts are unzipped—have been since Paige dared me earlier—and now I’m past pretending. I push them down just enough to get free, just enough to get dangerous. My hand slides beneath the waistband of my underwear, and I don’t hesitate.

I’m wet. Embarrassingly wet. Dripping, throbbing, aching kind of wet. Henny-warm and slow between my legs. It only takes one touch to make me gasp.

I throw my leg over Paige’s lap like I own the boat. Like I own her.

She doesn’t flinch, just breaks the kiss and glances down at where my thigh presses against her stomach. Her hand settles instinctively on my leg, fingers grazing my skin like she missed it.

Azzi leans back slightly to look at me. Her mouth is red. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes—dark. I moan, just a little. Not for them. For me. Because I want to.

I dip my fingers again and shudder. I spread wider. I make a fucking mess on purpose. The boat sways and I don’t care. The wind brushes against my neck and I don’t care. I’m high off Henny and heat and the twisted satisfaction of watching two fine ass athletes realize I don’t need them—I want them.

That’s worse. I press harder. I start breathing faster. Azzi’s hand snaps around my wrist. Paige grabs the other one. Tight. Sharp. Immediate.

“Uh-uh,” Azzi says, voice low and scolding. “That’s not how this goes.”

I blink, dazed. “Y’all mad?”

Paige looks at her, then at me. Her hand doesn’t move. “This whole thing was about us—not you fuckin’ yourself.”

Azzi leans in close, her grip softening but still firm. “You think we came here to watch you play?”

The Henny makes me bold. “Thought it was a game.”

Paige chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “You remember that fight we had in the locker room?”

Azzi smiles without warmth. “The one right after you moaned her name mid-game?”

“Yeah.” Paige shifts, getting closer, her knee now pressing between my legs. “She said I was obsessed. I said I fucked you better.”

My breathing stutters. Azzi’s thumb brushes over my jaw. “So we decided to find out.”

It clicks. Not just the day. Not just the setup. The reason. A goddamn test. My mouth opens, but I don’t say anything. And then Azzi says it, low and dark and cruel in the sexiest way:

“I want to see how she fucks you. So I can do it even better.”

Paige doesn’t even blink. Azzi tilts my face toward her and says, so sweet I nearly lose it—

“You don’t have to do anything but sit and look pretty, okay baby?”

That alone makes me moan. Soft. Shaky. Embarrassed by how easy it is to pull it out of me.

Azzi kisses me like she means it. Both hands on my face, holding me steady, like I’m something fragile she’s about to break slow. Her lips are warm and soft, tongue slipping in like we’ve never kissed before.

Paige’s hand slides right where I need it. Not soft. Not gentle. Claiming. And I damn near cry.

Azzi’s kissing me like she’s in love. Like she’s been waiting for this all day, maybe all month, maybe since she first saw me walk out the shop with my hands aching and my attitude sharp. She’s soft but deep, both palms cradling my face like she doesn’t want me to look at anything but her. Like she wants to remind me—this started with her.

And honestly, if her lips stay like that, I might faint. Drunk, horny, emotional. I’ve never been kissed like I’m being prayed to. But that’s when Paige shifts.

She sinks lower, and my breath catches when I feel her hand brush the inside of my thigh—fingers cool against the heat she knows damn well she’s responsible for.

And she knows. Because she smiles. Right before she shoves my legs apart without asking. Not rough, but not gentle either. Just claiming space. The Henny’s in my head. My back arches. I break the kiss for a second to gasp, to breathe, to process the way the air hits the slick mess between my thighs.

I shouldn’t be this wet. I mean… maybe I should.

It’s me. But goddamn. Paige hums when she sees it—eyes on my dark green bikini, wet in the center like I been thinking nasty since the dock. She palms me first, just applying pressure. Nothing too bold.

Azzi kisses me again, deeper now, tongue teasing the roof of my mouth like she’s tasting everything I’ve ever said. Then Paige presses in harder. Rubs in slow, perfect circles. She’s not even trying to get me off—she’s just… watching. Making it messy.

Some of it’s me. Most of it’s her. Her fingers hook in the side of my bikini bottoms. She pulls it aside and exhales when she sees the gloss between my folds.

“Damn,” she mutters, almost to herself.

Then she runs two fingers right through it. Slow and bold. Tip to clit. I shake. She pulls her hand back and stares at it—wet, shining.

She puts her fingers in her mouth. Tastes me. Smirks.

“Still sweet,” she says. “Thought that was just a memory.”

I don’t even have time to recover before she’s rubbing my clit again, small tight circles, like she wants to play it cool but she’s already got a point to prove.

My mouth drops open. I don’t moan. I just breathe like I’m overwhelmed. Because I am. Azzi sees it. She kisses me again—then pulls back. Just enough. Her hands hold my face steady. Her thumbs stroke my cheeks.

And her voice is Soft. Real soft.

“Open your mouth for me, baby.” My whole body twitches. But I do it.

Lips part. Tongue out. Eyes half-lidded and drunk and horny as hell. And Azzi—gentle, calm—leans in. And spits. Right in my mouth. It’s Slow. Purposeful. And I moan around it like a slut. (We like a freak)

I’m already broken.

I don’t even pretend to have control anymore. My legs are spread, panties pushed to the side, clit getting rubbed like it’s the main attraction—and maybe it is. I mean, the way Paige is staring at it? Like it’s hers? She’s smug and steady, rubbing me with two fingers like she’s testing her own memory.

Like she’s checking if I still react the same way. I do.

I shift, eyes fluttering. My whole body is tight, like a string ready to snap. My left leg lifts without me thinking—one hand reaching under my knee, the other grabbing Paige’s shoulder—and I hook it right over her.

Her face is right there. Close. Focused. And I don’t care about the space anymore. I want them in it. Azzi slides beside her, quiet and calm, like she’s in no rush—but I know her. That calm hides teeth.

Paige doesn’t stop rubbing. Her fingers are gliding easy now, my slick coating her knuckles, and she looks at Azzi like this is casual.

Like this is normal. Then they kiss. Real quick. Not soft. Not sweet. Hungry. Their mouths meet and I bite my fist, teeth sinking into the side of my hand just to stay quiet. But I fail.

A moan slips out anyway. High and choked. Paige breaks the kiss first, licks her lips, and without warning—sticks those same fingers right in Azzi’s mouth.

Azzi doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just wraps her lips around Paige’s fingers and sucks. Slow.

Her eyes close, and she moans real soft, tongue curling around the taste of me like she’s sipping something expensive.

When she pulls back, Paige watches her for a second…then slides those wet fingers into her own mouth. They’re freaks.

My freaks.

I swallow hard. My throat tight. My pussy throbbing. I don’t even have time to react before Paige finally drops between my legs. No talking. No teasing. Just tongue.

She goes straight for my clit, mouth hot and filthy, tongue flat then pointed then swirling in a way that makes my legs shake. I cry out—raw and surprised—because I forgot how mean she is with her mouth.

She sucks just hard enough to make me twitch. Then licks slow enough to keep me on edge. Azzi watches.

She’s still beside her. Still calm. Still beautiful. Her hand comes up and slides behind my thigh—pulling my other leg back, holding it down so Paige can get in deeper.

They’re not doing this for me. They’re doing this for them. And I’m just the proof. They take turns.

Azzi moves in after Paige pulls back, licking up everything she left behind like she’s claiming her territory. Her tongue is slower. Deeper. She moans into it. Uses her whole mouth.

Then she pulls back, wipes her chin with the back of her hand. I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.

Everything’s heavy. My limbs, my lashes, my breath—dragging, floating, gone. I’m somewhere between a moan and a prayer, soaked all the way through, hips rolling on instinct now, not even for show. Just to survive.

And they haven’t let me cum. Not once. They’ve been passing me back and forth like dessert.

Paige’s tongue is deep and deliberate, messy in a way that makes my thighs clamp and shake until Azzi pulls them apart again. One hand gripping the back of my knee, the other stroking slow patterns into my ribs like she’s keeping me grounded—like I’m not seconds away from screaming.

And then I feel it. Azzi’s fingers. She slides them in slow, knuckles deep before I even realize I’m ready—but I am. I’m soaked. Beyond soaked. It’s loud, disgusting, perfect.

I can barely breathe. The stretch makes me arch off the cushion, chest bare, mouth open, no sound coming out. And still—no release. Just the pressure.

Just Paige’s mouth on my clit, licking like she’s being timed. Like she’s trying to rip something out of me with her tongue alone.

Azzi leans in, lips brushing my ear so soft I twitch, and she whispers it.

“Let her cum on your tongue so I can taste it.”

I whimper. I try to hold it. I really do. But Paige hears it. Feels it. Doubles down. Azzi curls her fingers just right.

Eyes rolling. A moan so loud it sounds like I got hit, like I’m not just cumming—I’m losing my mind. My whole body tightens, pulses, throbs through the waves, and Paige doesn’t stop. Not for a second. Azzi watches every single shake.

And when I finally collapse back, twitching, twitching, twitching— Azzi pulls her fingers out slow. Paige pulls back, lips slick, proud. Azzi holds her hand up. Still wet. Glowing in the sunset light.

She licks her fingers clean. Eyes on mine. Mouth full of me. And she moans. That orgasm wrung the soul outta me.

My legs finally fall back together, shaking like I ran sprints through hell and came out wetter. I can barely breathe, let alone speak. My head’s spinning, my hands limp, body twitching in aftershocks—and somehow, somehow I’m still horny.

I try to close my thighs tighter, locking the heat between them. But I can feel it dripping. Still. Even after all that. They just stand there. Looking down at me like I’m a good little project finally falling apart.

Azzi’s licking her lips. Paige is wiping her chin with the back of her hand. Both of them breathing heavy, not from effort—but from patience.

Because they’re not done. I look up at them, dazed, still glowing and glazed, and they��re just talking. Like I’m not even there.

“She’s soft now,” Paige says, cocky, arms crossed. “Probably can’t take me yet.”

Azzi smirks. “You sure? I thought you fucked her better.”

“Still do.”

“Then go first.”

“You don’t wanna warm her up more?”

I shift, groaning. “I’m right here, fuck—”

But I’m not. Not really.

Because the second I try to sit up, Azzi moves first. She grabs me by the waist, like I’m light, like I’m hers, and lifts me clean off the cushions. I gasp, instinctively clinging to her, and then I feel Paige’s hands on my thighs—steadying me, guiding my legs around her waist.

Now I’m straddling. One arm around Azzi’s neck. One hand gripping Paige’s shoulder. Kisses everywhere. Lips on my collarbone, my jaw, my chest. My head falls back.

I’m floating again. The boat is swaying gentle beneath us, wind still kissing the deck, sun hitting my skin—but we’re moving. They’re carrying me. Somewhere.

A door creaks. A lock clicks. The world shifts. And then I see it. The bed.

White sheets, black pillows, clean and untouched like it’s been waiting. The cabin’s cool but my skin is hot. The floor soft. The air thick. The kind of silence that tells you something nasty is about to happen.

They planned this. To a tee. I’m laid down gently—Azzi on one side, Paige on the other. They don’t rush. Just brush my skin, my thighs, my ribs, soft fingers tracing the mess they’ve made.

I squirm. Whimper. Try to roll my hips but there’s nowhere to go.

One of them—I don’t know who—is between my legs again. Just rubbing. Barely. Just enough to remind me how wrecked I am.

The other? Rummaging. Click. Snap. Fabric shift. A harness. A strap. Both of em. My mouth drops open.

“Y’all crazy,” I breathe, chest rising like I just ran. “You fuckin’ insane—”

Azzi’s mouth shuts me up. Kisses me deep, both hands gripping my face like she owns it. She presses forward from below. Not inside. Not yet.

But I feel the strap’s length drag right across my clit, slick and thick, and I moan straight into Azzi’s mouth like a warning.

My legs twitch again.

“Who said you could close these?” Paige growls, hands gripping my thighs. “Open the fuck up.”.

Azzi whispers, kissing down my neck. “We just getting started, baby.”

And I mean it when I say— Fuck them. Both of them. They make me sick.

Paige’s body settles between my thighs and I brace myself—but nothing could’ve prepared me for the way she sinks in.

It’s slow at first. Too slow. A deliberate drag that makes me arch off the bed and grab at her arms like I can’t stay still. Like I don’t want to. Like if she doesn’t hurry the fuck up, I might cry.

She fills me with a grind so deep I feel it in my chest. No warning. No teasing. Just a heavy, stretching pressure that has me gasping, lips parting, breath caught somewhere between fuck and please.

And then she starts moving. Slow. Smooth. In full control.

But her face? That shit is focused. She’s staring at where we connect, eyes low, mouth open. Like she’s watching something sacred. Something personal. Like she’s not just fucking me—she’s remembering it. Rewriting it. Imprinting it back into muscle memory.

“Goddamn,” she mutters, dragging her hips back and slamming in again—harder this time, enough to make the bed creak.

Her hands find my hips. Pull me down to meet her thrusts. Over and over. And every time she pushes in, it’s deeper. Rougher. Like she’s daring me to forget what she feels like.

I can’t.

My head falls back and my legs spread wider on instinct. I can’t help the way I moan, how it starts as a breath and ends as a sob. She’s fucking me like she missed it. Like she’s angry about it. Like she’s gonna make sure both of us remember this moment next time we try to pretend she’s out the picture.

Because she’s not. She’s in me. Azzis right there. Watching.

Still perched to the side, one leg bent, hand resting under her chin, looking like this is entertainment. Like I’m putting on a show just for her. She hasn’t moved. Hasn’t touched me.

Her eyes are locked on the way Paige’s hips snap forward, the way my body jolts, the way I’m gripping the sheets and moaning so loud I can’t even breathe.

Paige spits again—right onto my clit—and rubs it in with her thumb in tight, relentless circles. The mix of her strap pounding deep and her hand working my clit sends a shockwave straight through me. My thighs start shaking. My voice breaks.

“She’s close,” Azzi says, her voice light. Unbothered. “Slipping already.”

Paige grins down at me. “She always did nut easy for me.”

I try to answer. I really do. But all that comes out is a cry.

Because she’s not stroking anymore—she’s drilling. Hips snapping, hair falling in her face, sweat building at her temples. Every thrust lands deep, hits that spot, makes my stomach clench and my legs twitch. She leans down, shirtless, one hand on the bed next to my head, the other still rubbing tight circles over my clit like she knows what she’s doing.

Because she does. My mouth is open but nothing comes out. No words. Just gasps. Just the sound of wet skin slapping and the pathetic, broken moans I can’t even bite back anymore.

“Louder,” Paige growls against my neck. “Let her hear how I fuck you.” And I do. I moan like I owe her something. Like she’s taking it from me.

Azzi smiles. Tilts her head. But I can see it in her eyes. She’s not about to let Paige walk away with this win.

I’m trying to push her back. Really, I am.

My hand’s flat against her stomach, shaky and weak, pushing at her like I need space—like I can take a break. But I don’t even have the strength to lift her off me. I’m not even sure I want to.

“Paige—fuck, I—”

I try again, breathless, my hand pressing against her abs as another stroke lands deep, knocking the air out my lungs.

And she laughs. Not a full laugh. Just that little smirk in her throat, that bitch please kind of sound. Then she slaps my hand down and grips my hips tight—tight—fingers digging into flesh like she owns it.

Her voice drops to my ear, breath hot, tone mean.

“Don’t run now.”

Then she pulls out damn near to the tip—and slams back in so deep I scream. Not a moan. A scream.

My shirt’s still halfway on, twisted up from the sweat and motion, and she shoves it up the rest of the way like it’s in the damn way. My chest exposed, stomach trembling, thighs shaking so bad I can’t even keep them up anymore.

She grabs the backs of them and pushes them up toward my shoulders, folding me like this is just playtime now. Like we’re not in the middle of a competition. Like she already won.

“Look at you,” she mutters, eyes dragging over my body. “Thought you could take this shit.”

Then she leans back. Just enough to watch.

She grips my waist, keeps me right there, and starts stroking again—deeper, meaner, dragging the strap against that spot with every slow grind like she’s carving her name in me.

Her thumb finds my clit again. Rubs it hard now. Like she’s tired of waiting. Like she wants to hear what my moan sounds like when I snap.

My whole body jerks—back arching off the bed, toes curling, mouth wide open. I try to move, try to pull away, but she holds me down and fucks through it.

My orgasm hits hard. Blinding. Messy. Loud.

I cry out, full-body twitching, slick running down my ass and onto the bed. I’m shaking so bad it’s like I’m coming out of my own skin.

She’s smirking above me like she just clocked in to work.

“Yeah,” she breathes, lips brushing my ear. “That’s what the fuck I thought.”

Then she kisses my neck once. Real soft. Like she didn’t just ruin me.

Paige finally pulls out with one last messy stroke, the strap dragging slick between my folds like a reminder—like she could go again if she wanted to. I twitch. Hard.

Legs trying to close, pussy pulsing, still dripping from the orgasm she forced out of me. I’m overstimulated in the worst and best way. My whole body’s hot, but cold in some places. Lips trembling. Nerves raw.

Paige leans back on her heels, strap soaked, her chest rising like she’s proud. Like her job’s done. Thighs sticky, whole body twitching like I’m trying to return to earth. I feel empty, raw, open in a way I can’t name.

Paige leans down, kisses my stomach like she’s proud of the chaos she left behind, then settles back against the cabin wall—watching. Smirking.

Nesting. Like her part’s done. Like she knows she did her damage. Azzi’s only just getting started.

She crawls up slow, like she’s reading my breath, not my body. Hands soft on my thighs, eyes locked on my face, and not once—not once—does she look at Paige. This part isn’t about her.

This is between us. And even though I’m overstimulated—sensitive, sore, barely able to breathe—I still open my legs for her. Still lift my hips when she slides between them, strap heavy, warm, pressing right into that soaked, aching mess Paige left behind.

She slides in so slow. I suck in a breath.

Every inch and I swear I almost cry. It’s too much—but just barely. That perfect edge where it hurts and heals at the same time.

She fills me to the hilt, and I see stars.

Azzi doesn’t move right away. Just lets me feel it. The stretch. The pressure. The intimacy of her being that deep without force. She leans over me, eyes soft, lips parted, breath steady—like she’s waiting for me to catch up to the moment.

I can’t speak. Just nod. So she starts moving.

Slow, deep, even strokes. Each one rolls her hips forward like she’s sculpting something inside me. Her strap isn’t fast like Paige’s. She doesn’t try to make me scream. She makes me feel. And that’s worse. Because I can’t hide.

My eyes flutter. Lips part. My hands reach up to hold onto her waist, her arm, something, because I feel like I’m floating. My moans are low, breathy, broken—barely even sounds. Just reaction.

She hits that spot over and over. Right. There.

And when I twitch under her, back arching, legs trembling from the pressure, she just lowers her mouth to mine and kisses me.

Soft. Too soft for how deep she’s fucking me.

Her tongue grazes mine with a kind of care that should make this feel romantic—but her hips are grinding deep, deep, deeper, and I’m holding my breath like I’m scared if I let go, I’ll cum right there.

I feel it building. Slow. Heavy. Like storm clouds in my spine. She pulls back just slightly, resting her forehead to mine, whispering something I can’t even process—something sweet, probably. Her voice is honey and control. But I’m gone.

Sweating. Shaking. Clenching. I start rolling my hips into hers. Not hard. Just trying to stay connected. Trying to keep her right where she is. I kiss her like I need her.

One hand grips her ass, the other clawing at her back, dragging her down because I want her closer. Her chest flush against mine. Her skin hot. I try to fuck her back even though my legs feel like jelly, like I could snap in half at any second.

“Azzi,” I whisper. I don’t even know what I’m asking for. She moans into my neck. The rhythm gets heavier. Not faster. Just more deliberate. Like she’s not gonna stop until I cum on her strap, twice. But right when I start to spiral—right when my legs start twitching again and my nails dig into her back.

She stops. Not all the way. Just enough to pull back. She slides out slow and flips me. Not fast. Not rough. Just confident. Real soft dom energy.

I’m face-down now, body limp, mouth open against the sheets, and she’s behind me—guiding my hips up just enough, slipping back in so slow it makes me whimper.

“Not yet,” she whispers behind me. “I want you to feel it when you break.”

I will. I can’t breathe. My whole body’s trembling, mouth open, eyes glassy—and Azzi, with that soft voice and cruel confidence, pulls out. I moan, all broken and dazed, and she shushes me gently.

Then moves me. She flips me easy. Slow. Like she’s still savoring. Like I’m hers to arrange. I end up straddling her. Cowgirl.

The one position I never ask for. I hate it. It’s too open. Too exposed. Makes me feel too seen. But she pulls me into it like she’s doing me a favor—like she knows I hate it and doesn’t care.

And maybe she’s right.Because once she slides back in I moan so loud my throat goes raw.

The angle’s too good. The stretch too deep. That spot—that spot gets hit just right, and my hips grind into hers like I’m possessed.

I try to move. Try to put my hands somewhere—her shoulders, her chest, anything—but she grabs both my wrists and pulls them behind my back. I gasp.

“Relax,” she whispers. “I got you.”

She holds me there. My arms locked behind me, spine curved into her body, tits pressed to her chest. She wraps around me like a seatbelt—tight, unbreakable. Her thighs flex. Her hips roll.

Every single thrust lands dead center on that nerve-ending-bomb spot that makes my eyes roll back. Literal tears start falling from the pressure alone.

I’m sobbing without sound. Mouth open. Breath gone. My whole body clenching around her with every slow, dragging grind of her hips.

I can’t even respond anymore. I’m too far gone. My hands twitch, fingers grabbing at air, trying to find anything—but she’s got me. Locked in. Controlled. Her mouth by my ear. Her body under mine.

I drop my head to her shoulder. Biting it. Whimpering. Drool on her skin. Moans stuck in my throat. Legs trembling around her thighs. She just keeps going. Steady. Smooth. Focused. She leans in, lips brushing my cheek, and whispers like she’s not splitting me open:

“There you go. Take it.” And I do. I take it. Because I can’t do anything else.

Behind us, Paige’s breathing shifts. I forgot she was even in the room. I glance up—barely—and see her sitting on the bed. Shirt back on but legs spread, one hand rubbing her thigh slow.

But she’s not watching me. She’s watching Azzi. Her focus is nasty. Azzi sees it. Doesn’t even break rhythm. Just keeps stroking up into me like this is hers now. Then, real calm, real cocky.

“You can touch her. I won.”

Paige rolls her eyes—but her smirk gives her away. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t hesitate. She slides over and goes straight for my clit. Her fingers are warm. Confident. Like she remembers exactly how I like it.

And when she starts rubbing I scream. The sound rips out of me like it’s been waiting in my lungs since the dock. My whole body jerks. Azzi holds me tighter. Paige laughs under her breath.

I’m fucking gone.

I don’t even know what sound I make when I cum.

It’s not a moan. It’s not a scream. It’s raw, high-pitched, half-sob, half-shriek—the kind of sound that makes your chest cave in when you hear it. My whole body tightens—spine arched, hands still pinned behind me, thighs squeezing Azzi’s waist like I’m trying to stay alive.

She doesn’t stop. Not when I cum. Not when I cry. Not when I go completely limp and try to melt off her lap like my bones gave out. Nah.

Azzi leans in, wraps her arms around me tighter, grips my wrists behind my back and holds me there. Locks me into the orgasm and keeps going.

Her hips slap into mine, deep and unrelenting, and I let out this pathetic, broken moan into her neck. My legs are trembling, pussy fluttering around her strap like I’m trying to spit it out—but she won’t let me.

She can’t. She’s in her “fuck your feelings” phase now. That silent, locked-in, “I’m not done” energy. Her breaths are heavier. Her eyes darker. Her grip meaner.

She’s not kissing me anymore. She’s using me. And I’m letting her. Because I like it.

I like being put back in my place after Paige’s filth. I like not having a say. I like the fact that Azzi—quiet, sweet Azzi—is fucking me like she’s reclaiming her time and making me take all of it.

Paige watches with a half-smile, one hand lazily stroking over my clit again, like she knows what this is. Like she’s been on the receiving end before and is glad it’s not her tonight.

“Mmhm,” Paige hums. “She done playing with you now.”

I try to lift my head, but I can’t. I’m dropping now—melting down Azzi’s thighs, my back giving out, my moans slurred and soaked and so gone. I’m full, I’m twitching, I’m about to break again and I can’t even hold myself up.

Azzi grabs my ass with both hands and lifts me back into position like she decides when I fall apart.

“You think you can cum once and be done?” she growls against my jaw, her voice like silk and steel. “Nah. Ride it.”

I whimper. I’m not riding shit. She’s riding me.

She keeps fucking up into me, strong, unrelenting, hips locking into that same goddamn angle that makes me cry every time. My clit is still being rubbed. My body’s still shaking. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I’m drooling. I’m dying.

And I like it. Cowgirl sucks—but with her? I don’t have a say. I don’t want a say. I just want her to keep going until I’m nothing but legs and sweat and noise. She’s not stopping.

Her grip loosens, hands sliding from my wrists to my hips, and then around my waist. My body drops forward—chest to chest, face buried in her neck, completely spent.

I’m still shaking. Still twitching.

The second orgasm snatched whatever was left in me and dragged it down to hell. My thighs are sticky. My throat’s sore. My pussy’s pulsing around the strap like it’s trying to remember what just happened.

Azzi doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tease. She just holds me.

Her arms wrap around me tight, like a blanket. Like protection. Like apology for what she just put me through—but not really. She’s proud. I can feel it in the way she strokes her fingers up and down my back. Gentle. Slow. Reassuring.

She’s still inside me. But her hips aren’t moving anymore. Just soft, shallow rolls. Just feeling me. Letting me rest while she stays connected.

My cheek’s pressed to her shoulder. My lips brushing the side of her neck. I’m drooling a little. Crying, probably. Floating.

“You okay?” she whispers, barely audible.

I nod against her skin. A weak, breathy, fucked-out nod.

And then we hear it. Paige groans. Low. Frustrated. Thirsty. Azzi doesn’t even look at her. I do. Barely.

Paige’s sitting on the edge of the bed again, legs open, strap still on, rubbing her thigh like she’s trying not to say something rude. Her eyes are on us—on Azzi still inside me, on the way I’ve completely collapsed in her lap.

Her voice drops. “Y’all selfish as hell.”

Azzi smiles into my hair. “She’s fucked out.”

“Yeah?” Paige mutters, adjusting the strap. “Well I’m still horny.”

Azzi pulls out slow. So slow I whimper again and cling to her tighter. Then she lays me back on the sheets, body limp, thighs trembling, hair a mess. I look up at both of them—Azzi glowing, Paige glaring—and I already know what they’re thinking.

But I’m done. Ruined. And they both know it.

The first thing I remember after the third orgasm is the sound of water running.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, I register Azzi’s voice—low and calm—saying something about getting the shower going first since she knows how the boat works. And then Paige—mumbling something smart in response while sliding the harness off like she ain’t still horny.

My body’s sprawled on soft white sheets that definitely weren’t this messy an hour ago. Legs twitching. Stomach sticky. Thighs slick and sore. The Henny’s still in my system, bubbling behind my eyes, making the ceiling tilt every time I blink.

The boat is too nice. Like, cruise-liner luxury type nice. Heated floors. Chrome handles. Mood lighting. I was so busy getting folded I ain’t even notice.

Eventually I’m lifted off the bed, warm towel wrapped around my waist, lips pressed to my temple. Azzi.

She’s careful. Still in girlfriend mode. She walks me into the bathroom like I’m fragile—one arm under my knees, one at my back—and sets me in the shower like I’m glass.

“Five minutes,” she whispers. “Then I’ll start the bath.”I hum. Barely.

The water’s warm. Too warm. So good it makes me tear up a little. I lean into the tile, one hand on the wall, eyes closed. I don’t move much. Just let the water run. Let it rinse the night off.

I’m halfway through a dazed rinse when Azzi comes back in, fully dressed now, fresh shirt, curls wrapped in a towel. She doesn’t say anything, just kneels beside the tub, runs her hand through the water she already filled.

“C’mon, baby.”

I’m lifted again. Arms under me. Towel dropped. My whole body sinks into the heat. The tub hugs me like a bed. The kind of heat that makes you float in your own skin. My eyes flutter. My head leans back. I don’t speak.

I’m gone. Until I feel it. Fingers brushing the inside of my thigh. I twitch. Barely. Then a hand cups my knee. Opens me slightly. Gentle. Too gentle.

“My bad,” Paige mutters behind me.

My eyes crack open. She’s behind me in the tub now. When the fuck did she even get in?

“You’re not slick,” I whisper, voice all raspy and wrecked.

She laughs in my ear. Real low. “Didn’t mean to touch you like that.”

Liar. I don’t have the strength to move. I’m barely sitting up, body floating just enough that Paige can nudge her thigh between mine and keep her hand right there.

I moan—accidental. Soft. A whimper, really.

She smirks. “See?”

“Paige.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

Azzi pokes her head in from the doorway, drying her hands.

“You good?”

I nod slowly, lips parted, eyes fluttering again. “Too good.”

Paige grins. Azzi catches it. Squints. “You better not be touching her.”

“She said she’s good.” Azzi glares.

I groan, half-asleep now, sinking deeper into the water like it can protect me. Paige slides her hand away. Barely. Eventually, I’m dried off again. Carried. Swaddled. Tucked back into bed in one of Azzi’s big-ass hoodies.

I’m laying between them now, Paige to my right, Azzi to my left. The boat’s quiet. The city lights outside barely flicker on the walls. I can hear the water. The hum of expensive peace.

“So?” Paige says.

Azzi snorts. “So what?”A pause.

“Girl. Who fucked better?”

I take a long breath. Blink at the ceiling. Think about crying again just from the memory. Then I turn my head real slow and mutter:

“…Both of y’all can go to hell.”

Paige laughs loud.

Azzi scoffs. “She folded for both of us.” I don’t even argue. I’m already asleep.

It’s too bright. Too still. Too warm.

I blink awake slowly, face pressed into something soft. Something skin. The scent of lavender lotion and sex clings to the sheets. I shift, and a soft groan leaves my mouth—my thighs still trembling from the night before.

Someone moves behind me. A leg tangled with mine tightens. Paige. I lift my head and look up.

She’s already awake, propped on her elbow, watching me with that lazy-ass smirk. Eyes half-lidded. Hair a mess. Like she ain’t just spend the night competing for my soul.

“Good morning,” she murmurs, voice rough. Her hand slides up my back, then down again, slow and possessive.

Azzi stirs behind me. Her hand grazes my waist. “You good?”

“I’m sore,” I whisper, eyes fluttering shut. “Like… all the way.”

They both laugh—quiet and smug. I shift onto my back, caught between them, and that’s when Paige leans in.

“I still want you,” she says simply. My breath catches. I blink at her. Azzi watches, quiet.

“I won’t lie,” Paige adds, fingers brushing my stomach, lips almost touching mine. “I still think about you.”

My lips part. Not to speak—just to breathe. I turn to Azzi, slow. Waiting for the reaction. Bracing for it. She doesn’t even flinch. Just chuckles, all calm and sure and mean.

Then she nudges me—one hand on my hip—and pushes me straight into Paige’s chest.

“You don’t gotta look surprised,” she says, voice low. “We both want you.”

I gasp as Paige catches me. Hands on my waist. Her mouth brushes my jaw and I shiver.

“But just so we’re clear,” Azzi adds, propping herself up on one elbow, “you my girl.”

“And I’m still your ex,” Paige grins, kissing the edge of my neck. “So let me work for it.”

Azzi hums. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

It takes a while to get dressed. I say walk but Azzi watches me try to stand, then snorts like it’s funny.

“You carried me last night,” I say casually, pretending not to pout.

“Yeah?”

“You can do it again.”

Without hesitation, she scoops me up bridal-style, my hoodie swallowing my whole body. My legs wrap around her waist. I rest my head on her shoulder, arms around her neck, grinning with no shame.

“Since you wanna be strong or whatever.” She kisses my cheek.

Behind us, Paige’s footsteps trail with my overnight bag slung across her back like a good assistant. Her hoodie’s half-zipped, hair damp from a quick rinse, and her mouth? Still smirking.

We leave the boat like that. Me in Azzi’s arms, limp and happy. Paige behind us, chill but very much watching the way Azzi holds me. I whisper something against Azzi’s throat. She laughs.

Paige unlocks the car. Azzi sets me down gently in the backseat. And before anyone else can say a thing?

“You hungry?” Azzi asks over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” I mumble, settling in.

“Same,” Paige says, sliding in next to me.

Azzi shuts the door. I close my eyes. We pull off.

Bonus:

———————————————————————————————

The diner’s cute.

Like really cute. Retro booths, pink tile, big sunny windows—one of those aesthetic-ass spots I saw on the drive in and mentally bookmarked for after the chaos. And now? Sore, stretched, and barely holding myself together in Azzi’s hoodie, I decide to pretend we’re normal people who didn’t have a threesome war on a boat less than 12 hours ago.

We walk in. I spot the window booth. Slide in first. Azzi settles next to me, arm stretching behind my back like second nature. Paige takes the other side, sitting across from us. I meet her eyes for a second too long before looking out the window, sipping water like that does anything to cool me off.

That’s when she walks up. The waitress.

She’s pretty. Real pretty. Older, maybe by a year or two—hair slicked back in a claw clip, lip gloss poppin’, and a smile that’s just a little too genuine. Holding a notepad and everything.

She glances between us. Eyes land on me.

“Hey y’all,” she says brightly, then makes the fatal mistake—eye contact, smile widening. “You’re really pretty… are you si—?”

“No. She’s not,” Paige cuts in.

Fast. To fast. No hesitation.

The waitress blinks. Her mouth opens then closes again.

Azzi grabs my jaw real soft, turns my face, and kisses me on the lips—slow, sweet, like the biggest flex imaginable. Her thumb brushes under my chin before she pulls back just barely. “What you want, baby?”

I blink, flushed and half-annoyed. “Y’all are annoying,” I mumble, peeking back at the waitress. “She wasn’t even mean…”

“She was thirsty,” Paige says flatly, eyes cutting across the table. “It’s 10 a.m. Have some self-respect.”

Azzi’s already handing over her menu, like she didn’t just commit affection-induced homicide.

I sigh, covering my mouth to hide the laugh that tries to escape. “She’s probably scared to come back now.”

“Good,” they say in sync.

I shake my head and lean against Azzi’s shoulder.

“I was gonna get her number,” I tease, knowing damn well that’s throwing gasoline on the fire.

Paige deadpans. “You can get digits from the ER when she wakes up.”

Azzi chuckles, nose in my hair. “That’s if she wakes up.”

I roll my eyes and sip my juice. “Jesus Christ. Can I at least get my pancakes first?”

Paige leans forward, smirking. “You already got ya pussy ate first.”

Azzi hums. “And seconds.”

I blink. “Y’all something different.”

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264

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msmk11 · 1 month ago

Note

Hello!

I would like to attend the party! Could I request 🍾 with prompt 13: sleeping in S/O shoulder, with Sirius, please!

Thank you and I hope you enjoy the party!

Omg I’m obsessed with this ask! Love, love, love! Hope it lives up to your standards <3

Boyfriends Make the Best Pillows

Sirius Black x gn!reader

WC: 1.1k

CW: mention of alcohol? Sickeningly sweet fluff

Summary: You’re really, really tired, and your boyfriend is looking like a really nice pillow.

Thanks for coming to the party! Check out other things to do here!

You’d promised Sirius you’d go out tonight with him and his friends to the pub just around the corner from your shared flat. Now, however, you’re starting to regret that decision wholeheartedly. The day had been long. Not bad, so to speak, just…. well… your boss at the ministry was an idiot, and had had you running all over the entire building to meet with people and smooth the feathers he had ultimately ruffled.

All you really wanted to do was stay in with your boyfriend, change into one of his shirts and boxers, and order take out. Instead, when you’d walked in the door, Sirius was already dressed for the occasion, donning combat boots, a leather jacket and one of his favorite band tees.

The searing kiss he gave you didn’t help either, and had only made you melt into him, your tired bones seeking your lover’s embrace.

But you’d promised, and you couldn’t imagine breaking that promise. He’d try to hide his disappointment, but you’d know how he felt all the same. So, you’d trudged upstairs and changed, throwing on some going-out jeans and one of Sirius’ cooler shirts, so you could be at least sort of semi-comfy.

That brings you to now, tucked into a sticky corner booth, Sirius’ hand on your thigh as he tells a story animatedly to Remus, James, and Peter. You and Lily, who James brought along, have been chatting intermittently, but you can tell your best friend is just as tired as you. The beer you’ve been nursing isn’t helping your cause, its heat warming your insides and weighing down your weary limbs.

Your boyfriend must say something funny, because everyone at the table busts out laughing loudly. It causes you to jump, bringing you back to reality.

James wipes at his eyes, tears of laughter streaming down his face, “Merlin, Pads, that was brilliant. You’re brilliant! I wish I could’ve seen Malfoy’s face.”

You have no clue what they’re talking about, but you chuckle too, nodding along with the group.

“Another round of drinks, on me,” James offers, and the boys cheer in unison. Peter gets up to help him and Remus turns to Lily to ask her something. That leaves Sirius’ attention on you.

He beams down at you, his lovely gray eyes sparkling with amusement and fondness. They soften when they catch your gaze and he leans in, pressing a kiss to your hairline. Your eyes flutter shut.

“You having fun, lovely?” Sirius murmurs into your ear, nudging his nose against your cheek.

His hot breath sends shivers down your spine but you nod, “yeah baby, I am.”

He kisses behind your ear, “you sure? You’ve been awfully quiet all night.”

You squeeze his bicep reassuringly, “I promise. I’m just tired. Had a long day at work.”

Your boyfriend pouts at you, brows creasing in worry, “awe darling, I’m sorry. Is that bastard of a boss mistreating you again? I swear I’ll-“

You laugh softly and cut him off with a quick peck to the lips, “he was just being an idiot, nothing I can’t handle.”

Still, Sirius notices the exhaustion in your gaze, and he traces his thumbs over the shadows under your eyes, “you do look tired, lovely. Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve stayed home.”

You shake your head insistently, “you’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. I know you don’t see the boys as often as you’d like, and I wasn’t gonna let my tiredness ruin that.”

A part of you expects him to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just places a long, lingering kiss to your forehead, deep affection shining in his eyes, “thank you, my love. I’ll pamper you all day tomorrow to make up for it.”

He kisses you softly on the lips and you melt into him, his strong arm tucking you into his side further.

James returns with the drinks and you accept yours gratefully, even though you don’t really want it.

Their banter and loud laughter continues while you sip on your drink quietly, interjecting with occasional thoughts so no one feels as if you’re entirely ignoring them. But, sooner rather than later, the exhaustion and booze get to you. Your head sinks onto Sirius’ shoulder, which looks extra comfortable right now, and your eyes flutter shut as you’re lulled into a light sleep.

No one notices right away that you’ve fallen asleep. It’s only about ten minutes later when Peter’s eyes shift to ask you a question that he sees the state you’re in. A smirk grows on his face and he nods to Sirius. Your boyfriend looks down at you and his gray eyes soften into a warm, gooey puddle. He kisses the top of your head and smiles, “I think that’s my cue, lads.”

Remus snorts, but his amusement and teasing is all fond, “Oi, Pads, you’ve become whipped. You used to never go home until it was at least past 2am. Now, it’s not yet half past eleven and you’re packing up.”

Sirius knows he’s whipped, and he’s not in the least bit ashamed. You’ve softened him, sure, and he’s much better because of it. He strokes your hair, gently nudging you awake.

Your sleepy eyes blink up at him and his heart melts, “hi, lovely. You fell asleep. Let’s get you home, okay?”

You nod, cheek rubbing up and down his leather jacket as you do, “okay.”

He gets up and coaxes you out of the warm corner, his friends sharing knowing glances as they watch their most emotionally-stunted friend fawn over you so lovingly. Sirius slips his jacket over your shoulders and puts his arm around your waist. Your boyfriend exchanges goodbyes for the both of you and then guides you off into the night.

It’s a little chilly out and you whine, cuddling closer to Sirius.

He chuckles and squeezes you tighter, “we’ll be home so soon lovely, and you can go straight to bed.”

All you can do is nod, and the rest of the walk is silent until you reach your flat and Sirius unlocks the door. He guides you to bed, hands finding a firm grip on your waist as he sits you down and unties your shoes. Your pants are the next to go and he places soft kisses on both your knees, making you smile sleepily. He pulls off your (his) shirt and slips on your sleep shirt.

Sirius pats your hip, “there you go, baby, all ready for bed.”

It’s the best news you’ve heard all night, and you’re so grateful to be horizontal. Sirius takes off his own clothes and turns off the light, spooning you from behind. He kisses your hairline and strokes soothing patterns across your bare arm.

You’re already half asleep, but you do manage to slur one thing, “sorry I ruined your evening.”

His heart twinges and he tugs you closer, “shhh sweetheart, you didn’t ruin anything. Any night with you is a perfect one. Get some rest now, I love you.”

And you drift off instantly.

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botanicsoul · 3 months ago

Note

Heyy would you able to write a yn x katsuki smut fic where yn is very tall( I never see people inserting tall reader and I'm 6ft myself so it's hard out here😫🙏🏻) maybe stuff about him comforting her about her feeling insecure that she's too tall. Let ur imagination run wild idm. Thank you luv if u do decide to write this prompt 💗

OF COUUURRRSEEEEE!! i love a tall baddie😝

I hope you like it hun!🩷🌸

“Too Tall? Not for Me.”

Katsuki Bakugou x Tall!Reader | smut/comfort

MDNI (18+)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧. 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

The club was loud, filled with the pulsing bass of music and the hum of conversation. You weren’t even sure why you agreed to come out tonight—maybe because Mina had insisted, claiming you needed to “stop sulking and have some fun.” But you already knew how nights like this went.

You stood near the bar, shifting uncomfortably in your heels, which only made you taller. At six feet, you were already taller than most girls, but the added height had every guy looking at you like you were some kind of battle ready pro hero.

You were used to it—the lingering stares, the hesitant glances from men too insecure to approach you. And even when they did, the comments were always the same. Damn, you’re tall. Do you only date guys taller than you? Or worse, I like petite girls, but you’re kind of intimidating.

It never used to bother you as much as it did now. But after years of feeling out of place, the insecurities had settled deep in your bones.

And then, there was him.

Katsuki Bakugou, standing a few feet away, talking with Kirishima and Denki. He was clad in a tight black tee that clung to his muscles, his hands stuffed into his jeans as he sipped at a drink. His crimson eyes flickered over to you, sharp and assessing.

You quickly looked away, heart pounding. Bakugou had never treated you differently because of your height. In fact, he’d always been normal about it—never bringing it up, never making a big deal out of it, the two of you had gotten a lot closer this year.

But that didn’t mean anything, that didn’t mean he was into girls like you.

So, when you felt a presence settle beside you, warm and solid, you stiffened.

“The fuck you doin’ all the way over here?” His voice was rough, teasing, a little loud to be heard over the music but there was something softer beneath it.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “Not in the mood for being stared at.”

Bakugou’s gaze flicked around the room, his expression darkening as he got closer to your ear so you could hear him better. “Who the hell is staring at you?”

You let out a dry laugh. “No one right now, but you know how it is. I don’t exactly blend in.”

He studied you for a long moment before clicking his tongue. “Who gives a shit?”

You sighed looking at him once a few inches away from each other’s face. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who gets treated like a goddamn skyscraper.”

Bakugou tilted his head slightly, his gaze unreadable. Then, without warning, he leaned in again, his lips brushing just beside your ear.

“Good,” he murmured. “Makes it easier for me to find you.”

Your breath hitched.

He pulled back, his smirk lazy and full of mischief. “Come on. Let’s get outta here this place is fuckin lame anyways”.

—

You barely made it inside his apartment before his hands were on you, rough and needy.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, pressing you against the door. His palms slid up your sides, over the curve of your waist, squeezing possessively. “Bet you don’t even know how fuckin’ hot you are.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

Bakugou growled, nipping at your neck. “Shut up with that shit.” His hands moved lower, gripping your thighs. “Wrap ‘em around me.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Katsuki, I’m too—”

“Too what?” His gaze darkened. “Too tall? Too strong? Too fuckin’ perfect?” He tightened his grip. “Let me make somethin’ real clear, princess—I don’t give a fuck about any of that.”

You swallowed hard, heat pooling in your stomach.

“Now,” he rasped, lifting you with ease, “be a good girl and let me fuckin’ take care of you.”

And who were you to argue with that?

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moonriseoverkyoto · 2 months ago

Text

Seeing Double - Chapter 5

Pairings - Simon “Ghost” Riley x MacTavish!Reader, Platonic! John “Soap” MacTavish x MacTavish Reader, Platonic! Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader

Summary - Wherever a Banshee cries for death, a ghost always follows

Warnings - depictions of reader being tortured for info (bone breaking, punched, etc, plz be wary), blood, nausea, mentions of vomit, canon-typical gun violence, graves is a slimy eel

Author’s Note - enjoy! Lmk if I missed a warning

Word Count - 4.4K, I really tried to make this longer but I didn’t have it within me

Masterlist / Pt.1 , Pt.2 , Pt.3 , Pt. 4, pt.6

Johnny’s blood ran cold as he saw the butt of Graves' gun hit your head as your body slumped. The man not even feeling a bullet hit his arm as he hit the ground, a dead shadow sitting on top of him.

“Go Johnny get out of here, now! Soap, go!” Simon’s voice rang out loud and clear as he realized the lieutenant was right. As much as he couldn’t bear leaving you again, he couldn’t do you any good if he died. So he shoved the Shadow off of him and slid down the hill.

“Get him - now!” Graves, commanded as a shadow, tried to shoot at Soap as the Scotsman slid down into the darkness, Johnny shooting off a few shots of his own.

“You there, Ghost? That was a big mistake, brother. It did not have to be like this. All you had to do was hand over Banshee and the base…” Graves trailed off as he rounded around the corner, rain pouring down harder as he saw that Ghost had vanished.

“Son of a bitch, find ‘em! Now!” Graves shouted as he turned back to you, “They’ll eventually find their way back for you, won’t they?” The Texan smirked as he looked down at you.

You didn’t wake again until you were already in the dark room. You woke up gasping as you peered around the room. Your chest heaving as you looked around. The room was dark, except for the bright light above you, blinding you of all sights not immediately in front of you.

You could feel dried blood make a matt in your hair as you starkly noticed how naked you were, well not naked but still. Your gear was missing, as well as your outer level of clothing. You were in a tight fitted tee, some shorts, and your boots were missing but your black socks were still on. You felt your hands and legs still stuck in the zip ties as a familiar voice rang out through the room.

“Still stuck with those dreams, huh?” Graves taunted, “Still trying to save your men with your screams?”

“Jealous I’m not screaming for you?” You snapped back.

“Oh not after seeing what you do to yourself when you sleep.” Graves shot back.

“Oh you wish I wanted to sleep with you for one night.” You responded,

“No, I wish you would tell me where your brother and that damn Ghost is.” Graves said. An idea flickering in your head.

“They’re right under your nose, can’t you see it?” You spoke, venom in your voice. But was quickly silenced by the sound of a shadow’s fist making contact with your cheek.

“Aww Graves, you don’t want to touch me? I’m hurt.” you continued on.

“Oh that hurt me more than it hurt you, sweetheart. But you’re about to be in a whole world of pain, if you don’t tell me where your team is.” Graves spoke.

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?” You tested the waters.

“You don’t know where your brother, his lieutenant, and your old team of two years past are located, yeah. Sure I’ll believe you sweetheart. Right after you cross over my dead body.” Graves shot back.

“That can always be arranged, especially after you betrayed them.”

“What can be arranged is a nice easy death for you, a quiet passing. Even give your Mama and your sisters some compensation-”

“Don’t you fucking talk about my family.” You spit out, your saliva landing on Graves’ cheek. The man swiped it off quickly before he got close to your face.

“Then start talking about yours.”

“Not a fat fucking chance.” You answered.

“Grab her feet.” came Graves voice, loud and clear, your socks being ripped off. Your scream tearing from your throat as you felt your left foot get crunched, a blindfold coming around your eyes.

“Where are we?” Soap said as he and Ghost walked up to an abandoned house in the middle of the countryside. The two soldiers had just barely pulled themselves out of Las Almas and all he could think about was what Graves was doing to you. The dawn sun just barely broke out through the horizon, almost symbolic of how you were barely holding on.

“Alejandro’s safehouse. Gave me the location just in case.” Ghost said, the own man worried about you as well but hid it better. Johnny had already torn off his nails as he bit them in anxiety.

“Why didn't he tell me?” Soap asked.

“It was need to know.” Ghost shrugged.

“What if I needed to know?” Soap shot back at the lieutenant before being shushed. Both men peering down to see a rigged booby trap lay on the ground, barely covered by a cardboard.

“Pressure plate…” The sergeant said softly.

“Alejandro rigged it.” Ghost said definitively.

“Smart bastard.” Soap murmured.

“There.” Ghost said he saw a nearby open window.

Soap made the jump first as he landed safely inside, his boots echoing. Simon followed soon after. The lieutenant paused as both of them saw a shadowed figure move.

“Don’t move.” Ghost shot out as his knife landed into the board behind the figure, barely missing. Both of the men tense as they waited a moment

“¿Quién está ahí?” Who’s there? the voice shouted out.

“Rodolfo!” Soap said suddenly

“Soap! Ghost! You’re alive!” Rudy responded as he peered out through the shadows.

“Affirmative.” Ghost spit out, the man easing up only slightly. Rudy quickly grabbed the knife from the board and didn’t say a word as he recognized it as yours.

“Good to see you, amigos!” Rudy said, not mentioning the missing woman, everyone was already painfully aware of it.

“Igual Amigo.” Soap responded, a soft smile on his face as he said it without thinking.

“Nice throw. Where were you guys?” Rudy said as he passed a knife back to the lieutenant, a look passed between them.

“On the run.”

“I was on the run. Ghost waited for me.”

“Of course, no?” Rudy said.

“No.” Johnny said definitively.

“Yes-” Ghost said immediately after. Johnny looked up at the lieutenant, surprised for a moment.

“We're a team... All of us. This happened on my watch and I'll need help to fix it. No one fights alone.” Ghost said as a look passed over his eyes, his guilt eating his insides alive. Soap nodded in agreement.

Your scream curdled the paint off the wall as the shadow broke your other foot. The pain shooting up your body as your bones were further crushed by Graves using his boots to stand on them.

“I didn’t really want to do this sweetheart. You know that.” Graves said

“Oh yer General’s gonna ‘ave yer head when he sees tha’ you’ve roughed up his favorite toy.” You spit back at him, your accent slipping out.

“Oh that’s the fun in this, sweetheart. He doesn’t care what I do to you, as long as you come crawling back to him, and seeing the state of your feet, I don’t see you walking away from this any time soon.” Graves spoke with a sick joy.

“Why did Graves turn?” Rudy questioned. Ghost’s brain flashing over the memory of the man mentioning something about handing you over, but he kept it to himself, his guilt only compiled the situation further.

“We don’t know.” Soap said, “we thought you would.”

“Las Almas can corrupt anyone.” Rudy said with a nod.

“Not us.” Soap said.

“For now, General Shepard, Laswell, and anyone else outside this room is considered hostile. With two exceptions.”

“Alejandro and..” Soap trailed off, even mentioning your name made his heart lurch but he didn’t need to, the other men understood.

“We need them back.” Ghost murmured

“Ven..” Come.. Rudy nodded, walking the men towards a map. His finger pointing to an x on the spot. “Graves is holding them there.”

“His own personal black site prison.” Soap growled.

“My team is locked in there too.” Rudy spoke.

“How do we get ‘em back?” Johnny said, his fingers tensing.

“By breaking in.” Ghost nodded to him.

“And that’s why I love The Ghost.” Soap said with a knowing smile.

“It’s gonna take more than this.” Ghost said, pointing to all of the surrounding machinery. Rudy walked over to the door and slid it open, revealing a fully-stocked armory of weapons and gear.

“It’s well stocked.” Rudy said.

“Alright.” Ghost nodded.

“My man - we’re gonna need new wheels. Preferably up-armored.” Johnny said as they walked into the armory. Rudy then suddenly tossed a set of keys to Ghost who caught them quickly, the lights coming on to reveal a sleek armored vehicle.

“Alejandro really thought of everything.” Ghost said with a low sigh.

“Yeah he did. Let’s go get ‘em.” Soap growled out. The men approached the vehicle as Soap gripped a new gun and multiple mags.

“The old prison is in a remote area outside of Las Almas. It was maximum security until the Narcos took it over, and it was permanently closed.” Rudy explained as the men surrounded the map. A headshot of you and Alejandro were on the map. Ghost felt his heart lurched at how different you looked in the photo, still bright eyed and bushy tailed. He noticed how your eyes still twinkled, no jagged scar in sight.

“There is no airstrip, but expect helios for security and resupply.” Rudy continued, his hand moving to another part of the map labeled, ‘entry’ and ‘guard tower’ written on it.

“We’ll drive up to an offset and ruck up to our infil - here. If the security towers are manned, we’ll need to take them out first and rope up the wall for entry.” Ghost said with a nod.

“What about cameras?” Soap questioned, the man ready to enter guns a’ blazin’ if it meant bringing you home. Rudy pointed to a security room labeled ‘CCTV’.

“There’s CCTVs in the security room.” Rudy answered.

“We’ll use them to locate Alejandro, and Banshee.” Ghost spoke.

“Let’s divide and conquer. While Rudy finds Al, I’ll use the cams to help Ghost plant charges in key areas, and find my sister.” Soap said, setting an explosive onto the table.

“Diversions and sabotage. Nice Johnny.” Simon almost smiled under his mask.

“I learned from the best, L.T. Once we pinpoint Ale, my sister, and Los Vaqueros, we regroup and pry ‘em loose.” Johnny smiled at the idea of you being safe back with them and then blowing Graves to bits and pieces.

“We’ll carry extra guns in to arm them and fight our way out the way we came in.” Rudy nodded.

“Any questions?” Ghost spoke out.

“The hell are we waitin’ for L.T?”

Just as you were about to sleep, ice cold water was splashed all over you. Before you could wonder where the hell Graves found ice cold water in the desert. Pain shot up your body as two boots roughly stepped on your broken feet.

“Fuck me!” You cried out before gritting your teeth.

“Oh I’d love to, but another time.” Graves smirked before he whispered in your ear, “Now you tell me where your brother is, and I’ll get you a nice pillow and a blanket-”

You reached out blindly, as the binds tore against your wrists. Your teeth ripping against Graves’ lobe. A violent smile tearing across your face as you heard the man cry out.

“Get the rope.” Graves said as you were ripped out of your chair. Your hands suddenly wrapped up in a rope and you were strung up high. A slight whimper of relief leaving your body as a pressure was taken off your feet, but then the weight of being hung pulled at your arms harshly and your back. Your body weight was tugging you down.

“Last chance, tell me where they are.”

“I said I don’t know!” You cried out. Then the pain came. At first you expected it to be worse than what you went through two years ago, but for some reason, this was easier. But yet Graves hand dug deep as he punched you in the gut, you could feel the skin starting to bruise and your bones ache as he continued to beat you into a pulp but you didn’t falter.

‘Just a little longer.’ You told yourself as warm blood and vomit pooled into your mouth. Suddenly you bristled as Graves stopped.

“The fuck was that?” he said as the sound of gunfire got closer. The man suddenly getting up as you smirked

“Leaving so soon?” You said confidently, concealing your fear. Nothing was said and that was scarier. The room was just quiet as the commotion got louder outside.

Ghost, Soap, and Rudy had taken no time to run through the base. The men tear through shadows like a hot knife through butter.

“Ghost, what's your status?” Soap said through the comms, seeing the entrance through the cell block.

“Comin’ your way.” The man clipped out.

“Copy tha’. We’re on the move.” Soap reported.

“Heads up on the helo.” Rudy warned, hearing it pass over.

“Looks like we’re out of sight.” Ghost said as they reached the entrance of the cell block. Soap began to fidget as he knew you were close.

“Cell Block. Entry’s ahead. Shadows blocking the way.” Rudy blurted out.

“Let’s send ‘em all to hell and get inside.” Soap growled. Suddenly Ghost grabbed one of the guards and snapped his neck as Rudy shot the other.

“All Clear.” Rudy said as they entered the block. Soap tried the door but to no avail.

“It’s locked.”

“We’ll need to breach it.” Rudy suggested

“No Rudy - just knock.”

“On me.” Rudy said as he knocked.

A shadow opened the door and stepped outside only to be ambushed by Ghost who snapped his neck and the man crumpled as three more shadows stepped out.

“Enemies on the second deck-!” Rudy cried out.

“More comin’ down the stairs-!” Ghost said back.

“Soap we’ll keep ‘em busy up top! Press forward..!” Ghost commanded. The Scotsman pushed forward, taking down a Shadow as he did so.

“Comin’ up behind you Sergeant.” Ghost said.

“They’re both up there. Let’s go” Rudy said. The three men climbed up the stairs.

“Alejandro’s down the hall, right side.”

“Expect contact lads.” Ghost murmured just as they saw two shadows guarding Alejandro’s cell.

“Light ‘em up-!” Ghost yelled out.

“¡¡Mueran, pinches sombras!!” Come on, you shadow fucks! Rudy said as he shot them down.

“There’s Alejandro’s cell.. Open it up, I’ll cover you.” Soap said to Rudy as Ghost pulled out some bolt cutters,

“Johnny, when I pop this lock, you push in. This is what we came for..” Ghost said to the man. Ghost broke the lock and Johnny pushed in his door. Alejandro suddenly tackled the man as he entered the cell.

“Al! - It’s me, hermano!” Soap cried out.

“Coronel, relájate, cabrón, somos nosotros.” Colonel, relax, it's us. Rudy spoke quickly, Alejandro then relaxed, looking relieved to see the men. He released Johnny quickly.

“Your sister is in the room down the hall.” Alejandro said as Rudy gave him some gear and weaponry.

Soap and Ghost heard the conversation continue as they walked down the hallway. Soap’s hands were shaking as they busted down the door. Ghost was ready to fight you as he entered the room, instead he was horrified at the sight that laid before his eyes.

You were strung up by your wrists, bloodied and bruised, hanging off the ground like a piece of meat to be slaughtered. Your feet were black and blue, clear evidence of being broken inward. Your clothes were soaking wet as you shivered slightly, parts of the clothes torn. You whimpered softly at the sudden intrusion as you heard the door broken inward. Soap was frozen still as the lieutenant quickly came to your aid and cut the rope. You fell into his arms and thrashed, still thinking it wasn’t over. Ghost’s voice came out as soft as a whisper as he held you in his arms.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said as he pulled up his mask just short of his hairline, before realizing you couldn’t see from your own blindfold on your head.

“Ghost?” You croaked out, as he pulled it off.

“Simon, love. It’s Simon.” He whispered as you finally saw his face. Both of you finally see each other without the mask. A moment passes between you as you study his features, a feeling of relief overcoming the fear coursing through your veins.

In another life, he would’ve kissed you and walked out of here without caring who shot him, as long as you made it home safe. In another life those blue eyes approached you at the bar, asked you for a drink, maybe even gotten your number. In another life, those blue eyes gazed into yours with the same amount of care but in the safety of a bedroom, with a ring vowing you both together for all of eternity. In another life, those rough hands that held your head were soft, free of all the calluses of war, softened by a life of peace and love. In another life the body that cradled yours was plushy from a life of relaxation, not hardened from war.

But this was not that life, in this life, in this stale bloodied room, you both held onto each other like two separate halves searching for a whole. His blue eyes piercing through yours as a hand came up to his face, before you tilted your head and croaked again.

“Johnny?” You said softly. Your brother quickly comes to your aid, snapping out his disorientation.

“I’m here. Right here.” Johnny said as he undid your bonds. A cry leaving your mouth as your feet struck each other, pain shooting up your body. Simon felt his heart lurch in his chest at the noise.

“I’m gonna kill the fuckin’ bastard.” Johnny said as Simon passed you into your brother’s arms. His hand trailing your back as he made sure your brother had you secure in his arms.

“Place is crawlin’ with Shadows. There’ll be hell ahead.” Ghost said as he pulled his mask over his face. Rudy and Alejandro appeared at the door. Alejandro holding a submachine gun.

“Let’s fight fire with fire.” Alejandro said. Simon glanced back at you but you were already turned in safely into your brother’s arms.

“Let’s get out of here boys.” Johnny said as more vaqueros came into his vision as they left the cell. The Scotsman was desperately aware of your pain as he avoided Simon’s gaze.

“Órale, on you, Rodolfo.” Alejandro called out.

“You seen Graves here?” Soap questioned Alejandro.

“No, but I plan to pay that cabrón a special visit.” Alejandro growled out.

“Not before I do.” Soap said.

“You four, on me.” Alejandro said as he pushed the other vaqueros in another direction.

“¡Ninguna prision puede detener a Los Vaqueros...!” No prison can hold the cowboys...! One cried out.

“El unico que puede matar a Alejandro es Alejandro... “The only thing that can kill Alejandro is Alejandro… another shouted into the night. The group of you entered a dark mess hall.

“This was the mess hall.” Alejandro said softly.

“Let's make a mess then.” Soap said as he held you tighter.

“Órale, Jabón.” Alejandro nodded, suddenly the glaring lights came on.

“Shadows know we're here, stay sharp.” Ghost said. Suddenly they opened fire and Simon grabbed Johnny and yanked him behind his larger body. The group wasted no time in clearing the entire prison as they made their way out, only stopped by a large door.

“Big room, make sure we’re clear!” Alejandro called out to Rudy.

“Despejado Coronel.” Appears clear Rudy called back

“It’s padlocked.” Alejandro said, checking the door. Simon cut through with his bolt cutters, making Alejandro chuckle.

“El fantasma, siempre preparado.” The Ghost, always prepared.

“On you, Colonel.” Ghost nodded, the colonel then kicking in the door.

“Weapons hot, hermanos. Stairwell leads down and out. We’ll link up with the others and exfil the fuck out of here.” Alejandro nodded to the group.

“Ye hear that? Almost home. Just a little longer” Johnny whispered to you, you only whimpered in his chest.

“Exfil vehicles are set. Ghost planted charges to help us out.” Rudy said to Alejandro.

“With Johnny’s help.” Ghost added.

“I can’t call Jabón, ‘Johnny’.” Alejandro spoke.

“Don’t. Only Ghost and ma’ family can pull tha’ off.” Johnny quipped back as they made their way down the stairs. The men freezed seeing the yard.

“We’ll have to cross the yard to get everyone out.” Rudy said softly.

Alejandro led them, then Rudy, then Soap, then Simon. Soap carefully leaned forward to shield you with his body.

“The roof, right side!” Rudy called out before the shots rang out. The men returned the fire and took out the shadows before a stray sniper bullet grazed Johnny’s uniform.

“Sniper on the roof!” Alejandro called out right as Simon took him down in a single half second.

“Not anymore.” Simon quipped. The group made it safely across the yard before halting seeing some Shadows get out of a pick-up.

“Johnny, that truck has one of our chargers on it, detonate it.” Simon said.

“Here it comes.” The sergeant said as he pushed the button. The truck exploded, killing the surrounding shadows.

“Ka-freakin-boom!” The sergeant said with a soft smile.

“Keep moving!” Ghost said as he came behind the sergeant. Alejandro led the men down the road from the prison safely, but a pickup truck in the distance with a turret gun appeared. Johnny immediately donated without warning to the others.

“¡Órale, qué belleza!” That’s a thing of beauty! Alejandro cheered out before turning to Rodolfo. “Where to next?”

“Cut through this building up here.” Rudy said with a nod. The men continued on to the exfil point without worry. Johnny held you closer and closer as you shivered in the night air. He was beginning to become distracted by your movements until the sound of a helicopter came from the distance.

“Ye hear that?” Soap called out.

“Helicopter, searching for us!” Alejandro said.

“We’ll need more than what we have to take it out.” Ghost said, his worry clouding his judgement.

“All stations, this is Bravo-6. Get down lads!” came Price’s voice, a breathless smile covering Johnny’s face as the men got down. A missile suddenly comes out of a nearby helicopter to take down the Shadow aircraft. Johnny could see Gaz hanging out from the other side of the wall, waving a green flare.

“It’s Price!” Simon yelled out.

“Hell-fuckin-yeah!” Soap cried out, before he spoke to you, “Cap’s here, just give me a little longer.”

“All Bravo and Vaqueros… Top o’ the wall. Get over here and I’ll get you out!” came Price’s voice again through the comms.

“Loud and Clear, Price!” Ghost said.

“Who is that?” Rudy questioned as they moved towards the wall.

“A friend.” Johnny said with a knowing smile.

“I like him already.” Alejandro laughed, before commanding his men, “¡Vaqueros, vayan al muro, entre las torres, ya!” Vaqueros, get to the wall, between the towers, now!

“I’ve deployed ropes!” Price said over the comms as they approached the wall.

“I’ll need to be pulled up, I’ve got cargo!” Johnny said over the comms. The rest of the men, including the vaqueros, used the ropes to climb and Johnny grabbed the final rope. Gaz grunted as he and Alejandro pulled the rope, their combined muscle not being enough. Ghost acted quickly to make a pulley system with a few pieces of metal.

“I got your sorry asses.” Ghost said, in reality he knew they would pull you up, he just wanted you to be here faster. His arms burned as he helped pull up the two of you. His muscles bulged with each tug as you both got closer and closer. He finally breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled you and Johnny to the top and your brother slid you both down.

“Sergeant Mactavish, and..” Price’s smile fell as he saw you in Johnny’s arms, bruised, battered, and shivering.

“Good to see you cap’.” Johnny said with a nod.

“Ghost.” Gaz nodded, taking notice of how quick the lieutenant acted to help Johnny and you.

“Garrick, Price.” The lieutenant nodded.

“How’d you know?” Johnny questioned.

“Laswell.” Gaz answered.

“Soon as Shepard went dark, she called us.” Price finished.

“Laswell, still solid as a rock.” Ghost nodded as his gaze fell over you, Johnny’s clothes were wet from yours, only worsening your shaking in the desert cold. Johnny saw Simon’s look and quickly passed you over. Your form softened as Simon quickly shushed your whimper, recognizing the man. Simon held you bridal style and tucked your legs in to avoid your feet hitting anything and further damaging them.

“Colonel Vargas, meet Captain Price and Sergeant Garrick.” Johnny introduced the two men now that his hands were free.

“Thanks for the assist!” Alejandro said. The men turned to see their escape vehicles.

“Let’s get out of here!” Gaz yelled as they made a break towards the vehicles. Gaz took the driver’s seat, Price took shotgun as Ghost piled into the back with you in his arms and Johnny behind the driver’s seat. Alejandro and Rudy communicating over the radio about meeting back at a safe house.

“Hit it Gaz!” Price barked at the man as Gaz’s boot roughly hit the gas as he pulled out quickly. A silence fell over the car as Ghost finally spoke up.

“Shepard burned us.” He said as he looked down and noticed your lashes fluttering with the temptation of sleep. Simon’s guilt ate at him, you could’ve been safe if he had just caught Graves earlier.

“He sent Graves and his Shadows to kill us and round up Los Vaqueros, and take ‘er.” Johnny said as his gaze fell upon you safely in his lieutenant’s arms.

“We know why.” Price said as he too saw the same image in the rearview mirror.

“Laswell did a bit of digging.” Gaz said with a glance into the rearview mirror.

“What did she find?” Ghost said as he watched you finally fall asleep in his chest, your hand curling up against his shirt, his chest gear long gone.

“The truth…” Price said with a certain look in his eyes. The men all exchanged a glance at each other as they rode back safely to the meeting point.

Author’s note - heyyyy, so a lot happened, but more will come. I had to get this chapter out. Also did anyone notice the shift in Simon and Ghost being used? (Plz say yes)

My requests are open!

#call of duty #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #Simon ghost Riley x you #Simon Riley x you #ghost x you #call of duty fanfic #call of duty fic #cod fic #john price #Kyle gaz Garrick #John soap MacTavish #simon riley angst #Simon Riley fic #ghost fanfic

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 8 months ago

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Babysitting Has Its Perks (Choso x Dabi x Black!F!Reader 18+ One Shot)

Pairing: Big Bro!Choso x Black!Fem!Reader x Big Bro!Dabi

Synopsis: You’ve been babysitting kids as a side hustle for a while now to get extra money. You have your regulars, one of them being a doctor’s cute little son Yuji. Though the pay is good, you admit that the main reason you come back to babysit the kid is because of his sexy older brother Choso. On Halloween, when Choso gets caught up in a pinch, he hits you up last minute to babysit Yuji and his bandmate’s little brother. You think this will be an easy night…until you meet Choso’s bandmate Dabi…and you decide to wear a bunny costume…and you realize just how much your secret crush and his hot friend love bunny girls.

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS GTFO); Musician!Choso + Dabi; Big Bro/Family AU; Band AU; Nerdy!Reader; Highkey Flirting; Weed + Alcohol Consumption; High + Drunk Sex; Dubcon; R*pe; Threesome; Sex Tape; Facefucking; Cunnilingus; Fingering; Nipple Sucking; Double Deepthroat; Choso + Dabi Got Big Cocks; Degradation/Praise; Dom!Choso + Dabi/sub!Reader; Roleplay; Doggystyle; NO CONDOM; Reader Cums 2x; Facials; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: I’ve had this nasty little idea for a hot minute now tee hee!! 🤭 Originally, it was supposed to be just a Choso one shot, but then I thought “Damn….it’d be so hot if Dabi did this too”. So I made a lil crossover one shot for spooky day. I hope y’all enjoy! -Jazz 💋💋

***********

“Are you my big bro’s girlfriend?”

This was the first thing little Yuji asked you the first time you showed up to babysit him. You stood on the steps of the white picket-fenced house belonging to Nanami Kento, a busy doctor who sought you out for your babysitting services on your LinkedIn.

It was September then and a mild night that only called for light layers. You were dressed in a cardigan that you paired with a clingy, white baby tee, hip-hugging jeggings, and flats. You wanted to be casual but still mild mannered since you were at a doctor’s home. You had giggled at the boy’s cuteness and replied, “Close. I’m your new babysitter!”

The little pink-haired boy with the rosy cheeks and a gap tooth had grinned happily at you before turning around and yelling, “CHOSO, YOUR GIRLFRIEND IS MY NEW BABYSITTER!”

“YUJI!” someone yelled back. You had giggled at Yuji’s antics until you actually saw Choso for the first time and started thinking that maybe being confused for his girlfriend wasn’t such a bad thing. As soon as he came to the door in his sweats and polo socks, your smile fell.

The man was fine. He had a face straight out of a dream with his black hair in two spiked ponytails that reminded you so much of Garu from your favorite cartoon ‘Pucca’. He was tall and big, much bigger than you thanks to your cursed short stack height, with broad shoulders and big arms roped in tattoo sleeves that started at his shoulders and cascaded down to his wrists. His thick fingers were coated in metal rings and his nails were painted black.

You thought briefly of what they’d feel like wrapped around your throat or…somewhere else.

The man was also shirtless. His porcelain skin looked soft to the touch, only touched by some tattoos here and there that added to his sexiness. There was one of Yuji’s name on his collarbone; a black heart with a knife jutting out of it on his right neck near his pierced nipple, a silver ball glinting back at you from both of the pebbled, pink peaks; a serpent slithering from his narrow left hip bone down, down, down under the waistband of his sweats that sat dangerously low on his hips, revealing his smooth, toned stomach and V-line.

You must’ve been standing there looking like a damn idiot because Yuji tugged on your hand. “Hellooo?” he sang. “Hey, are you okay?”

You blinked, suddenly back in your body after going up and beyond. Choso was also staring at you, his pierced brow raised in confusion.

“O-Oh, yeah!” you squeaked, wincing at your high-pitched voice. Quickly, you fixed your glasses and cleared your throat. “Yeah, sorry, m’fine. I-I’m—"

“The new babysitter,” Choso finished, his lips quirking into a small smile. His bottom lip looked so plump and soft, pierced with a silver ring you wanted to tug on. “Yeah, my dad told me about you. Sorry about…” He motioned down his bare upper torso, his cheeks turning a soft shade of pink.

His blush was so attractive that you nearly melted at his feet. He was so endearing and so sexy. “I was changin’ and wanted to stop this rugrat from answerin’ the door when he’s not supposed to.” He tugged on Yuji’s ear, making the boy giggle and swat at his hand. “Y/N, right?”

Realizing he was asking you your name, your brain stopped short-cuiriting for a moment to answer. “Y-Yeah,” you stammered. “And you’re—“

“Choso,” a deep, firm voice said from inside, prompting Choso to roll his pretty, violet eyes. “What did I tell you about answering the door without a shirt on?”

The older brother turned to the even finer blonde who came to the door in a pristinely clean tailored suit. “I only did that one other time ‘cause of those stupid kids prankin’ us,” he scoffs. “Lock the doors next time so Yuji doesn’t answer.”

Nanami went to argue back, but realizing you were standing there awkwardly, he stopped. “Oh, Y/N, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were here this early.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” you replied as he and Choso let you into their tasteful, cozy home, Choso holding a giggling Yuji under his arm like a puppy. “I know you have a doctors’ dinner to go to, so I figured I’d come early.”

“Not at all,” Nanami sighs, sounding relieved. “I thank you for that. Please come in.” You did so and you were officially introduced to Nanami’s two boys, little Yuji and his big brother Choso before Nanami left for a doctors’ banquet.

Choso was in a rock band as a drummer and songwriter, so he had to leave too for a gig. Yuji had begged and pleaded to go with him to which Choso reminded him that kids aren’t allowed in 21+ spaces. As soon as you discovered that he was in a band, you were way more intrigued to know Yuji’s sexy, 6-foot-something brother.

No wonder he had such big arms! You’d glad let him wrap those guns around you and squeeze your head like a melon, giving it a personal bear hug. However, you kept your deviant thoughts to yourself.

You were professional. You were good. You were…kinda nerdy. You’d like to think your profile pic of you in your glasses was what gave Nanami the final impression to hire you as his personal babysitter. Since he is a busy doctor and Choso is a busier musician, someone had to look after little Yuji.

That night, you and Yuji played games, watched cartoons, and you ordered pizza and French fries for him that you both scarfed down with some orange soda (Yuji’s favorite). When Nanami came home, he paid you handsomely and thanked you again for watching his son.

Since that night a month ago, you’ve been Yuji’s personal babysitter. You watch him most weekdays when everyone is at work or on Saturday nights if no one else is around. Out of all of the kids you currently babysit, he’s your favorite. He is just too stinking cute!

You love babysitting that boy, plus the money is great. As a college girl, you need it. But there is also one more perk to your babysitting service that you refuse to admit. You feel like a pervert even thinking it, but getting an eyeful of Choso every time you walk into his house is more than enough for you to stay.

Your pathetic crush on the drummer has grown since the first night you met him. You can’t help it! Not only is he cute, but he’s also a great brother to Yuji. Seeing him goof around and tickle the tiny boy is enough to make you want to be bred by him and have his babies.

He fills your thoughts at night, prompting you to cum on your fingers and use your trusty rose until you’re sobbing his name into your pillow. You’ve thought so many times about asking him out or attending one of his shows. You want him bad like a habit…

But you won’t dare say anything. This is your job! You could fuck up some good money just because you want to fuck the kid you babysit’s big brother. And you won’t dare do that to yourself or Nanami who trusts you with his child. So you bite back your feelings and admire Choso from afar….until one night.

On a cool Halloween with autumn finally here and the leaves crunching under your feet, you leave a local cafe, your other part time job, and arrive at an empty house. Your mom is working overnight at the hospital as a nurse and has left you to your own devices. You know she’ll be late since it’s Halloween which means endless hours of greasy takeout, reading, spooky movies, and private time with your toy. No Halloween parties for you.

After changing out of your clothes, tying your kinky hair in a quick puff, and taking a hot shower with your cinnamon roll-scented body wash, you wrap yourself in a towel and head to your room to begin your quiet night in when your phone rings.

When you check your phone, you nearly drop it at the caller ID. Choso. He gave you his number along with Nanami for work purposes and to contact him if anything went wrong while you babysat Yuji. You take a deep breath to ease your vigorously pounding heart. ‘Just be cool, bitch. You know him. He’s just the older brother of the kid you babysit.’

After some seconds of mental preparations, you answer and clear your throat. “HHello?” you breathlessly stammer, very clearly affected by Choso’s call.

‘Fuck!’

“Hey, Y/N, it’s me, Choso,” he answers, his voice causing a warm feeling to curl in your core. He has such a sexy voice. “Of course, it’s me. You’ve got my number. Sorry, forget I said that.” He sighs, sounding like he’s fed up with himself the way you are with yourself.

He becomes even more endearing and much more boyfriend material-y right there. “It’s cool,” you giggle, lying back on your bed in your towel. “What’s goin’ on? Is Yuji okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine,” he replies with a chuckle. “He’s been askin’ about you. I swear the kid’s got a crush on you.” You laugh, taking your hair out of your scrunchie and running a hand through your kinks. “Well, he’s a wonderful kid.” And you mean it. Yuji is so goofy and sweet and listens to everything you say, probably because Nanami made him promise to. Either way, he’s a joy to take care of.

“Listen,” Choso begins, sounding uncertain, “I feel really bad for askin’ you this, but…are you doin’ anythin’ tonight?” Your brain suddenly short circuits and your cool bedroom feels stuffy and hot. “Uh….n-no,” you stammer. “Just at home watchin’ Halloween movies and stuff, but that’s it. I just got off from work at the cafe.” You hope that didn’t sound too lame.

“Oh, I forgot you had another job,” Choso tsks, sounding stressed out. “Shit, I’ll probably just have to cancel then.” You sit up now, concerned. “What? What’s goin’ on?”

Choso sighs once more and you feel bad for the guy. He sounds positively frustrated. “My dad is out of town until tomorrow for a doctor’s conference and I was put in charge of watchin’ Yuji, but I forgot I got a gig for a Halloween show at a bar tonight. One of my bandmates is already here and we need to leave in, like, two hours.”

“Oh, okay!” you immediately perk at the chance to see him and make more money. “I can be over there in, like, twenty minutes.”

He lightly laughs at your eagerness. ”Well, before you say yes, there’s a catch: my bandmate Dabi needs someone to watch his kid brother too. He’s the same age as Yuji but very quiet and chill, won’t give you any trouble. If you’re okay with watchin’ two kids at the same time, we’d really appreciate it and pay you double when we get home from the gig.”

You don’t even have to think it over. “I’ve watched five kids at once before. I can handle two. I’ll be over there in twenty.” Choso exhales in relief. “Fuck, Y/N, you’re a lifesaver,” he sighs. “I could fuckin’ kiss you right now. Oh, and Yuji and Dabi’s brother are goin’ trick-or-treating tonight if you wanna go with ‘em. See you over here soon and thank you!”

He hangs up before you can make a fool out of yourself over the ‘kiss you’ line. When you take the phone away from your ear, your face is flaming. Quickly, you hurry to brush your teeth, slather on some deodorant, and drown yourself in your favorite vanilla coco body mist that makes you smell like a baked goodie.

Then you dig into your closet for a costume for the kids. You find your costume from last year—fluffy, white bunny ears and a cotton tail. Basic, but it’ll do. You pair it with a white, body-con bodysuit, a skirt that stops mid-thigh, some stockings, and Mary Jane shoes. After applying some Fenty Gloss and mascara, you finally feel cute enough. Quickly, you grab your coat, phone, and bag before heading to your car.

Nanami’s house is only a ten-minute drive, so you get there by 7:45 PM. After parking, you hurry to the front door and ring the doorbell, mentally preparing yourself for another shirtless Choso (hopefully). But to your shock, it isn’t Choso who answers the door.

This man is fine if not finer than Choso. He is just as tall and slightly lanky but sinewy with muscle that is exposed underneath his loose-fitted tank top. He is all tattoos—roping up and down his arms, across his chest, on his thick neck.

Piercings, too. You can see two silver balls glinting through the exposed armholes of his tank puncturing his pink nipples. His left eyebrow and bottom lip are pierced too, giving him an almost dangerous look. The jet-black hair, ripped jeans, boots, and piercing blue eyes are the icing on the cake. He is the damn poster child for the guy good girls shouldn’t want.

His eyes lazily trail up and down your form as he leans against the doorframe. “So,” he says in a raspy drawl that nearly steals your panties, “you’re the little babysitter Choso’s been talkin’ ‘bout. Y/N, right?”

You struggle to find your voice. You feel so small and bug-like standing before such a man. You feel uncomfortable yet aroused, your panties tightening beneath your skirt. “Y-Yeah,” you stutter, gulping. “Dabi?”

He nods, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. “The guitarist,” he explains. “Sorry to interrupt your night, but we’re in a pinch. Somebody had to watch our kid brothers and apparently, you fit the bill.” His eyes roam up to your ears before trailing down your body, checking out your outfit. “Clearly.” You don’t know if you should’ve worn your skirt or not now.

“Dabi, stop flirtin’ with my babysitter!” Choso yells from inside before showing himself. Just as you hoped, he is shirtless except for a mesh top that shows off his impressive upper torso and tatted skin, jeans, and boots. His spiked hair is down for tonight and his eyes are rimmed in black liner.

It’s like the universe is playing a cruel joke on you putting you here with two sexy guys despite your awkward ass. “Hey, Y/N,” Choso greets you, flashing those whites at you. “Come in. Yuji is changin’ into his costume and Shoto is right here.”

He practically yanks Dabi out of the way to let you inside. Sitting on the couch is a little boy with multi-colored red and white hair and blue eyes like Dabi dressed in a vampire costume. You nearly swoon from the cuteness. He stares at you mutely as you come into the house.

“Sho, this is Y/N,” Dabi says, nodding at you. “She’s your babysitter for tonight. You say hello?” The little boy mutely looks at you. “Hi,” he says in a soft, bland voice. You wave at him, keeping a bright smile on your face.

“He’s a lil’ shy, but he won’t give you no trouble,” Dabi whispers as Shoto eats some carrot sticks. “Thanks again for doin’ this. I would’ve asked my siblings, but my brother is a big-time athlete and my sis is an overnight nurse.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” you say, offering a kind smile. “I wasn’t doing much tonight anyways.” Dabi’s brows raise curiously and you immediately know that this was the wrong thing to say. “On Halloween? What, no parties or nothin’?”

You slowly shake your head, nervously smiling. “I just got off work earlier when Choso called…a-and I’m not much of a party person.” It’s so lame, but it’s true. You much prefer your books and solitude to sweaty bodies and drunk messes.

“Really?” Dabi asks, sounding humored. “Then that’s some outfit. You wear that for the kids?” His eyes, as blue as Arctic water, intensely stare at you like he’s attempting to turn you into a puddle.

Before you can think of an answer, footsteps thud down the stairs and you all turn to see Yuji in a Spider-Man costume. “Look, Y/N! I’m your friendly neighborhood Spidey!” He jumps down, lands on the bottom step, and hits a squatting pose.

You clap your hands at his superhero landing. “You look amazing, Yuji!” you squeal. “You and Shoto are gonna get sooo much candy!”

Choso walks up to Yuji with a backpack and a leather jacket, checking his water. “We’ve gotta go, squirt,” he says, ruffling Yuji’s pink hair. “Be good for Y/N and don’t eat all your candy unless you wanna be on the shitter, okay?”

Yuji giggles hysterically, slapping Choso’s arm. “You said a bad word, Chosi!” His big brother puts a finger to his lips before turning to you. “Thanks again for doin’ this. A couple of kids will be over soon to go trick-or-treatin’ with them around the block, so just let ‘em in.”

You nod, sending Choso and Dabi off with a wave from the door along with Yuji and Shoto. Five minutes later, four little kids come walking up to the door wearing costumes—a green-haired, freckle-faced ghost, a platinum-blonde werewolf, a brunette little girl dressed like Gwen Stacy, and a black-haired Venom.

“Well,” you coo, smiling at the group, “look what we have here! Are y’all Yuji and Shoto’s friends?” The ghost and Gwen Stacy nod. “Is Shoto here?” the ghost asks. “We’re here to go trick-or-treating with him!”

“Yuji too,” Gwen Stacy adds. “He’s trying to beat Megumi for the most candy bars.” She nudges Venom—Megumi—who rolls his eyes.

“Well, let me go get ‘em and we’ll go together,” you say before hurrying to scoop up your boys. Once everyone has their candy bags together, you lock the door with the key Choso left for you. “Now, let’s get some candy!” You shout, earning some cheers before Yuji and the werewolf—who you learn is Bakugou—race off to the first house.

For the next two ½ hours, you slowly walk behind the group from house to house, knocking on doors for candy, keeping the kids out of the street, and politely declining pervy men who take interest in your costume.

By the time you get home, you’re exhausted and trick-or-treating kids have long since gone home. Shoto’s brother Natsu comes to pick up Shoto to bring him home while you put Yuji to bed after too much candy. For the rest of your time there before Choso and Dabi return, you clean up wrappers, read your book, scrolling through Pinterest, and watch horror movies.

By midnight, you’ve fallen asleep on the couch in your costume, and the end credits to ‘Coraline’ on the TV. When you hear the door click open, you shoot up in surprise, your bunny ears falling off of your head and drool dripping down your chin.

The door cracks open, revealing Dabi smoking a cigarette. “Oops,” he chuckles, grinning at you. “Looks like we woke the bunny.”

Quickly, you wipe the spit off of your face and fix your bunny ears, blushing in embarrassment. You didn’t realize you fell asleep. Choso walks in the house with him, smelling of cigarette smoke and sweat. He gives you a warm smile as he shuts the door. “Hey, you. How were they?”

You smile and stand, smoothing out your skirt. “Like little angels. Yuji is asleep and Shoto was picked up by his brother.” Dabi rolls his eyes at the mention of Natsu as he stubs his cigarette out in an ashtray on the coffee table near your leg. “Yeah, the asshole called and told me to crash here tonight ‘cause he knows I’m fucked up.”

Now that he’s closer, you can see the slightly unfocused look in his blue eyes that can only be accomplished with alcohol. “I’m guessing the gig went well?” The guitarist nods, moving to sit on the couch where you just once were. “Well, we made a bunch of money and signed some titties, so yeah.”

Choso rolls his eyes, chucking a pillow at him. Dabi catches it with one hand. “Shut up. Speakin’ of money…”

He digs into his bag for his phone and clicks a couple buttons. Seconds later, your phone dings with a CashApp alert for $550. “From Dabi and me to you for your services,” he says, giving you a wink that makes your stomach flip.

“Oh, it was no problem, really!” you say with a reassuring smile, though your body sings with joy over the money.

Choso walks over to the couch and plops down with a tired huff, throwing his boots up on the table with Dabi’s. “So you goin’ home?” he curiously asks. “Y’know, you’re welcome to crash here tonight till tomorrow. The streets are packed tonight and those ears might attract the wrong crowd.”

He gives you a joking smirk, evident that he’s kidding. Dabi snickers as he rises from the couch, passing by you with a glint in his eye that makes you feel as if he isn’t joking. “Like we aren’t?” he asks, his voice causing chills to slither down your spine like a snake.

He walks to the kitchen, his walk lazy and slow like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Choso sits on the couch, arms slung over the back and his thighs pried open as if attempting to convince you to stay. “Thanks, but I couldn’t.” You pause, grabbing your bag. “I don’t wanna overstep or—“

“Please,” he scoffs, cutting you off. “You’ve been watchin’ my kid brother for a month! You’re practically family. Plus, we’ve got beer and some weed if you smoke.” Dabi comes back minutes later with three beer bottles, chilled and appetizing. “We’re celebratin’,” he announces with a crooked smirk as he sits down next to Choso.

“An hour then? Just to wait out the traffic?” Choso suggests as Dabi passes him a bottle. You watch the guitarist slip a baggie of marijuana out of his back pocket along with a pack of papers. “But only if you feel comfortable,” Choso adds as if sensing your apprehension.

The two make it a point to leave a space for you between them. You gnaw on your bottom lip, gripping the strap to your bag. You know if you say yes then a world of trouble could open up for you…but you also don’t want to say no. They haven’t done anything to make you feel uncomfortable or uneasy. “Just an hour,” you decide. “I’ll take a beer.”

You slowly place your bag within arm’s reach and sit between them, keeping your thighs clenched tight together and your hands in your lap. You sit rigidly, unsure of what to do. “I didn’t think you drank,” Dabi comments, sounding interested. “You don’t look the type.”

He pops the cap off of the bottle with his teeth before handing it to you. “Ignore him,” Choso says, smirking at his friend. “He teases, but he’s got a thing for the glasses.” You take a sip of the beer to calm your frazzled nerves, the different scents of the two men—cologne, cigarettes, some kind of spicy-smelling soap—mingling into one intoxicating mixture.

“You mean nerdy girls,” you correct him, cracking a smile. “It’s okay, I know I’m a nerd.” Choso laughs, taking a sip of his beer. “Nothin’ wrong with that. I think it’s cool.”

His cheeks glow with a slight blush that somehow turns you on. Dabi snorts from beside you, gently sprinkling crushed weed into one of the papers on the coffee table. “You mean hot. Don’t try to front.” Choso gives him the finger. “Shut the fuck up and roll the damn blunt, asshole.”

Dabi gives him the bird right back but continues to roll his blunt. You watch his fingers expertly work to pinch, roll, squeeze. You would think he’d be good with his hands since he’s a guitarist. They’d probably feel so good inside of you, curling up against that spot that would make you see stars.

“Wanna hit?” he suddenly asks. You blink, realizing that he’s talking to you. He holds the blunt between his forefinger and thumb, smoke billowing from between his lips. You grow hot suddenly, both out of embarrassment for fading out on him because of your dirty mind and uncertainty. “O-Oh, I’ve never…”

Dabi’s brows raise. “You never had weed before? Not even an eddy?”

It doesn’t take a village idiot to figure out that he means an edible. You slowly shake your head, glowing with embarrassment over your squareness. The guitarist breaks into a humored and interested smile like a wolf who realizes he’s got his prey. “Well, shit, aren’t you proper. We’ve gotta fix that.”

“Dabi, don’t corrupt her,” Choso barks. “She’s still our babysitter.”

The guitarist shoots him a bored look. “And she deserves some relaxation after a long, gruelin’ day.” He turns to you, his blue eyes a sea of sin and hot promises. “Don’t you, bunny?” he whispers before puffing on the blunt.

You watch him wrap his lips around the blunt and his cheeks hollow as he inhales. When he pulls away, he puckers his lips and sends an O-shaped smoke ring floating out from between them as well as releasing a steady stream out of his nostrils. He then turns and hands it to you.

With a gulp, you take it and hold it to your wavering lips. You look at Choso for help who is happy to assist with his words: “Inhale slow, hold, and then exhale.”

You do as he says and wrap your lips around the blunt before slowly inhaling. As soon as the smoke invades your lungs, you hold it and then slowly exhale. Though you cough a bit, making the bandmates laugh, the weed already takes effect and makes you feel light, fuzzy, and warm.

“Good girl,” Dabi draws, watching you with a rather predatory gaze. “So she listens, too.” Choso watches you too, creating a very uncomfortable feeling for you in your stomach that you stupidly try to squash with some more beer.

“S-So…uh, tell me about your show tonight,” you stammer, wanting desperately to change the subject and take this situation somewhere less risky.

They respect your decision and tell you about their night playing in a small, sweat-and-alcohol-soaked bar. They also talk about you, asking you about classes, work, your hobbies. You initially feel uncomfortable talking about yourself, but the more you drink and the more you puff on Dabi’s blunt, the less harder it becomes.

You should’ve stopped at one puff. You should’ve stopped after a few sips of beer too. But it’s too late for you now. The weed and the alcohol work their magic on you before you even realize it.

Everything around you feels fuzzy and your skin feels tingly. Choso and Dabi’s voices are thick in your eardrums which feel as if they are stuffed with cotton. You can’t quite comprehend everything they say because they sound so far away and your brain is processing everything at a glacial pace.

You slump against the couch, your eyes fluttering closed and your head feeling heavy. You want to sleep. You want to shut off the movie playing—some 90s slasher flick that Choso put on—, stick your head under the covers, and be plunged into darkness. “Y/N?” Choso asks. “Baby, you still here with us?” He is suddenly closer to you, his hand on your knee. It feels warm and makes your body tingle…especially one part in particular.

Dabi sounds closer too. He’s actually moved closer to you and you just didn’t realize it. When you open your eyes to stare into his piercing, blue ones, he smiles. “Ooooh, the weed’s got her,” he chuckles. “Look at those eyes. She’s gone.” Choso stares at you worriedly, keeping his hand on your knee.

In contrast, Dabi is more daring and lays his hand on your thigh. The surprise contact causes you to giggle, nervously and shyly. The weed has created a thick fog around you where everything feels good and nice. “You’re both so pretty,” you deliriously say. “So sexy.”

Despite your sluggish mind, you know you weren’t supposed to say that. Choso and Dabi share a look, one that you can’t identify. The guitarist smirks at you, his hand trailing farther up your thigh and giving it a firm squeeze.

“Oh, yeah, baby? We think you’re sexy too.” His other hand moves to cup your chin, emitting a small gasp from you. “And pretty…so goddamn pretty.”

His thumb gently pries your bottom lip down, showing him your teeth. He watches intently as the plump flesh pops back into place, his pupils dilating at the sight. He is so close…too close.

You don’t know what to do. Your heart hammers rapidly against your ribcage as he leans in. Or do you lean in? You can’t remember quite well when his lips are on yours.

You squeak in surprise, your shoulders tensing. It’s the only movement you can make with his hands on you. You’re like a terrified rabbit frozen in place as his hand grips your jaw, keeping you still as his mouth envelops yours. His lips are soft yet rough and demanding, practically bruising your lips as he kisses the lipgloss off of them. His piercing is cool against your tongue which swirls against his, only because he demands it. You felt it swipe against your bottom lip at one point, forcing himself inside of your mouth.

You’ve never been kissed in such a way before. Dabi takes and takes and takes yet forces you to take what he gives you. His hands find your ass, trailing up underneath your skirt, drawing a soft moan out of you. “You like that, baby?” he murmurs against your lips. “I knew you wanted this. It was just a matter of time.”

“Mmm-mmm.” This is all you can say or even utter as his tongue dances with yours, giving you a taste of his piercing dug into the pink muscle. His hands squeeze your ass so hard that it hurts, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. You’re helpless to stop him.

You become even more helpless in the situation when you suddenly feel another set of hands on you caressing your body. “Don’t be fuckin’ greedy, Dabi,” Choso growls. “This is my house, remember?”

Dabi pulls away and gives his friend a cocky smirk just as Choso’s hand presses against your cheek. He turns you to face him and his eyes, hooded from the weed and lust. “C-Choso…”

All you can utter out is a soft exhale of his name before his lips covers yours, swooping you up in a hot, wanton kiss. His kiss is less rough than Dabi’s, but it’s just as sloppy, your tongues hotly swirling with each others. At one point, Choso sucks on your tongue and stares into your eyes as he does it, leaving you a panting, wet mess.

“You taste so good,” he whispers. “I’ve been wantin’ this for so long, baby. You have no idea.”

His hands cup your cheeks, bringing you in for more. You find yourself pressed against him and Dabi both, their bodies like brick walls trapping you between them. “I think she has too. Why else would she wear such a slutty lil’ outfit?” His hands trail up your bodysuit, cupping your tits over the fabric. “I bet you wore this just for us, didn’t you, slutty girl?”

He begins roughly massaging your breasts, causing goose pimples to explode over your skin as Choso kisses your neck. You whimper at Dabi’s degrading words. “I-I’m not a—“

You’re cut off with your own gasp as Dabi pinches each of your nipples through the bodysuit, sending sparks of pain throughout your nerve endings. “Shut the fuck up,” he growls. “That’s what they all fuckin’ say until they’ve got a cock in front of ‘em…and I bet that’s what you really want, ain’t it, bunny?” He leans in and trails his tongue down your neck, creating a line of his saliva on your skin.

A soft moan escapes you as Choso begins playing with your left ear, gently nibbling along your earlobe. Dabi follows suit and plays with your right until both of them are teasing your ears with kisses, licks, nibbles, and moans that have you squirming between them.

Your body feels like it’s overheating and your pussy…you’ve never been so wet before. Is it from the weed? The alcohol? Them?

Choso trails a hand between your thighs, prying them apart to get a feel of your panties. “You look so cute in this costume, baby…so fuckin’ cute.” His index and middle fingers press into your panties, making your toes curl. “Choso, please,” you whine.

He pulls away from your ear, staring deeply into your eyes. “What is it, baby?” he asks. “What do you need? You want us to stop?”

You blink at him, overwhelmed and hornier than you’ve ever been in your life. “I….I….” You don’t know what you want or need. You want to leave, but you also don’t. It feels wrong, but also so right.

Dabi disagrees, yanking the straps to your bodysuit down. You yelp as your tits fall out and are exposed to the two musicians who ogle at them. “Her body ain’t sayin’ no,” he chuckles. “Check out these tits. Look at how hard these nipples are.” He begins to slurp your nipples, his tongue and teeth running over the sensitive peaks.

You gasp, biting your lip as Choso begins stroking you through your panties that continue to secrete moisture. “Fuck, babe, look at you,” he sighs, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You need attention, don’t you?”

Dabi bites your nipple, sending shocks of pain throughout your body. “Ah!” you cry out. “W-Wait! Yuji might hear us!” Choso chuckles, still stroking, “He won’t. That kid can sleep through a murder.” Dabi tears himself away from you, glaring. “Now shut the fuck up and open your legs for us.”

With your nerves frazzled, you slowly open your legs…with some help. Choso and Dabi’s big hands pry you open to reveal your soaked panties underneath your skirt. “Just as I thought,” the guitarist tuts. “Look at how wet she is for us, bro. She barely knows us and yet, here she is with a soaked fuckin’ pussy.”

He pries your panties to the side, revealing your puffy, pretty, wet cunt to them both. You gasp as the cold air hits your sensitive skin. “Wow, baby,” Choso says in awe, his eyes slightly wide. “You’re so, so wet for us. Good enough to taste.” He sucks on his index and middle fingers before proceeding to gently rub your clit.

Two other fingers do the same, rubbing up and down your slit. “Good enough to eat,” Dabi adds. “You’d love that wouldn’t you, bunny? You want the big, bad wolves to eat you right up, don’t you?” He sinks his fingers into your pussy, just stopping at his fingertips.

You moan, gripping the duo’s big, beefy arms for dear life as the two play with your gushing pussy. “Fuck!” you gasp. What else can you say?

Dabi tsks disappointedly, teasing you further by curling his fingers up. “That ain’t an answer, baby girl.” Combined with his fingers shallowly fucking you and Choso rubbing your clit, you can’t process anything but how good you feel. “Yes! Yes, please!” You whine, your toes curling in your Mary Jane’s.

Like a killer who has caught his next victim, Dabi grins. He slides his digits out of you, sucks your wetness off of them, and slinks off of the couch to kneel in front of you. “Keep these fuckin’ thighs open,” he demands, eyes glaring into Choso’s. “I don’t want her doin’ shit while I’ve got my tongue in her.”

Choso grips your left leg and pins it open while Dabi takes the right until you’re completely open and exposed to Dabi’s pierced tongue. “Look over here, baby. Look at what you’ve done to me.”

Choso turns your face to meet him where he is fumbling to unzip his pants with his other hand. You watch him peel down his briefs to reveal his happy trail and a very hard, very pretty, very much throbbing and dripping cock.

Dabi nips at your thigh, scowling at you. “Well, don’t just leave him like that,” he scolds. “Stroke that dick. Take some fuckin’ accountability.”

With a shaky hand, you wrap your hand around Choso’s cock and begin to stroke it while Dabi begins to sloppily eat your pussy.

You and Choso moan at the same time, both of you overwhelmed by the amount of pleasure you’re receiving. Dabi’s tongue is skilled, teasing your folds as he slides it along your slit and up to your clit. You stroke Choso’s cock in time with his bandmate’s tongue strokes, trying to focus on two things at the same time.

“Shit,” Choso groans. “You’re so good at this, baby girl, fuck…”

His cute face is etched with pleasure, his eyes hooded and his cheeks flushed as he stares at you pumping his cock. Dabi stares too, still slurping away at your cunt. When the silver ball in his tongue hits your clit, you jump and let out a squeak. “You like that tongue piercing, huh?” he cackles. “Such a little slut. You can’t get enough of this.”

As he dives back down and sucks on your clit, he gently begins to finger you, aiming upward as he strokes your walls. You toss your head back at the euphoric feeling, your brain growing fuzzy. “Watch Dabi eat that pussy, baby,” Choso coos. “But don’t get too distracted.”

You don’t know if you can help that. The way Dabi is sloppily eating you out and finger-fucking you is too much for you to not focus on.

You finally cannot take anymore and let every loud, bottled sound inside of you escape as Choso plays with your breasts and Dabi sucks on your clit. “O-Oh, my God!” you cry out. “Fuck, fuck yes!”

The guitarist flinches, scowling up at you. “Plug up that hole, would ya?” He asks Choso, annoyed. He then goes back to fingering you, a slight, wet sound leaving your pussy as he coats his digit in your juices.

You suddenly feel a hand on your head and Choso’s deep, soft eyes are staring into yours. “Open wide, bunny. I’ve gotta keep you quiet.” He gently pushes you down towards his hard dick standing at attention for you. “You wouldn’t want Yuji to come down and find you like this, right?”

Instinctively, you open your mouth and cover your teeth with your pillowy-soft lips to avoid scraping Choso as his cock sinks into your mouth. “No ‘cause you’re a good girl,” he pants. “You’re my good, sweet fuckin’ girl. Fuck, baby, your mouth is so good!”

He proceeds to fuck up into your mouth, using it as just a fleshlight. A toy. And you allow it. Drool drips from your mouth and down his balls as he continues to assault your mouth, soon sinking deeper and deeper into your throat. You gag a few times and nearly feel triggered to throw up, but you just remember to breathe through your nose. Breathe.

Soon, it becomes easier for you to take Choso’s hard cock down your throat. Dabi watches, still fingering you. “Ooooh, she’s good at that,” he chuckles. “Look at her workin’ that mouth.” He hums in arousal to himself, palming himself between your legs, unbeknown to you. “Fuckin’ little cockslut is gettin’ me rock hard.”

Choso chuckles, his laugh breathless as he fucks your mouth like the hole that it is. His hole. Dabi presses a kiss to your clit, emitting a whimper from you. “Does our little bunny need two big carrots tonight?” he smirkingly asks. Choso pulls his cock, wet with your spit, out of your mouth, allowing you to take a proper breath.

“Oh, I think you do,” Dabi answers for you, “and you’re gonna fuckin’ take ‘em.”

He suddenly stands up between your legs, looking down at you as if you’re nothing more than a cock sleeve for his own use. “Get on your knees and look up at us,” he demands. You look at Choso for help, but he looks too lustful and sex-drunk to even begin to think about rescuing you.

On wobbly legs, you get off of the couch and sit on the floor on your knees. You stare up at Choso and Dabi, suddenly staring at two different cocks. Different in length. Different in girth. But still hard and throbbing. In addition, Dabi’s cock is pierced just at the underside of the head which drips in pre-cum for you.

You bite your lip as you stare up at them, kneeling in just your skirt, stockings, and shoes with your tits out, your pussy wet, and your lips coated in spit. The duo look as if they have fallen in love with you. Dabi cocks his head to the side as he slides something out of his back pocket. “Now that’s a sight.”

You close your eyes, humiliated and embarrassed by this moment, but also by how aroused you are. Your pussy has never been wetter than now sitting in front of these two men that you barely know, letting them see you naked and use you like a—

Click!

You open your eyes as a flash goes off and realize in horror that Dabi has his cell phone out. And he’s taking photos of you. “N-No!” you gasp, covering your breasts. “Don’t!”

Click!

Dabi rolls his eyes at you, still keeping the camera on. “Relaaaax. Nobody is seein’ this beauty but me and your little boyfriend.” He nudges Choso who is busy stroking himself at the sight of you, looking like he wants to eat you the fuck up.

He and Dabi get closer to your face, holding their cocks for you. “Nuzzle ‘em,” Dabi orders. “Put those cute little lips on us.”

Feeling like you have no choice, you do as ordered and nuzzle, kiss, and lick up their cocks. You bump your nose against their bulbous heads, run your lips down their shafts, and gently suck on their balls. The two groan in encouragement at your ministrations, hypnotized.

“You look so cute like this, baby,” Choso moans. “I need to see my cock in your mouth.”

He grabs your hair and, without warning, sinks into your mouth to fuck it dumb. “Fuck!” He groans. “You’re so good at suckin’ my cock, baby.” You have no choice but to breathe and let him do as he wants, your eyes watering from the ache in your jaw and your that button in your throat being triggered.

Dabi watches you, his phone in your face and the blinding, white light of his camera in your eyes. “C’mooon, you can fuck her mouth harder than that, can’tcha?”

Choso glares into the lens as he grips your hair harder. “Fuck you,” he growls but ends up fucking your mouth a little rougher anyway. You gag and sloppily gurgle around his dick as he pounds your throat like it’s your pussy, gripping your hair for leverage.

Dabi grins at his bandmate, enjoying the scene before him. “No thanks,” he cackles. “You ain’t my type, but this little doll is.” He taps his cock against your cheek to get your attention. “Look into the camera, bunny. You love bein’ our little toy, don’t you?”

You squint into the blinding light as Choso pulls his cock out of your mouth, leaving a strand of saliva in his wake. “Slutty little thing,” Dabi whistles. “Now it’s my turn. Get it on camera, will ya?” He passes Choso his phone before roughly yanking you towards his cock by your hair.

With a gasp, your mouth falls onto his cock. He is just as rough, aggressive, and desperate as Choso as he fucks your throat, pulling you back and forth like he owns your entire head.

“Deeper,” he growls. “C’mon, slut, take me deeper.” He sinks himself in deeper, nearly touching the back of your throat. Unable to avoid possibly throwing up, you desperately push at his hips to make him stop.

With a sigh, he pulls himself out of you, allowing you to take a breath. You sputter and gulp down air, unable to get it in your lungs fast enough. Figuring you’ve had enough time, the guitarist grabs you again for more throat-fucking.

“D-Dabi, wait!” you cough. “I-I can’t breathe!” But he doesn’t listen to you, instead plunging his cock in balls deep until the heavy things hit your chin. “Bunnies don’t talk, stupid girl. C’mon, you’re embarrassin’ me on video.”

He turns and smirks into the light as Choso records him plowing your mouth, his cock moving in and out of your throat at a fast, rough pace that nearly knocks your brain out of your skull. “You’re doin’ so well, baby,” Choso coos, gently tapping his cock against your soft cheek. “Such a big girl takin’ those big dicks.” He taps it once against your nose too, chuckling to himself.

Dabi wraps a hand around your throat and squeezes, tossing some rough into the mixing pot of sugar that Choso gives you. “Look up at me. Show me your eyes.”

You do so, staring deep into those blue orbs as his cock strokes the walls of your throat. “That’s it, my little bunny. That’s what I like.”

“Just remember to share her, asshole,” Choso hisses. “She likes my dick more anyway.”

Dabi lazily stares at him, squinting at the camera flash. “Oh, really? Then maybe she’ll be able to choose once we’re inside her.” He pulls his cock out of your mouth, using it to slap your cheek. “Turn the fuck over,” he growls.

Nervously swallowing your spit and his pre, you slowly turn around on wobbly limbs only to be hiked into position by an impatient Dabi: all fours. You feel his big hands on your hips, drawing you toward him. When you feel his cock slide against your pussy, you feel immense fear make your stomach turn.

Then he starts to push the head in. “Dabi, wait,” you gasp. “Condom! You need a condom!”

Smack!

His hand comes down to smack you hard on the ass. You flinch at the stinging pain. “I don’t need that shit,” he scoffs. “Now shut up and take this dick, little bunny.”

And then in he goes, sliding his full length into your pussy one inch at a time. Your mouth falls open as you feel him stretching you out, making his place in your cunt one stroke after the other.

He groans, his hips slamming into your ass a little harder and a little faster until he is fucking you onto his cock like you’re his toy, pulling and pushing you by your hips. “Much better than money, right?” he cackles. He leans down to bite your ear, tugging on your earlobe. “Bet it feels good. Bet it’s everything you need, right, bunny?”

You can’t form even one coherent word. Moans and whimpers are all you can manage as his cock drills into your pussy, emitting wet sounds like a moist macaroni and cheese casserole from his dick repeatedly pounding your cunt. Your head feels like mush, your tits jiggle, and you can’t get a grip on yourself.

“Too much!” you sob. “P-Please, Dabi! Slow down!”

He doesn’t, instead gripping whatever he can of yours—your jiggling tits, your stomach, your ass. “Shut her up, Choso,” he irritably grunts. “She’s killin’ my fuckin’ buzz.”

Choso moves in front of you, pushing his erect cock against your plush lips. “Shhh, baby,” he whispers. “Yuji is sleepin’. Just suck on my cock, okay, good girl?”

Before you can answer, his dick is pushing inside of your mouth. With a moan, he begins to fuck the side of your mouth, his head rubbing against the soft, wet wall.

The two begin to fuck you at both ends, using your body for their pleasure. Dabi grips your skirt, nearly tearing the fabric with his aggressively tight hold. “Fuck!” He grunts. “She feels so fuckin’ good! Gonna shoot a load in her soon at this rate.”

Your eyes widen at the terrifying mention of a creampie. Sure, you’ve always had a kink for that and maybe eventually, you’ll want to experience it, but not now. You can’t get pregnant! Luckily, Choso becomes your savior. “Switch with me then. I need my turn.”

Dabi chuckles, the sound sending shivers down your spine. Moaning in unison, the duo pull their cocks out of you before switching spots. Dabi takes your front while Choso takes the back, his hands massaging your ass. He presses soft kisses on your back as he rubs his cock against your soft asscheeks, almost rutting against them.

You look back at him, unintentionally making him harder as you stare at him over your shoulder. “Choso—“

You can’t finish the rest of your sentence because the drummer is already sliding his cock deep inside of you, sinking himself down to the hilt. He begins to fuck you almost immediately, grabbing your ass for leverage. You moan and whine at the feeling, unable to think about anything but how good his cock feels.

Choso uses one hand to fondle your tits while the other stays on your ass, massaging both sensitive zones as his cock massages your walls. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he moans. “Wanted to fuck this pussy for so fuckin’ long. All you do is tease me.” He grips your body to his like it’s his prized position, his hips hammering against your ass again and again and again.

Every time he slams into you, you’re propelled deeper and deeper into a hole of molten pleasure that you can’t crawl out of…and you’re not sure if you want to.

“Choso!” You whine. “Oh, my God, Choso, fuck!” His stroke game draws the loudest, most pathetic sounds out of you, only muffled by Dabi’s cock.

He laughs as he slides into your mouth as you moan around it. “Damn, you’ve got some pipes, girl,” he chuckles, biting his lip as he watches you suck on it. “Might wanna look into bein’ a singer. We might have an opening for ya if you can make us nut.”

He takes his cock out once and taps it against your tongue before sliding back in, proceeding to fuck your throat. Choso laughingly moans, still massaging your insides with his cock. “That won’t be a problem…ssshhhit, her pussy is so tight!” He lets out a shuddery breath as he slows himself down, edging himself inside of you. You can feel him beginning to swell, his cock growing thicker.

Dabi nods at him encouragingly, gripping your hair and forcing you to throat his dick. “Then beat that pussy up, man. Don’t fuckin’ slack—give her what she needs.”

And together, they do just that. They fuck and use your holes until you’re a gagging, whimpering mess, dripping from both ends. Your fake ears fall off and your skirt is ripped so tightly in Choso’s fists that you hear it rip. They fuck you as hard and as fast as they want to, taking you on a bumpy ride.

You feel your core begin to tighten into a knot and your clit swell the more Dabi teases it with his fingers. Your second orgasm is approaching quickly.

Choso must feel it because he focuses heavily on that spot inside of you, fucking it until you’re a puddle. “You gonna cum, bunny?” he whispers. “You gonna cum all over this cock?”

Your mind is blank, the pleasure too numbing. You can feel the urge to cum building, building, building. Choso pinches your nipples while Dabi swirls his fingers around your clit, the sensations getting you closer. “Mmmm!” You scream around Dabi’s cock. “Mmmm, pweeease!”

Dabi nods, pleased with your begging. He grips your hair tighter, forcing you to take his cock deeper. “Go ahead and cum with us, slut. We fuckin’ need it.” Choso nods encouragingly, still pounding your pussy with the intention of making you both cum your brains out. “Do it,” he begs. “Cum on that dick. Give it to me, bunny, please! Cum right fuckin’ now!”

His begging and pleading triggers something inside of you that immediately flips your O switch on. “Ohhh, fuuuuck!” you moan as you finally cum all over Choso’s cock. He keeps fucking you through each intense wave of your orgasm, extending it until you’re writhing and thrashing between him and Dabi.

“Oh, God,” Choso groans as your pussy clenches around him. “I’m ‘bout to cum too.” Dabi shakes his head, pumping his cock in your face. “Unless you want a baby, I suggest you follow my lead.”

Despite the feeling of disappointment as your heavenly cunt leaves him, Choso pulls out and takes his place next to Dabi. The two stand over you—little, pathetic, cum-drunk you—and jerk themselves off in your face.

“Not done yet,” Dabi hisses, damn near feral. “Look up at us, bunny. Show us that pretty face.”

Slowly, you do as he orders and stare at their cocks as they furiously chase their orgasms with their hands. Dabi cums first with a raspy groan that sends warm shivers throughout your body. His creamy, hot cum shoots all over your face and tongue that you slip out of your mouth to catch some droplets.

Choso comes next, his face flush red and looking oh-so pretty as his orgasm peaks. Finally, with a moan, he cums too. “Ohhh, fuck,” he groans as he sprays his load all over your tits. Some of the droplets also splash onto your tongue and on your stomach, coating your skin in the creamy substance.

Their muscles tense and their faces screw in pleasure until finally, the cloud of pleasure fades and they relax. Choso tilts his head back, eyes shut and looking winded. Meanwhile, Dabi takes his phone from the floor and once again puts the camera on you. You squint into the white light, wanting to cover yourself.

“That’s a pretty sight,” he sighs, getting up close and personal. “Now was that good, bunny? Did ya have fun?” He takes his thumb and wipes some cum away from your lips. “Y-Yes,” you softly reply.

The guitarist smirks, pleased with your answer. “Mmm, good girl. You look so nice with my cum all over you.” He makes sure to get all of you—your tits, your stomach, your pretty face all covered in his and Choso’s nut—on his phone. You have no choice but to sit in it…and your embarrassment.

You can’t believe you just got fucked by two men you barely know after babysitting their baby brothers…one of which is sound asleep upstairs.

Dabi finally turns off his phone, chuckling to himself. You don’t ask why. After fetching some tissues, Choso bends down on the floor to wrap his arms around you, using the tissues to dab the cum off of your body. “You did so well, baby,” he sighs. “You were so, so fuckin’ good.”

His big, strong, inked arms wrap around your middle as he drags you into his lap. He then picks you up and walks you over to the couch where he cuddles you, naked and satisfied. He gently strokes your back and kisses your forehead, almost making you forget all about your humiliation….almost.

And then you hear a knock. It is loud and it is abrupt. You gasp, jumping in fear. Someone’s at the door. Could it be Nanami? Is he home early?

Dabi, putting his undies and jeans back on, zips up his fly before sauntering over to the door. He peeks through the peephole and smirks at you. “Relax, girl,” he cackles. “It ain’t no trick-or-treaters.”

Despite the fact that you and Choso are still very naked, Dabi opens the door to reveal two more hot, tatted band members—one with long, wavy white hair and tired gray eyes and the other with spiked pink hair and vermillion eyes.

“Took you long enough,” Dabi scoffs, opening the door further. “Get your asses in here.”

The two strangers walk in, laughing to themselves. When their eyes lock with yours, they each smirk to themselves, menacingly. “Damn,” the pink-haired hottie laughs lightly. “Guess we missed the party.”

“Nah, you guys came just in time,” Dabi chuckles, tossing an arm around his white-haired friend. “We just finished up with her.”

The white-haired man tilts his head to the side, his eyes roaming over your body. “Tiny little thing. You two horn bags corrupt her already?”

Choso squeezes you to him, smiling at his friends. “Baby, this is Tomura and Sukuna, our bassist and one of our other guitarists.”

The two bandmates’ smirks grow wider, causing a twirl of fear and anxiety to appear in your gut.

Choso presses lips to your ear. You can tell he’s smiling. “They’ve got a thing for bunnies too,” he whispers.

THE END.

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my works #black coded reader #my one shots #black writers #choso x black!reader #dabi x black!reader #anime crossover #jjk smut #bnha smut #poly smut #happy halloweeeeeeen #bunny girl

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acheronsociety · 2 months ago

Text

✶ SECRETS IN THE SUNLIGHT

in which... you offer to help remus lupin with sunscreen, only to discover the scars he’s been hiding—and the reason he can’t let himself kiss you, even when he wants to.

pairing: remus lupin x gryffindor f!reader word count: 1.6k content warning: angst ✶ fluff ✶ some cursing, marauders being marauders, the feeling of being a bit uncomfy in your skin, scars, and moony's sad poet's hours as sirius would like to call them. a/n: soft summer core vibe made especially for a dear friend of mine who's been crushing on lupin too hard... the only setback is—she crushes on angst harder !

𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 late June and the Black Lake had never looked more like ink and velvet soft.

The war hadn’t touched the school yet. Not really. There were whispers in corners and headlines folded under textbooks, but that day, the only thing that mattered was the sun, the stretch of freedom, and the way the air smelled like pine and mischief.

It was James’s idea, of course. Summer was here, N.E.W.T.s were done, and he was finally back with Lily after a week-long, soul-shattering breakup over that prank on Snape. She’d thrown a book at his head in the common room. Now, she was perched beside him on a blanket with her legs draped over his, her fingers tucked into the sleeve of his tee as though she still didn’t quite believe he was real.

Sirius arrived fashionably late on his ridiculous flying bike, with Cassandra Lockhart clinging to him like something out of a forbidden novel. Cassandra—Cass to everyone else, Trouble to Sirius—looked like the kind of girl mothers warned sons about. Slytherin to the bone, but smarter than any of them, and always dressed like she’d walked out of an editorial spread: black bathing suit, emerald-green silk shirt tied at the waist, and dark sunglasses perched atop her rich dark-brown hair. She barely acknowledged the others, but when Sirius helped her off the bike and whispered something at her temple, her smirk alone said everything.

And then there was Lupin.

Remus Lupin had that sort of quiet prettiness that wasn’t made to be noticed at first glance, but stuck with you. Soft eyes. Thoughtful hands. Always in linen or soft knits, like he was made of rainy Sundays and underlined poetry. He stood with his arms crossed, watching Sirius and Cass from the tree line with a half-smile, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

You weren’t far off, lacing up your trainers again after kicking them off for a swim. Your hair was still damp, clinging to the curve of your neck. Shorts. Sports bra. Tan lines forming from all the running you’d done lately just to think clearly.

You weren’t close to Cass, but you didn’t dislike her. She was dangerous in the way girls were allowed to be when they didn’t care if people liked them. You were too busy trying to make your professors proud, juggling House Quidditch with your growing pile of books on ancient magic and magical creatures.

You should’ve been in Ravenclaw, they always told you.

But it didn’t feel like Ravenclaws would have gone along with James Potter’s mad idea to steal breakfast from the kitchens and sneak out to a hidden part of the Black Lake “for peace and quiet.”

Peace and quiet had not happened. Sirius was shirtless within minutes, jumping from a tree branch into the water and dragging Cass in after him. James was poking at a picnic basket with his wand, while Lily told him, gently but firmly, to stop turning the sandwiches into birds. Marlene was sunbathing in her combat boots and a bra, sunglasses on, flipping through Witch Weekly and rolling her eyes at literally everything.

Mary would join later.

And Peter was watching you again. That soft, puppy-eyed look he always gave you when he thought no one would notice. You didn’t mind Peter. He was sweet. Beautiful in a troubled way, his own way. But you wished—selfishly—that Remus would look at you the way Peter did.

Remus, who never stared. Who was always kind, but reserved. Like he wanted to reach out and never quite did.

You moved closer to the blanket where he sat, a half-read book on magical theory close by, and dropped down beside him without warning.

“Is that Wyrdways of Magical Creation?” you asked, bumping your knee into his.

He blinked, startled, then smiled. “Yeah. Bit dense for beach reading, I suppose.”

“You’d be surprised what I call light reading,” you teased, brushing wet strands of hair from your face.

He looked at you then—opened a door he usually locked. Your knees still touching. His eyes flicked to your legs, then back to your face. But his smile dimmed, just a little.

“You’re always running,” he said suddenly.

You tilted your head. “It’s quiet when I run.”

He nodded. “Guess I wouldn’t know.”

You hesitated. There it was again. That gap. That door closing. You could feel it, like a cold spot in the middle of the sun.

“Do you ever... sneak out with the others?” you asked, voice low. “At night?”

His posture changed. Slight. But you noticed. “What makes you ask?”

You shrugged, as casually as you could. “You four are up to something. I just know it.”

Remus gave you that tired smile again. “Would you believe me if I said it’s nothing bad?”

“I don’t think it’s bad,” you didn’t meant to pry, but curiosity had always gnawed at you. “I just think it’s secret.”

That made him pause. He reached for his water bottle instead of answering.

“I don’t like secrets,” you added, softer this time.

His hand froze. Then slowly, he set the bottle down. “Then you’d hate mine.”

Something twisted in your chest.

But before you could ask more, Sirius let out a war whoop from the water. “Oi, Moony! Get in here before Cass kills me for pushing her again!”

Remus rolled his eyes. “She won’t kill you. She’ll just destroy your self-esteem.”

Cass was already climbing back onto the rock, flipping her wet hair and giving Sirius a middle finger with a perfectly manicured hand.

You leaned in just a bit closer. “You don’t have to tell me, Remus. But I think I’d like it if you stopped pretending like I’m just another girl sitting next to you.”

He looked at you, caught off guard. His lips parted.

And then, like it hurt, he said, “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t,” he whispered.

You didn’t push.

You just nodded, stepped back, and let the space between you bloom wide again. Because some truths or bonds weren’t meant to be forced, no matter how much they sat in your chest like unsaid prayers.

So you turned away, back toward the sun-dappled clearing, where the lake glistened like a secret and laughter rose in waves.

James and Lily were in their own world—her head thrown back, laughing as James attempted to charm a rock into a reclining lounge chair. It half-worked, then exploded with a puff of green smoke, sending them both tumbling into the grass.

Peter hovered near the picnic, fretting over his already pinking skin. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, squinting at the sun like it had personally offended him. “This is how I die, isn’t it? Slow-roasted.”

You chuckled and stood beside him, hand already reaching for the sunscreen bottle. “Turn around, Pettigrew.”

He blinked, startled. “What?”

“You’ll be a tomato by dinner,” you said, unscrewing the cap and squeezing a generous amount into your hand.

He hesitated, then slowly turned, cheeks blooming red from something other than the sun.

As your palms smoothed over his back, Peter fidgeted and rambled nervously about a girl in Hufflepuff he might write to over break. You nodded, encouraging him, Marlene snorting from where she was sprawled, but your eyes drifted elsewhere.

Across the rocky bank, Remus sat alone now, tugging awkwardly at the sleeves of his shirt while everyone else basked bare-skinned in the sun. He looked out of place, too warm, too covered. His hair clung to the sides of his neck, and he kept scratching lightly at his elbow like his skin was crawling under the linen.

Eventually, he stood.

He wandered away from the group, toward the far side of the lake where a jagged rock jutted out into the water like a ledge. Sirius floated nearby, still swimming lazy laps, his silver rings glinting even in the water.

You saw Remus look back—once—before pulling the shirt off with a kind of hesitant resignation.

It hit you, then.

He wasn’t straying further to read. Or for the view. Or even for some quiet.

He was straying further so you wouldn’t see.

The distance masked the truth. From where you all were, you could just make out the faint lines of his frame, the curve of his shoulders, the angles of his back—but not the scars. Not the ones that lived where secrets liked to hide.

There were a few on his face, sure. A small one near his brow, a thin line along his cheekbone. Another crossing the bridge of his nose. Things boys collected in childhood. No one asked.

But you’d seen him fidget with his sleeves. Tense when people brushed against him. Stay clothed when others shed layers for the sun.

And suddenly, all of it made sense.

Still, you didn’t mean to walk over.

You didn’t plan to follow him.

But you found yourself walking toward the rock anyway, sunscreen in hand, the summer heat pressing soft and heavy across your shoulders. You told yourself it was to check in. To offer something helpful. But truthfully, you wanted to be near him. Even if he didn’t let you all the way in.

He was sitting on the ledge, long legs dangling over the water, shoulders rolled forward. Sirius was nearby, floating lazily on his back, arms spread like a crucifix made of mischief and silver cuffs.

“Mate,” Sirius was saying, “if I’d known you were going for broody lake aesthetic, I’d have brought a sketchbook. Or a cigarette. You look like a heartbroken poet.”

Remus laughed—real, soft. You saw it in his profile. He was distracted, safe. He didn’t hear you approach.

You took in his back—and the moment stilled.

Scars. Not deep. Not fresh. But many. Layered over each other like the rings of a tree. Like stories that couldn’t be told out loud. And for a second, you just stood there, rooted to the spot, like seeing them had knocked the wind out of you.

Not in horror. Not in pity.

But in the knowledge that he had carried this alone.

Your steps were soft on the stone, but he still startled when you sat beside him.

He shifted quickly, muscles on his broad shoulders tensing, spine snapping straight. His hand twitched toward the shirt he'd dropped at his side. But you just held up the sunscreen, slow and easy.

“Thought you might want help,” you offered. “I did Peter’s back. Seemed unfair to leave you out.”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes flicked down, then toward Sirius direction, then up again—hovering somewhere between gratitude and discomfort.

Finally, he nodded. Just once.

Sirius, ever the opportunist, spotted you and grinned. “Oh, finally! This was getting agonizing.”

Remus shot him a warning look.

Sirius held up his hands in mock surrender and turned, calling back to the others. “If anyone needs me, I’m retrieving my dignity!”

He dove underwater, laughing.

And you were alone.

You uncapped the bottle, warming the lotion between your hands first. Then you touched him.

He flinched.

Not like he was in pain—like he wasn’t used to being touched without flinching.

Your hands moved slowly, deliberately. Over the shoulders first. Across the blade of his back. The lotion made his skin shine, made the pale scars glow like silver ink under the sun.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

Not until he exhaled, low and rough.

“I was attacked when I was five,” his jaw tensed, like the image was still vivid in his mind.

You stilled.

“Werewolf.”

There was no dramatic pause. No big reveal. Just the words, spoken like something he had rehearsed a thousand times in his head, and still hated saying out loud.

“I turn every full moon. I lose control. I... I hurt things. Myself. Sometimes... it used to be others.”

Your hand was on his shoulder, resting there now.

“I wanted to tell you sooner,” he added. “But I didn’t want you to look at me differently. I didn’t want you to flinch.”

“I didn’t,” you whispered.

He turned then, slowly, his gaze sweeping over your face like he was searching for disbelief. For fear.

He found neither.

Only you.

And for a moment—just one—he leaned in.

Closer than before. So close your noses nearly brushed, the heat from his body pulling you in like a tide.

You felt his breath. You saw the way his eyelashes trembled. The way his fingers flexed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

And then he stopped.

Pulled back, just slightly. Enough to undo the moment.

“Peter likes you,” he said, voice so quiet it might’ve been a thought. “And I can’t... I won’t break his heart.”

You blinked.

Tried to swallow the ache that rose up so fast it made your head swim.

You could’ve told him that you didn’t choose Peter. That you’d never given Peter a reason to hope. That what you felt—this—wasn’t a crush.

But the look in Remus’s eyes was so soft. So damn gentle. Like he was trying to hold the whole world together with a single breath.

So you just nodded.

You sat back beside him, shoulder brushing his, and stared out at the lake where Sirius was now trying to coax Lily into the water with ridiculous splashes.

And you thought—this is what it means to almost have something.

And still want it.

#remus lupin x reader #marauders fanfiction #remus lupin #marauders era #remus lupin x you #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin imagine #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagines #marauders #marauders imagines #mauraders drabbles #marauders scenarios #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin scenario

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majestyeverlasting · 4 months ago

Note

hi writer! i love your fics :)

would you be down to write a fem!reader x eddie munson fic where eddie and reader go to a concert together for the first time & have their first kiss? i thought that’d be super cute, but write whatever feels right! thank you 💗

𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

Pairing Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Summary It’s a summer of firsts—your first road trip, concert, and kiss with Eddie. And you can feel in your bones that it's only the beginning of forever [fluff, 3.8k].

A/N Hi, anon! I loved this request so much. It went through a couple iterations before I settled on what felt right, but now it's finally here. Thank you for your patience. Enjoy!

.・゜゜・・゜゜・．

The lone call of a mourning dove registers as a distant beckon on the outskirts of your consciousness. It’s an airy, flute-like melody that seems to grow nearer as you’re coaxed further into wakefulness. Hardly any sunlight streams into the room, only a dull glow that rims the black curtains. As your eyes flutter open, you trace the Iron Maiden posters on the opposite wall before diverting your gaze to the base of Eddie’s dresser, where your packed duffle bag rests on the floor.

Closing your eyes once again, you tuck your face back into the pillow. It smells like Eddie. A subtle fusion of pine, citrus, and the earthy notes of his skin. However, when you extend a blind arm to run alongside you on the mattress, the warm weight of his presence isn’t there.

As if sensing your wakefulness, he saunters into the bedroom a couple seconds later. Artificial light pours in from the hallway, and a weak, disgruntled sound rises up your throat.

He hears it. Of course he hears it. He reckons he’d be attuned to you even if he were miles away. But that doesn’t stop him from walking over and turning on the lamp on the nightstand too. You don’t have a chance to tug the covers over your head because he stills you the second your fingers curl around them.

“Eddie,” you whine as you squint against the light.

He squats beside the bed so he’s face to face with you. There’s a sleepy softness to his own gaze, but the upturn of his lips suggests he’s managed to tap into a well of energy within himself. Maybe not the deepest one, but sufficient enough to be unbothered by the fact that the red numbers on the alarm clock display a quarter past seven-o-clock.

He’s already dressed for the day ahead. Blue jeans, black tee, and silver chain around his neck.

“Time to get up,” he coaxes. You can smell the mint toothpaste on his breath. “Nashville’s waiting for us, sweetheart.”

He brushes a gentle knuckle across your warm cheek as his eyes briefly flit to your pouty lips. His touch is enough to cut through the remainder of slumber’s haze, reminding you of how excited you are to hit the open road with him for the very first time.

•••

It’s easy being with Eddie. You knew that way before you set off for Tennessee. It’s in the soft gazes he casts your way, the steady weight of his hand on your thigh, his curls as they wisp in the wind. Few people come around and make it feel as though you've known them a lifetime.

Aside from the asphalt of the road, there’s so much green all around, like you’re cocooned in it. Sunlight plays through the trees lining either side as they glide past the windows. You’ve never seen Hoosier National Forest this way, fresh and alive in the early morning light.

Thirty-five minutes into the trip, and an appreciative silence has already fallen between you. The radio plays a hits station down low, and every once in awhile you find yourself humming along to a familiar tune as you gaze outside.

A folded map rests in your lap, but Eddie hasn’t asked for directions since you left his trailer. It wasn’t news to you anymore, but he was scarily good at making his way around Southern Indiana. He could recall highway names and exit numbers with impressive ease. An acquired skill from moving around with his mom in his youth, skimming maps, and being a good listener when he wanted to be.

Back when you first became friends, you were surprised to learn that he’d memorized the way to your house after one visit. At night, no less. He claimed it was because he had a pretty worthwhile incentive in you.

As you continue cruising through the forest, Eddie’s fingers tap an absentminded beat on the steering wheel as his rings catch the light. It’s enough to draw your gaze from the window to study his lean, well-worn hands. The hands of a mechanic. There’s a grace to them too, even after years of fights he never started but always finished.

Thankfully, these days were different, as if the fog had lifted and people began to realize he was more than the rambunctiousness and rough edges they’d build around him in their minds.

You were once part of the crowd that wondered and wondered some more about Eddie. But as surely as the stars shine in the night sky, getting close to him meant finally seeing the true picture of the boy who, day by day, is stealing more of your heart.

He can feel your gaze on him, but his eyes remain on the road as he bites back a smile.

•••

Forty miles out from the motel, Eddie takes an exit off the highway and pulls into a Marathon station. A few other cars are parked at gas pumps and in front of the convenience store. The sudden stillness, paired with a gentle shake of your shoulder, prompts your eyes to flutter open.

Eddie flashes a smile over at you as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “Mornin’, sunshine—again.” He reaches over to give your thigh a light squeeze.

Before he can pull away, you take his hand in yours. “Sorry,” you murmur through a yawn. “I’m supposed to be keeping you company.”

Eddie shakes his head. “You are,” he assures. “Even when you look like this,” he tips his head against the headrest with his eyes closed and mouth wide open.

A snort escapes you, and you let go of his hand in favor of punching his shoulder. The blow isn’t nearly hard enough to hurt, but he massages his arm with a wince.

“I don’t look like that,” you say through a laugh.

“No,” he sighs in agreement. “You’re way cuter. Can’t even take it.” His lips curl into a grin, but you can see the sincerity in his eyes even then.

Warmth rises to your cheeks as you bite your lip to keep from smiling wider.

“Especially when you smile like that,” he says.

This time, you gently push his shoulder. “Okay, stop, go pump gas,” you whine halfheartedly.

He laughs as he slips out of the van and you miss him when he shuts the door behind himself. While he’s outside, you push your feet back into your Keds and adjust your shirt on your shoulders.

Eddie eventually knocks on the driver’s side window and goofily mimes that he’s going to go inside. When he sees you turn to get out, he jogs around the front of the van to open your door for you.

There’s a gentle breeze outside. The sun shines in an overcast sky. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you stretch your arms above your head, back arching in the process. Eddie’s eyes drift down to where your baby tee has rises to expose a sliver of your skin.

You catch him, but all he does is meet your gaze with a soft smile. Fondness sparkles in the dark pools of his eyes like tiny stars.

“All set?” He offers you his hand and you take it.

You swing his arm as you begin walking. “You gonna buy me Sour Powers?”

“Whatever you want,” he promises, leading you towards the convenience store and whatever comes next.

•••

Further away on the shoreline of Barren River Lake, children play in colorful swimsuits and bucket hats as they enjoy the still waters. Parents watch them wade and splash from blankets and folding chairs lined on the sand.

Eddie stands with his back leaning against the side of the van, legs crossed and a bottle of Jolt Cola raised to his lips. There’s something about his lax stance, the intricate inkwork on his arms, the way his rings catch the sun.

Despite the few other travelers who have pulled off the highway for a breather, his gaze remains on you. Though it’s not overtly clear through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, you have a hunch. It’s in the gradual upturn of his lips as you get closer, shorts riding slightly up your thighs.

By the time you position yourself directly in front of him, you’re able to confirm his pupils are fixed on you. Upon playfully leaning into his face, you’re met with the full brunt of his smile. It’s a little boyish and goofy, but all the more charming.

“Hey, pretty,” he says before taking another sip. He licks away the excess that settles in the divot of his cupid’s bow.

“Hi,” you say through a smile of your own. “How much longer do we have left?”

“We’re about seventy-five miles out,” he thinks aloud. “So probably about an hour and a half, give or take.”

You hum in acknowledgement, and reach out to fix a stray strand of his hair, then use that as an excuse to brush your fingertips along the stubble of his jaw in a featherlight sweep. The gentle attention makes his eyelashes flutter.

“Stay right here,” you tell him.

Eddie purses his lips but obeys, watching as you quickly round to the passenger side. When you come back, his Uncle Wayne’s black Polaroid camera is cradled in your grip like a prized possession. You hadn’t even asked to bring it, just plucked it off the shelf in their living room because it had already become just as much yours.

You position yourself a couple yards away, and shuffle to the side until you’re aligned with Eddie. Even with the sincerity of your enthusiastic smile, an ember of self-consciousness flickers within him. Or maybe awareness is a better word. The awareness that the way he is in this moment, slightly tired with mussed hair from traveling, will live on forever. It’s a small price to pay for the invaluable notion of a memory. He’d never be this young on a road trip to Nashville with you again.

“How do you want me, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Just the way you are,” you say as you lift the viewfinder to your eye.

His shoulders relax as he smiles. Something small and soft, just for you.

•••

Melodic. That’s the way your laughter sounds as it arises. Eddie can feel your breath on his ear as your arms remain wrapped around his waist from behind. It does nothing to help with the way he fumbles to get the key in the motel room door. They’d already clinked to the ground once. Because you’re poking at him, and giggling, and making it impossible for him to focus. Warmth swells in his chest nonetheless because he quite likes you this way, giddy from your time on the road. He doesn’t hear his own exasperated laughter because yours drowns it out and swallows it whole.

When he manages to get the maroon door unlocked, he pushes it open, but misses your touch as you let your arms fall from around him in a playful semblance of defeat. The faint scent of lemongrass welcomes you as you trail him into the modest room. A queen-sized bed is the centerpiece of the space, and you take in the tan, patterned comforter. The low, burgundy carpet. The popcorn ceiling.

Eddie sets the key on the TV stand and props his hands on his hips as he peers over at you. There’s a pensive expression on your face as you push the curtains open further, letting more light in. For a second, nervousness rises in his gut. This isn’t the top of the line. Maybe if you squinted and dreamed, it could be something more. But not by any honest assessment of reality. It wasn’t supposed to be. One day he’d give you that experience. For now you have this. Cozy, familiar, and intimate.

You smile teasingly when you meet his eyes again. “I know what we’re doing tonight,” you say, and Eddie waits for you to continue. “Mapping out our own constellations.”

A chuckle escapes him because he already knows you’re referring to the dotted nature of the ceiling. The crinkles by his eyes make you bite back a grin as you step closer to give him a proper hug. His strong arms give you a good, steady squeeze and, before long, you’ve closed your eyes and nuzzled into his shirt. There’s a faint tickle at your lower back as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt to stroke the bare skin. You could fall asleep just like this, standing in his arms, in the room that would be your home away from home for the next several days. It was perfect. All of it. This motel, the moment, him.

Even though he insists you don’t have to, you venture back outside with him to bring your bags inside. It’s an excuse to admire the afternoon sky, not a single cloud in sight. A handful of cars are scattered within the parking lot. Across the way, there’s a fenced pool with a lone beach ball floating in the turquoise water. There’s a sleepy aliveness to it all. Each tiny sign of life mindful enough to not demand attention. The sound of car engines carries from the main throughway nearby.

“Hey, sweetheart?” Eddie calls out to you.

Duffle bag slung over your shoulder, you join him at the back of the van. You wrinkle your nose when you see that he’s holding the camera.

“Uh oh,” you say playfully. “Is it my turn?”

When he nods, you do a quick scan for cars before backing up to strike a pose, one hand on your hip and the other extending towards the everlasting sky. The quick flicker of the flash seals the moment in time.

•••

Later that night, Eddie watches you wash your face at the sink—albeit upside down. He lays stretched out on the bed with his head tipped backwards over the edge. Blood has begun to rush to his face, but he remains unfazed. Warm lamplight fills the room. The TV remains off, both of you having long given up on the lacklaster channel selection. A couple carry out bags from the diner down the road sit on the table.

When you finish and pad back over to him, you playfully pinch his nostrils together, just long enough for him to make a muffled sound. The second you let go, he sits upright in an air of amusement and surprise. His curls are a fluffy, beautiful mess that he pushes out of his eyes.

“I’m calling the cops,” he announces. “That was attempted murder.”

“Premeditated, even,” you supply, unable to keep from smiling.

Eddie swivels so that his legs hang over the bed, socked feet meeting the floor. “Here I was thinking you liked me.”

“I’m afraid not.” You carefully step between his legs. “It’s all been an act.” You bring your hands to his head and comb through his curls, gently working through loose tangles that fall out easily.

Eddie’s eyes flutter closed as he leans into your touch. You note how long his dark eyelashes are, how his lips part just so as his breathing steadies. He almost complains when you stop, but the gentle brush of your thumb across his lower lip silences him.

Looking back up at you, there’s tenderness in your gaze alongside something a little braver and wanting. But it keeps itself tucked away, and he’s willing to let it remain in hiding if it means it’ll bloom into action when the time comes.

“Well, I like you,” Eddie says, reaching out to snap the waistband of your satin pajama shorts. There’s an honest sparkle in his eyes, if not tinged with a hint of shyness.

Then he keeps talking, “There’s this really cool band playing at the Lantern Room down on Lower Broadway tomorrow night. They do covers and some of their own stuff. I think you’d dig their vibe…”

You hum in interest, so he continues.

“And I just so happen to have two tickets,” he says, eyes softening even as a smirk pulls at his lips. “But, you know, if you don’t like me…”

“I do like you,” you murmur. “A lot. Probably an embarrassing amount.”

You wouldn’t be surprised if, years from now, archaeologists find that fact written in stone.

•••

All of Lower Broadway buzzes with life. Pedestrians flutter about beneath the glow of neon lights. Music and laughter pour out of each door that opens. Back in Hawkins, places were only ever this alive on TV, in the movies, or somewhere else that seemed far, far away. The two of you let it soak. Let it settle beneath your skin and keep the pleasant flutter of excitement alive in your chests. A line of people file out of a larger venue at the end of the block. The illuminated sign out front catches your attention as it shines.

River Gold at The Lantern Room, one night only.

Inside the Lantern Room, it’s a whole new world. The same frenetic energy of the night exists, but as a steadier, more sophisticated version of itself. Warm, overhead lights cast their glow, and short staircases on either side of the establishment lead down to the lower portion of the floor.

An older man with a long gray ponytail improvises a relaxed tune on the piano as people continue to get situated. Over at the bar, patrons sip on cocktails and whiskeys.

Eddie leads you through it all, holding your hand so you don’t get separated in the crowd. As you take in the the dark wood of the high ceiling and the decorated walls, you almost miss him calling your name.

“Sorry,” you say as you give him your attention. “What were you saying?” It feels like you’re raising your voice over the chatter, but you can’t tell.

Eddie chuckles, but doesn't miss a beat. “You look painfully pretty in that dress.” Warmth blooms in your cheeks, but then he says what he’d actually been trying to ask, “Where do you wanna sit?”

You pout with a small shrug. “Close to the stage?” you say. “But maybe not too close—I don’t know. What do you think?”

He guides the two of you down a short set of stairs to the main floor seating, where plush lounge chairs are arranged in pairs, separated by small, round tables.

It isn’t long before River Gold takes the modest stage. Applause crescendos through the room. Eddie smiles over at you to find that your eyes are aglow as they’re fixed on the stage.

The group is composed of four members. A tall man with a short, neatly shaped afro and flared jeans steps up to the foremost microphone. A cherry red acoustic guitar hangs over his shoulder, and he strums a low, nonchalant series of notes.

“Thank y'all very much for the warm welcome,” he says, a smirk curling at his lips as he gazes around the room. The subtle eyeliner on his lower lashline accentuates his dark eyes.

“I’m Leon, and that’s Matty, Rocko, and Erika.” He points to the drummer, bassist, and pianist respectively, each receiving a quick swell of applause.

“And we’re River Gold.” More claps and whistles arise. “This ain’t Beale Street but we’re gonna show y'all how we do it back in Memphis.” You smile when a particularly loud cluster of cheers arises from a group seated somewhere behind you.

“We got a good show for y'all tonight,” he says, beginning to strum the opening notes of Stand by Me. “Don’t be shy to sing along.”

Leon lets the guitar hum under his voice before he leans into the mic to croon the opening verse, “When the night has come…”

A cheer goes up as the rest of the band falls in behind him, smooth like honey. The thrum of the bass, the steady shuffle of the drums, the laxity of the rhythm. It already sounds like heaven.

And it only gets better.

•••

Prince, The Rolling Stones, Tina Turner, Queen—River Gold sings covers from them all. With a couple of their own songs in the mix. Through it all, the crowd is wrapped under their spell.

The two of you are closer to the bar now, standing behind a stretch of railing near the staircase. Eddie’s body is steady behind you as his hands rest on your hips, gently swaying to one of their soulful original songs, South of Forever. You close your eyes as the music washes over you. The drums vibrate through your chest. The gentle press of Eddie’s fingertips at your waistline anchors you to the moment.

It isn’t long before something soft and plush tentatively meets the delicate skin behind your ear, accompanied by a puff of breath and the gentle tickle of hair. A beat later, another kiss grazes the shell of your ear. You fear that moving will make him pull away, but your shiver betrays you. Your eyes flutter open on the off chance you've slipped into a dream.

When you peek back at Eddie, he's already looking at you. His heart beats faster in his chest. There’s a weight to his gaze, but you can bear it. A strong tug within you prompts you to turn around in his arms.

Eddie strokes a gentle finger across your cheek before leaning, pressing his lips to yours. Warmth floods your chest at the newness of it all, the calculated softness of his lips as they move against yours. For a fraction of a second, he fears he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that he was too rash. But it’s easy with you. He can feel your fingertips steady themselves on his cheek before slipping around to scratch at the nape of his neck.

If it’s one thing he’s ever been sure about, it’s you. And maybe that’s why he hadn’t kissed you sooner. Uncertainty had driven him to act fast for so much of his life, but never with you. He never felt the need to rush into anything out of fear it would fall apart. He knew you weren’t going anywhere. That you had time. That he’d know when the moment was right.

Here, tonight, with you, he could feel it in his bones. That inner voice guiding a pull he couldn’t resist.

For the few seconds the kiss lasts, it feels like you’re floating somewhere in the clouds. Far above Nashville and the rest of the world. Suspended outside of time and space.

As Eddie slowly pulls away, Leon’s voice is there to welcome you back down to earth.

“Just South of Forever…no lights in the rearview…recklessly ‘head with you.”

(concert setlist visual)

Thank you so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. I promise I see them all!

MORE EDDIE

ALL MASTERLISTS

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things 4 #jospeh quinn

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wildflowersandvibranium · 22 days ago

Text

Muscle Memory : Chapter Two

Pairing: CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS Restaurant Owner Bucky Barnes x Cardiac Surgeon Female Reader Alternate Universe

Chapter Word Count: 3.5k+

Chapter Warnings: this one is on the heavier side!! it mostly contains flashbacks to show reader and Buckys dynamic and love when they were kids/teens. Contains scenes of abuse towards reader from her father and fiancé , mentions of blood , injuries , bruises , protective sweet bucky , panic attacks , kissing / slight makeout , suicide ideation if you squinttttt

Author Note: here is part 2!! Again this little project is my baby and I’m so proud of it 🥹 This is my first series fic so please be kind and any comments or thoughts mean the world! i have all chapters wrote so this will be a completed fic when all posted! 🌷if you want on the taglist let me know and i can add you! enjoyyyy bbysss

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She stepped into the apartment , the weight and stress of her day pressing deep into her bones.

The smell of the older house and faint lemon cleaner she had used the night before , greeted her as she slipped off her tennis shoes , toes sinking into the plush white rug she’d picked out.

She was drained of all energy , every muscle and limb aching from the long hours of surgeries and rounds of consults , but she couldn’t just collapse into bed.

Not when she knew Tyler would be just as exhausted as she was from his work trip in the next town over. She wanted to get his clothes for the work day tomorrow pressed and ready before the night.

She sauntered slowly to their bedroom, padding her sock covered feet down the little hall as she shed her scrubs and coat off , throwing them in the basket by the bathroom door.

Changing into a pair of black worn sweatpants and a cropped band tee.

She walked to the small laundry room off the kitchen , pulling the warm , clean clothes from the dryer into the clean hamper.

The soft hum of the machine and the warmth of the fresh load felt comforting and homey , like a quiet hug against the cold weight in her body.

She moved to sit cross-legged on the couch , methodically folding shirts and pants into neat stacks , one stack of hers and one of his clothes.

She contemplated turning on the TV as she worked but decided some peace and quiet would be best right now. There was already enough buzz and noise in her mind

The repetitive motion was soothing , a small moment of normalcy she clung to with tired hands.

Her mind drifted as she worked , eyes unfocused as she watched the pile in the basket grow smaller and the piles on the couch growing bigger.

A small shirt slipped out of the stack , it was one of hers , long forgotten at the bottom of the hamper and now shrunk to half its size after being mixed into loads and ran over and over.

She picked it up , fingers brushing the soft blue cotton , her lips curving faintly despite the exhaustion still lingering.

It looked like it could almost belong to a child now , something someone tiny and sweet would wear.

The thought made her heart ache in a way she couldn’t help.

She had always wanted a family , a real family.

One built out of her love and gentle laughter , where the kids ran barefoot and free through the kitchen without getting yelled at or scolded.

Giggling as they tease their parents when they kiss or snuggle or make flirty comments , the kids laugh squealing “stop flirting” instead of all she knew to say which was “stop fighting.”

She pictured sticky fingers stealing fresh homemade cookies off cooling racks , pillow and blanket forts in the living room , tiny arms thrown around her neck in bone crushing hugs after work.

She pictured warmth and safety , the kind of love that never left marks or swelling welps.

But the dream flickered to an end , like a candle in the wind as reality pulled her right back.

She shook her head quickly wiping her tears that she hadn't realized slipped down at the daydream.

Folding the little shirt and tucking it to the side. No sense in daydreaming about something that felt so far away , and oh so impossible.

Because she refuses to bring a precious being into this world for its little heart to get crushed by the very thing that's supposed to build you up and love you endlessly.

Everything she craved and did deserved but never got.

She forced herself to focus on the laundry again , on the clean towels and the scent of her lavender detergent.

Breaking the little peace she had , the white front door slammed , the echo cracking like thunder down the hall enough to shake the picture frame above the entryway.

Written in gold lettering. “Our Happily ever After”

It was pretty , had a floral painted design and was gifted to them by the realtor when they bought the house. Except this home was anything but that promise scripted on it.

Outside the home , its rose bushes and brick mailbox was picturesque like a little sliver of , heaven on earth.

But inside–

Inside it was hell.

She flinched , the shirt slipping from her fingers as her heart stuttered in her chest.

Her breath caught , and her gaze snapped to the entryway.

Tyler was home.

She knew the sound of his footsteps , heavy , uneven—and the smell of whiskey hershey to her nose , even before he came into view.

He was coming home drunk. Again.

The folded clothes blurred in her vision as she set them aside , steeling herself as he stumbled into the room.

The air in the room, once pure tranquility – seemed to tighten around her , that fragile bubble of safety and warm laundry popped in an instant.

Tyler’s footsteps stormed through the house.

She had stopped checking the clock a long time ago—stopped wondering how long before his voice turned sharp or the whiskey in his breath started to sing.

“You didn’t start dinner,” he said flatly, stumbling in , a new bottle of the amber liquid in his palm.

She blinked from the hallway , still holding the folded laundry in her slightly shaking hands. As she began to stammar out a response.

“I—I was waiting to see if you’d be home early,” she said carefully. “I didn’t want it to get cold—”

“Don’t play stupid with me girl.”

His voice was low , quiet, and that made it worse. The way his anger simmered like coals under water. Controlled. Calculated. Cruel.

“I wasn’t—Tyler, I’m not—” her stomach twisted and burned from fear.

The slap came so fast , so sharp , that she didn’t even register the pain before she was on the floor.

Her cheek throbbed. Her elbow pulsing with pain against the freshly mopped hardwood floors.

For a second , the world tilted. Her vision danced with little white stars and swirls.

“I work all damn day and you can’t even manage one fu’thing?” he snapped , slurring heavily.

She touched her cheek with trembling fingers. “Please… I—I’ll make it right now, just let me—”

He grabbed her wrist and yanked her upward , hard. Her body slammed into the hall table , the corner digging into her lower back , everything on it sliding off , shattering or snapping.

She let out a choked cry and tried to pull away , but his grip only tightened.

“You always have an excuse,” Tyler growled , breathing hot and sour against her face.

“You’re always so damn sorry—but it doesn’t stop you from screwing up.”

“I’m not trying to—I swear—Ty, please, I’ll fix it—”

“Shut up.”

His other hand raised in a fist , and that was when her body locked.

Her brain disconnected. As she was met with black.

And suddenly—

She wasn’t here anymore. Not an adult. Not in her house.

The sound of the front door slamming still made her heart skip , even all these years later.

But back then—when she was only nine , her hands trembled so fiercely she could barely grip the edge of the couch.

Her homework sat unfinished in front of her , she needed help with it and had no one to ask.

A purple and green crayon broken in half across the pages.

The TV was muted flashing a rerun on the screen.

She stared at the floor like it would open and swallow her whole. Hoping.

Praying , it would.

The yelling started right on time.

“Worthless little brat—this is what I come home to?!”

Her father's boots thundered across the floor.

Her mother never said a word.

She never had in times like this.

And that night—like so many before it—Y/N didn't make it to her bedroom fast enough.

The slap across her cheek was sharp and immediate.

Not hard enough to knock her down , but that would come later , it always did.

Her father’s breath stank of cheap vodka and cigarette butts.

His voice boomed against the walls , and even when her mother tried to gently tug at his arm pleading , he just shoved her away with a curse.

“I should’ve never had a kid,” he snarled , yanking her wrist so hard it popped in the socket. “You’re just like your mother. Lazy. Useless.”

She didn’t cry anymore. Crying made it worse and made him angrier.

Instead , she waited for the minute he’d get bored of taunting and hurting her.

The moment he’d kick over the coffee table and leave , muttering about “needing another drink.” , she ran.

Every time. To the same place.

Barefeet padding through the grass and sticks , blood dripping from her knees , she ran through the backyard in the dark , through the neighbor’s fence in a slat that was loose , and climbed up.

It was muscle memory now.

Up the crooked slanted boards , into the little wooden box that sat nestled in the tree behind the Barnes’ house.

Bucky's dad had built it for his kids , and it had become her safe place.

The little wooden door creaked as she pulled it shut behind her.

Her hands shook , and her lip stung from where she bit through it to keep from making noise and crying.

She didn’t know that Bucky had seen her from his bedroom window.

So when the trapdoor opened just minutes later, she jumped hard shielding her body from another painful blow.

“It’s just me ,” came the soft whisper.

He was in pajama pants and a hoodie , a flashlight in one hand and a folded blanket in the other.

His hair was messy , sleep still clinging to his eyes.

And then he saw her face.

His young pure heart broke at the sight.

Without asking , Bucky knelt down , wrapping the blanket around her shoulders and pulling her close.

She didn’t speak , didn’t cry–not yet , just stared blankly at the far wall of the treehouse while he rocked her slowly.

“I hate him,” Bucky said , voice shaking. “I hate what he does to you.”

Her voice was hoarse. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Because if I hate him too , I won’t survive.”

The silence that followed was sacred. Heavy.

Bucky didn’t argue. He just held her tighter and rested his chin on her head.

“You deserve better dolly ,” he whispered into her hair. “You deserve to not have someone who makes you afraid. You deserve to live with someone who doesn’t raise his voice or his fists. Someone who only wraps his arms around you when you need to feel safe.”

She trembled then broke down into sobs.

He laid them both down in the treehouse , gently pulling her with him until they were curled up side by side , her head on his chest , her fingers clenched in the fabric of his hoodie twisting the strings.

“I’ll be that person,” he whispered. “One day. I’ll take you away from all this. You’ll see.”

She closed her eyes and let sleep takeover.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The soft hum of the floor lamp buzzed against the silence when she came to.

It was dim. Warm golden toned lighting surrounded her and the living room. Her head felt heavy , drenched in fog , every limb dragging like it had been dipped in wet concrete.

She blinked slowly. The plush couch cushions pressed against her back.

Her neck ached. A faint pain throbbed along her cheekbone.

The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and cheap cologne.

Something soft brushed her temple.

"Hey, sweetheart," came a quiet voice.

Her gaze jerked sideways.

Tyler.

Sitting on the edge of the couch , his face gentle , his brows pulled into a concerned furrow.

One hand was stroking her hair , the same hand that had struck her hours ago.

She stared at him , unsure whether she was still trapped in that space between dream and memory.

Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest.

"You're okay," he murmured , thumb ghosting along her cheek. "You hit your head pretty hard when you tripped"

She blinked. Her lips parted , voice barely above a whisper. "Tripped…?"

Tyler smiled softly , as if it pained him to say. “You were rushing and slipped. I found you like this. You must’ve passed out , baby.”

His words slid around her ears , sluggish and sticky. She wanted to argue—wanted to say, No, that’s not what happened, but her tongue didn’t move. Her throat was dry. Her body was still buzzing with confusion.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Scared me to death. You should be more careful.”

Her body stayed still under his touch , but her stomach twisted.

“I brought you something for the pain,” he said, reaching into his back pocket.

She watched numbly as he pulled out a small orange pill bottle , shook two white tablets into his hand, and offered them to her with a glass of water.

“Go on,” he coaxed, his voice like honey. “They’ll help you sleep too. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

She took the pills wordlessly, hands shaking seeking relief from the ache and hurt. Her throat burned as she swallowed.

He gently brushed her hair behind her ear.

“I’ve gotta run out for a bit,” he added, standing and reaching for his coat. “Work call. Won’t be long.”

He bent down again , pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I love you,” he whispered.

She didn’t respond. Just blinked.

The front door clicked softly behind him.

And then… the silence settled in.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that felt peaceful. It was loud. Deafening.

The kind that roared instead of whispered.

She curled her legs up onto the couch , trying to slow her breathing.

Her body felt too hot. Her heartbeat was too fast. The pills were already working—making her eyelids heavy, her thoughts swimming.

The room blurred at the edges.

She clutched the throw blanket tighter around her body.

And her mind slipped back into the past again as she let rest overtake her body and mind.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The door didn’t slam anymore. That’s how she knew it was worse.

When her father got quieter , he got meaner, more methodical and precise with his actions —she started planning her exits before he even got home.

At seventeen , she was old enough to leave , but not strong enough to run all alone. At least not yet.

That night , she failed to dodge a half full beer bottle to the back of her shoulder.

Her mother’s cries came too late , and she was out the door seconds later , grabbing her jacket on the way not waiting out incase of another explosion of her fathers rage.

Bucky was already pulling up outside.

“I saw the light go out in the front room ,” he said simply as she slid into the passenger seat of his red ford pickup. “I figured…”

“You figured right.” she said clutching her shoulder wincing.

He didn’t ask to see. He never made her explain.

She knew her cheek was red , a raw jagged scrape across the bone.

Her fingers ached from where she'd caught herself on the counter trying to escape. And the sting from the cut on her back was getting harder to ignore as Bucky drove away from her personal hell.

He didn’t tell her where they were going , the only obvious thing was the windows were down and the old mix CD in his truck stereo was skipping slightly as Johnny Cash crooned about freedom.

The summer night was warm and eerie , the kind of air that smelled like fresh-cut grass and a brewing storm rolling in.

They didn’t talk for a while , just let the wind do the work at easing her mind and fueling his feelings.

They made it an hour outside the city before Bucky halted to a stop , the truck pulled over near a little hill that overlooked a wide , open field. Nothing but stars overhead and wildflowers that danced in the breeze.

Bucky shut off the engine. And turned to face her.

“We've never been here before?” She asked meekly looking around across the field.

“This is where I go when I feel like I can't breathe,” he said , stepping out.

She followed by nodding , going with him up the hill without asking any more questions.

At the top , the grass was so soft , the sky massive and silent above them.

She dropped onto her butt , stretching out wide. Bucky laid down beside her, shoulder brushing hers as he leaned back.

“God , it’s beautiful,” she whispered then hissed at a too fast movement to her shoulder.

“What's wrong?” Bucky turned worriedly sitting up.

She lifted her jacket off and showed him the now slowly oozing cut on her shoulder. “Apparently a beer bottle hurts worse than a fist” she whispered, teeth clenching at the night breeze making it sting.

“Shi- Doll why didn't ya tell me , i gotta first aid kit in the truck hold on” He stood and ran fast to the truck and back sitting down the box.

“Here… I'll be gentle” he said, cleaning the wound and began wrapping it as he spoke.

“Y’know , I'm thinking about building a life here.”

She smiled softly watching him gently wrap her arm. “What kind of life Buck?”

“One where you don’t flinch anymore…”

He began looking into her eyes

“…One where I cook every night and you come home from the hospital and throw your bag on the couch , and we just exist peacefully. Laugh. Dance. Maybe a kid one day. Or two. You said you wanted a yellow kitchen with , what was it– blue tiles , right?”

She turned her head to face him fully , eyes misting at his words. “You remembered that?”

“I remember everything you say,” he said, voice low. “You used to say you wanted to put fresh daisies in the window sills, all fresh cut from your garden.”

Her throat tightened.

He shifted closer, propping himself up on one elbow.

“I’m gonna take you away from him,” he whispered. “Someday. I’m gonna get you out of this life where no one ever touches you like that again. A life where you feel safe even when you close your eyes.”

Her eyes burned, tears pooling. “People say stuff like that, Buck. And they mean it at the moment. But life happens.”

“Then let it. I’ll still mean it.”

Silence again.

She slowly lifted her hand and cupped his freshly shaven jaw , he leaned into the touch and nuzzled his nose with hers making her laugh.

She met him fully and connected their lips in a loving , searing way. Showing everything each of them mean and every promise they intend to make to each other.

He lifted his hand wrapping it around the nape of her neck pulling her in , deepening the kiss even more. Now all tongue and promise. All love.

She pulled back with a smile not leaving more than an inch in between them. She pecked his lips a few more times and shifted laying her head against his chest like she had a hundred times before.

But this time, she held on tighter.

He wrapped his arms around her and rubbed slow circles against her back.

Their heartbeats were steady. Familiar. Safe.

“I feel like I’m made of glass sometimes,” she brokenly whispered.

He kissed her forehead gently. “Then I’ll be the one who never drops you.”

She blinked back tears exhaling deeply.

“And what if I break anyway?”

“Then I’ll help you pick up the pieces.”

Her fingers curled into his t-shirt.

“You promise?”

“I swear it,” Bucky murmured , his voice a soft thread in the dark.

There , in that field , under the last light of day, she let the weight go.

She closed her eyes to the sound of his heartbeat and the steady hum of crickets. She finally felt safe with him.

She fell asleep on his chest , held in the only promise that ever felt real. Dreaming of the life he promised and made up. All of it she wanted them to have. The kids , the tiredness , the laughter , the home she deeply craved.

And Bucky stayed awake long into the night , memorizing the way she breathed when she wasn’t afraid or hurting. Not wanting her peace to end.

He would keep every promise.

Even if it took him his whole life and then some. He would give the girl in his arms. His girl the world.

-end

Chapter Three if you want added to tag list message me or comment <3

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

Series Tag List- @starstruckfirecat @vicmc624 @sebastians-love

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sillyteecup · 2 months ago

Text

Requiem for my lover

Terry Richmond x black!o.c

Warnings:

18+

Swearing/cursing

Suggestive content

Angst (mention of death)

Word count: 1487🧍🏾‍♀️

A.N: So, italics=flashback. Mila and Terry shenanigans?? I'm not too sure...Welp, happy reading and I hope you enjoy the latest installment of the Milaverse where allegedly only 3 things are constant: Mila, Terry, and smut.

~Tee❤

“You know I’m always gon’ be here for you, right Mimi?” Terry vowed as he clasped the stainless steel necklace around her neck.

“I’ll hold you to it,” Mila replied before turning around to face her lanky boyfriend. She shifted her weight onto the tips of her toes to plant a small peck on his cheek.

A light shade of red tinted his honey skinned features. Even while celebrating 6 months as an official couple, Terry couldn’t help but still be awestruck. The moment Mila had set foot into his homeroom as a new transfer student, she had stolen his heart (and those of many other horny adolescent boys in his class). Being on the football team usually had its perks for him and his teammates in the romantic avenue, but Mila had no interest in the sport. She went from refusing to waste her energy on a “breast milk flavour of rugby” jock, to being his girlfriend in over a year.

As her feet shuffled on the dirt, hand in hand with Ndoni’s, Mila’s fingers fidgeted with the small T charm dangling from the necklace Terry had gifted her on her 17th birthday. She was 42 now, and it had long rusted, but still she cherished it all these years later. Not the first gift, but one of the most special. Right after their baby girl of course. A small smile appeared at the sight of the 5 year old trekking through with a basket swinging in her other hand…excited to talk to “Dada”.

Because Terry had more than football in his arsenal. He also had strict Southern parents that kept his manners in check. Now the girl of his dreams was his girlfriend, and if he had a say in the matter: she would be his wife in the future.

“6 months old, and she already as stubborn as her momma,” he grumbled, making Mila chuckle behind him. He had been trying to put her to sleep for an hour and nothing was working. Lullabies make her dance and giggle, feeding led to kicking and screaming, walking around and rocking her gently led to wet raspberries in his face. Virtually nothing was working.

“What happened to her being “Dada’s lil twin”?” Mila laughed as she gently took their daughter from Terry’s arms. “Pass me her fleece blanket,” she said as she positioned the babbling baby onto her back.

Terry obliged, covering his daughter’s back with the soft blanket while Mila used a safety pin to keep it tied together in the front. He watched in awe and wonder as Mila strolled around the room, singing Love like you by Rebecca Sugar softly. It wasn’t long before their energetic little ray of sunshine was asleep. Mila smirked triumphantly at Terry who responded with a playful eye roll.

“Better get them numbers up if you still tryna be parent of the year lil’ nigga,” Mila teased, earning a gasp of disbelief from Terry.

“Girl, first of all, ain’t shit little about me. Second of all, I didn’t even know you was in the runnin’ with how far behind you’ve been Mimi,” he joked with an exaggerated roll of his head.

Ndoni detangled her tiny hand from Mila’s, placing it on her waist as her cheeks puffed up to blow out an exasperated sigh. Her eyebrows knitted in frustration, hazel eyes frustrated and in equal parts calculating. Mila snorted at the sight of their little “adventure cadet” attempting to estimate the distance remaining.

“Tired soldier?” she questioned playfully. The toddler straightened her posture, sporting a determined expression that matched Terry’s to a T. “Dada’s lil twin” to the bone.

“Sir, no sir!” Ndoni’s tiny voice called out, tugging a reluctant giggle from her mother. “General Mama! You’re not supposed to laugh! You have to be serious, like General Dada,” she whined, crushing a dead leaf with the stomp of her little foot.

Mila swallowed the last giggle that threatened to mutate into something ugly. Something Ndoni definitely did not need to see on their “Dada Day”. While Terry always encouraged them to be vulnerable and never hide their monsters from him, “General Dada’s” teachings of being a soldier that marches on after they fall were the ones that seemed to resonate with their mini-cadet. Although interpretation did tend to get lost on the colourful mind of their little genius.

“I’ve been thinking Mimi,” Terry lamented from the driver’s seat.

“Weh Nkosi…”

“Okay, one, that’s not very nice,” he said, clutching his chest in false hurt. Mila rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth in, waiting for him to continue. “Two, this the third time you’re graduating and for some reason, I still ain’t had the chance to fuck you in a graduation gown. What’s up with that?” they had reached a stop light and Terry took the opportunity to shoot her a questioning look.

Mila stared at him, glossy lips agape at the outrageous question before bursting into a disbelieving cackle. Her outburst however died down when she realized that he wasn’t laughing or even smirking.

“Oh, you’re serious? Wow,” was all she could respond with.

Terry’s features deepened into a frown. “Wow? I’m asking real questions here and all you have to say is “wow”?” he asked incredulously, only inciting a shrug as a response from his fiance.

The light turned back to green, continuing their journey to their apartment. Where they would be celebrating her PhD in Electrical Engineering. With their friends and some of Mila’s family. Although, if you subtracted the latter two factors, it wasn’t a bad idea.

“I mean you could tonight. You know, after everybody leaves,” she suggested, her hand creeping over his thigh, palming his manhood. She watched the muscles in his jaw tense as he struggled to keep his eyes open. A strained groan erupted from his throat while his right hand slowly removed hers from his crotch and placed it back on the arm rest.

“I need you to know that I’m not gonna stop till I get you pregnant. Gon’ have another genius running around with her momma’s big brains real soon,” he promised, brushing his palm over her exposed thigh.

The calm fall breeze barely lifted the dirt and leaves on the ground. Yet Mila still couldn’t help but shiver as she stood before him in a salut. “Finally!” Ndoni cheered before hurriedly placing the basket beside her.

“General Dada, Cadet Ndoni and General Mama reporting for duty,” Ndoni recited, mimicking her mother and performing the salut Terry had taught her the moment she could walk.

“At ease soldier,” Mila whispered shakily, her hand coming down to tighten her coat.

Ndoni dissolved the salut and turned her attention to the basket. Mila watched through clouding eyes as her and Terry’s little bundle of intellect and adventure retrieved the couple’s signature pink picnic blanket and laid it on the ground. Mila then began to empty the basket of its other contents, being all of Terry’s favorite foods and drinks: a cranberry juicebox for Ndoni and a bottle of Jack for him and Mila. Paper plates, plastic cutlery and their cups, each of which brandished with their names, were set out in threes. Perfect for a family picnic.

Finally, Mila and Ndoni sat down across from him. Choking back a pool of a now familiarly painful emotion, Mila listened as Dada’s lil twin rambled animatedly about her first month in her new preschool class. She even engaged, laughing at Ndoni’s jokes about her classmates’ antics, clapping at the mention of her learning to read and humming in agreement when needed.

At the request of her toddler, Mila shared some PG tales of her own. It only tore at the very thin elastic holding her together for their baby. But damn the way every second weighed heavier on her eyes. Damn the way the mild air made her yearn for his touch.

Damn him.

Damn him for bringing them here. Damn him for leaving them. Damn him for leaving her. For breaking his promise.

“You know I’m always gon’ be here for you, right Mimi?”

While Ndoni had settled into the monthly tradition they created, 7 months had passed and Mila was yet to accept it. Or the reason for its creation rather. Because no matter how hard she tried, mourning her husband still felt like getting caught in a tsunami. They had been together for so long that he had become the air in her lungs. But now he was gone, and she was drowning in grief.

“Dada, I miss you. Mama misses you too,” she heard Ndoni whisper, snapping her from the void that was her mind.

Finally, a tear escaped Mila as their daughter moved to touch her Dada. Or his gravestone rather.

Terrence James Richmond Husband. Father. Son. Best friend. 03/17/1994-06/24/2035 Never let a little tumble stop your march forward. ~”General Dada”

#terry richmond #terry richmond x black!oc #terry richmond fic #terry richmond fanfiction #terry richmond angst #aaron pierre #sillyteecup writes #black fanfic writer

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itsgivingmami · 2 months ago

Text

Sea Salted Honey- pt. 2

Coastal TownAU Rhea Ripley x Reader

Contains some very tame smut—

The Woman With the Note in Her Window

The sun rises slow and golden through sea-salted glass.

Sunday creeps in gently—no sirens, no phone buzzes, no voices hollering down the beach. Just the hush of waves and the occasional gull gliding overhead. It smells like warmth. Like tide-washed air and her own skin stretched over sleep-heavy bones.

Rhea stirs late. Later than she ever lets herself. But the shop’s closed—always on Sundays—and her body aches in that quiet, satisfied way that has nothing to do with work and everything to do with how close she got to kissing you last night.

Close, but not quite. And that might be why she’s still lying there, long after her usual wake-up time. That almost has her haunted.

The sweet ache of you, echoing soft under her ribs.

She rolls out of bed eventually, sheets sliding from her hips, one tattooed arm thrown over her face before she swings her legs over the side of the mattress and stretches. Her ribs crack. She groans. Pads barefoot through the hallway until she reaches the kitchen and pushes the screen door open just wide enough to let the breeze kiss her skin.

The stove clicks to life. Coffee grinds hiss beneath the pour. She moves without thinking, mug in hand, toes curling against the cool tile, leaning her hip into the counter. And—just like every morning—her eyes drift toward the side window.

Your cottage. Angled perfectly to see from here. A habit she doesn’t talk about, not even to herself. It’s not spying. It’s checking.

Just checking.

Sometimes it’s the glint of you moving past the curtains. Sometimes it’s your porch light, left on a little too long. Today—it’s something different.

A note.

Pressed against your living room window.

Recycled cardboard. Black marker in crooked letters.

“BRUNCH? Come over when you see this. Door’s unlocked. XO.”

There’s a little sketch in the corner. A flower. Maybe a heart.

Something casual.

Something playful.

Something that makes her jaw tighten to keep from smiling like an idiot.

She doesn’t wait long. Doesn’t ask if she’s invited. She knows the answer.

A quick shower. Her softest tank and loose drawstring pants that ride low on her hips. Her hair’s still damp when she crosses the patch of grass between your places, sun rising behind her like a spotlight.

The door’s cracked. Just like you said.

She taps twice—then lets herself in.

The smell hits first.

Peach and cinnamon. Butter. Something sweet browning low in the oven. A pan hissing on the stove. Your curtains are dancing on the breeze, and somewhere, Nina Simone is murmuring about love like a secret.

She steps inside like she’s done it a thousand times before.

Like she belongs here.

Like you’re already hers.

And there you are.

Bare-legged. Oversized tee hanging off one shoulder. Turning something golden in a skillet, your back to her.

She stops. Watches.

The curve of your spine. The way you sway to the music. That soft line of your neck she keeps thinking about kissing.

God, you’re beautiful.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is rough from disuse, deeper than usual.

You jump. Then smile wide when you see her. “Oh fuck—hey! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. The record was loud.”

She steps forward and hands you her coffee mug as a peace offering, a crooked smirk tugging at her mouth. “I was hoping the sign was for me.”

You grin, sip from her mug without hesitation. “Who else would it be for?”

Rhea shrugs like it’s nothing, but there’s something glinting in her eyes. “Could’ve been for Pearl.”

“Pearl’s in church.” You lean in, mischievous now, voice a little lower. “You, however—look like sin.”

Her breath stutters.

The line shouldn’t hit so hard. But you say it like you mean it. Like you’ve thought about it.

And she’s not used to being the one undone.

She reaches for the plate you hand her instead—toast, ripe stone fruit, something whipped and sweet that smells like honey. You slide a chair out for her, paint-stained towel covering the cushion, and sit opposite with one knee tucked under you like this is the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it is.

Maybe it always has been.

The table’s cluttered. The light’s warm.

She’s never wanted to stay somewhere so badly.

You talk—about paint, music, how you nearly gave up on this recipe until it came together last second. She listens. Really listens. Watches the curve of your smile, the way you lick honey from your thumb, the color smudged under your fingernails.

“This is nice, right?” you say, tilting your head.

Rhea’s throat tightens. “Yeah.”

“It’s not fancy, but—”

“It’s perfect,” she cuts in. Voice soft. Sure. “Don’t change a thing.”

You smile. And when your hand brushes hers as you reach for your fork—

Neither of you pulls away.

—

The Woman Who Ran Into the Storm

The week passes like amber. Thick, golden. Sweet in places, sharp in others. The kind that lingers on your fingers long after you’ve forgotten how it got there.

Rhea starts showing up more. Not with expectation. Just with presence. She never announces herself in advance, but she never assumes either. She brings you tea on days when she goes to the hardware store and drive by the cafe, a fresh set of brushes once when she noticed your best one starting to fray, and sea glass in her pocket that she sets on your table without a word.

She’s tactile in small ways—ringed fingers brushing your elbow to catch your attention, her hand pressed steady against your back as you cross a rocky patch of beach. She doesn’t ask to touch. She just knows when. And when not to.

You learn she can’t cook. She burns toast. Once tried to boil pasta without salt and stared at your look of betrayal like you’d just insulted her honor. But she makes grilled cheese so good it borders on criminal, and she insists on cutting it into triangles with almost too much pride.

She learns that you hum when you paint and swear like a sailor when you stub your toe. That you eat Oreo’s when you can’t sleep, and your hands get twitchy when you’re nervous. You catch her watching you sometimes—not out of lust. Just… hunger. Curiosity. Like you’re a mystery she’s not trying to solve, just savor.

One night, the two of you sit on the sand just after sunset. You’re sketching a broken piece of pier and she’s watching the waves with her arms draped over her knees. She doesn’t talk unless you do. You like that. She doesn’t fill the quiet—she respects it.

Sometimes she walks home with your scent on her shirt. Sometimes she forgets to take her mug back. Once, you watched her disappear down the path with your hoodie slung over her shoulder, and something in your chest fluttered like a tide about to change.

By the time the storm rolls in, it’s been eight days.

You haven’t kissed.

But it’s not for lack of want.

It’s for the holding.

The ache.

The knowing that when it happens—it won’t be soft.

—

That strange color—unnatural, like green glass melted into cloud cover—pulls Rhea’s attention before she even finishes locking up the shop.

Her forearm brushes against the doorframe as she watches the shoreline, brows furrowed, tongue pressed flat behind her teeth. The clouds roll thick above the water, too fast, too low. Her fingers twitch at her sides like they’re bracing for impact.

The wind shifts.

Not just heavy. Tense. Like it’s carrying news she doesn’t want to hear.

And then—her stomach knots.

You haven’t passed her window today.

Every morning since you met—not long, not long at all, but long enough to feel like something holy has rearranged itself in her chest—you’ve appeared like clockwork. Messy bun. Paint on your arms. Mug of something too herbal. Loose sleeves. A nod. A wave. Sometimes a smile that ruins her whole afternoon in the best way.

But today—nothing. Not since you called her from bed to ask how she slept and managed to get her to abandon the board she’d been working on for an hour.

No glimpse. No sound. No curtain drawn back. No sliver of movement through the window she checks far too often.

Her pulse picks up. She tells herself you’re fine. Maybe sleeping in. Maybe in the bath. Maybe elbows-deep in some piece that’s got you forgetting the world again. But the thought doesn’t settle.

Not with that sky. Not with that wind. Not with the way the down pour looks like it’s nowhere near close to letting up.

Not with the ache low in her gut to do with how quickly you’ve gotten under her skin.

She drags a hand down her face and exhales, but the sound comes sharp, irritated. Not at you. At herself.

She hasn’t felt like this in years. Not since the last time a storm ripped through and left something inside her different.

Not since she was twenty and alone in a new city that didn’t care if she drowned.

She remembers the flash of lightning through an empty hotel room window. The silence of a phone that never rang. The stupid hope that someone would come find her despite the fact no one knew she was there. They didn’t. She sat on the floor, back against the bedframe, cold to the bone and furious that it mattered.

She’s never let herself need anyone since or let anyone make her needed.

Until you.

And now she’s standing at the edge of a storm, fighting the urge to sprint barefoot down the beach and pound on your door like the sky’s already falling.

Her jaw locks. Her fists clench.

No. No.

You’re fine.

Probably.

Maybe.

Fuck this.

She grabs her hoodie without bothering to dry off her hands, keys already clenched in her grip. The door slams behind her. Wind yanks the hem of her shirt sideways as she crosses the shop threshold and starts down the path toward your house.

She tries to walk.

She does.

For about two seconds.

And then she starts to run.

She doesn’t care about puddles. Doesn’t care about the spray of sand slapping against her legs. She barrels through the wind like it owes her an answer. Her heart hammers. The trees bend overhead. Porch lights flicker.

And then she sees it.

Your house.

Dark.

Lights completely out.

Not even the glow of candles or the flicker of a flashlight.

Something crashes through her chest like a fist.

It’s not that the power’s out. It’s the silence.

It’s the lack of movement.

It’s the quiet like a swallowed scream.

She stumbles onto your porch, soaked to the skin, chest heaving. Rain drips from her hair into her eyes and she wipes it away furiously. The screen door creaks under her grip.

“Hey,” she calls out, too loud. “It’s me.”

Nothing.

She pushes the door open.

“Babe I’m here!” Still no answer.

Her throat locks tight.

She steps into the dark, her boots tracking water across your hardwood floor. Her eyes adjust. Everything’s exactly where it should be—mugs on the counter, a book left open, the soft smell of lavender and paint in the air—but you’re not in the living room.

She rounds the corner faster than she means to.

And there you are.

Standing in the kitchen, barefoot and blinking at her in wide-eyed surprise. Hair tousled from searching for tea lights, wrapped in an old oversized tee—hers, she realizes belatedly, the one she left behind last night after dropping off a coffee and forgetting to take it back. Your face glows faintly in the light of one single candle, placed carefully on the windowsill.

“Rhea?” you ask, voice soft with disbelief. “What the hell—are you okay?”

And that’s when she breaks.

Her heart doesn’t just slow.

It drops.

Because you’re here. You’re safe. You’re warm and real and alive and hers for just this moment. And she didn’t know how scared she was until now.

“I couldn’t get ahold of you,” she breathes, taking a shaky step forward. Her voice is hoarse. “Your lights were off. No candles. I thought—fuck, I thought something happened.”

Your expression softens. You reach for her without hesitation, your fingers brushing over her wet sleeve. “My phone died. I was looking for a lighter. I didn’t even realize—oh my god, you ran here?”

She nods, eyes locked on yours like if she looks away, she’ll lose you again.

“I didn’t want to wait,” she says. “Not if you needed me.”

Then there’s a beat.

One, deep breath between you.

And Rhea crosses the last bit of space and kisses you.

Hard.

Desperate.

Not the careful kind. Not the flirtation you’ve been trading back and forth for days. No teasing. No testing.

This is need.

Her hands come to your waist, your cheek, your jaw. She kisses you like she’s never going to let you go again. Like she already lost you once in her mind and doesn’t plan on giving the universe another shot.

You melt into her before you realize it’s happening. Your fingers slide into her wet hair. Your mouth parts. The storm howls against the house, and Rhea holds you like she could take the brunt of it if it tried to take you from her again.

She pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You have to answer next time,” she murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. “Please,”

“I will,” you promise, breathless. “I promise.”

And when you wrap your arms around her, tug her close into the candlelit dark, Rhea finally exhales the fear she didn’t want to name.

Because you’re safe.

And now, you’re in her arms.

Right where you belong.

—

The Woman Loved

She doesn’t want to let you go.

You tell her—gently, like it’s not obvious—“Rhea, you’re soaked. You need a warm shower, or you’re going to get sick.”

And she should listen. She should nod and do the rational thing. But she doesn’t.

She just tightens her grip.

“No,” she murmurs, mouth against your shoulder. “Not yet.”

You huff a quiet breath, half laugh, half flustered. “Baby, come on.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you—wet hair plastered to her face, lashes heavy, expression soft but stubborn. No.

“Then I’ll come with you.” You negotiate,

And before you can take it back—before you can even blink—her arms shift, one under your thighs, the other around your back, and you’re being lifted. Carried. Koala-hugged straight toward the bathroom as if you weigh nothing, as if letting go would break something in her she doesn’t know how to fix.

“I could walk—” you start to say, but she cuts you off with a quiet growl.

“Not letting go.”

She sets you down with care—bare feet on cool tile—and steps out of her hoodie with a flick of her wrist. The tank beneath is soaked to her ribs, clinging to every defined line, ink gleaming like war paint.

You can’t look away.

The air thickens.

You reach for the shower handle and flick it on, steam rising, warmth flooding the space. She watches you. Watches you with that look—like you’re art she hasn’t finished tracing, like her hands are starving and her restraint is cracking with every second.

Her fingers graze your hips. Barely there.

“You sure?” she asks, voice low, rougher now.

You nod. Once. Steady. “Yes.”

The shower roars behind you as her mouth claims yours—firm and hungry, hands splayed against the small of your back, guiding you step by step into the steam like she owns the air you breathe.

Your shirt is gone in a breath.

She peels your pants away with wet fingers and gritted patience, dragging the fabric down your thighs, lips never straying far from your skin—pressing kisses into your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck like she’s marking a path she intends to follow again and again.

You gasp against her mouth when the first spray of hot water hits your spine—sharp, clean, a contrast to the heat of her body closing in. The tiles cold at your back, the air thick with steam.

She groans—low and rough, like she’s waited too long for this, like kissing you is the only thing that’s kept her from shattering since the moment the storm hit.

Her hands slide down your waist with purpose, fingers pressing into the curve of your hips. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask. She just takes—like it’s her right, like you’ve already told her yes a thousand times.

And you have. With every glance. Every lean. Every time you opened the door.

When your hands move to her soaked tank, she breaks the kiss just long enough to let you strip it off—tugging it over her head, water pouring over both of you, plastering dark strands of hair to her temples. The fabric hits the floor with a wet slap.

Your breath catches.

She’s unreal like this—drenched and undone, jaw tight, every inch of her inked skin gleaming with water. Heat and muscle and tension. Her chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow bursts. Her eyes drink you in like it’s the only thing grounding her.

Your palms trace the hard line of her shoulders, the smooth slope of her arms, the ridges where her ribs taper into her waist. Her skin is hot under your hands, radiating hunger she barely keeps caged.

You press your lips to the hollow of her throat and feel the vibration of her moan under your mouth.

She backs you into the wall with deliberate pressure—her body a shield, her hand braced beside your head, the other sliding up your thigh in a slow, maddening drag. Teasing. Possessing.

Her touch is firm but not rough. Not yet.

She kisses you again—harder now, deeper. A groan rising in her throat like it’s been buried too long.

“I thought I lost you,” she growls, teeth grazing your jaw as her hand curls around the back of your thigh, lifting it up around her hip. “I thought you were—fuck, baby. You can’t do that to me.”

Your breath shudders out.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

She exhales like she’s been holding that panic down for hours.

Her lips crash into yours again. No patience this time. No caution. She pins your wrists above your head, water cascading over her arms as she presses closer, thigh firm between your legs. Her strength cages you, but you feel worshipped. Not trapped.

Held.

Wanted.

Her body grinds into yours—urgent, sure, slick and searing as her thigh rocks against you, and you arch under the pressure, gasping into her mouth.

Her fingers wrap around your wrists tighter, holding you steady.

Like she’s daring you to run.

Like she’d chase you all over again if she had to.

Your name falls from her lips like a vow. A warning. A plea.

And then she’s everywhere.

Mouth hot against your throat, collarbone, chest—kissing and nipping as if the heat between you is the only thing anchoring her. Her hand slides between your thighs, fingers slipping against you with confident pressure—firm, teasing, devastating.

You moan into her shoulder, fingers clawing for something to hold onto. But she has your wrists. She has everything.

Her voice is wrecked in your ear.

“Good girl,” she murmurs. “Just like that.”

The words send a bolt of lightning through you.

Your hips grind forward, your thighs clenching, your body aching toward every point of contact. She doesn’t ease up. Her hand moves with devastating rhythm—drawing it out, dragging you closer to the edge with every pass of her fingers.

You sob softly, your cry swallowed by the roar of water and the press of her mouth.

She praises every sound you make.

Every arch. Every whimper.

She holds your gaze when you try to close your eyes, shaking her head slightly, commanding without speaking—Look at me.

You do.

Even when your vision blurs. Even when the pleasure surges up like a tidal wave, crashing down through your limbs, pulling a ragged cry of her name from your throat as you fall apart under her hand.

Your legs tremble.

She lets your wrists go, but only to catch you—arms wrapping around you instantly, holding you upright as your body shakes with the aftershocks. She kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

Soft now.

Reverent.

She doesn’t say I told you so.

She just holds you there—breathing steady, hands gentle again as she strokes your back, fingers tangling in your wet hair.

And then, quietly, lips brushing against your temple:

“Next time,” she says, voice dark and still wrecked, “I’m not stopping there.”

You laugh—a broken, beautiful thing. Shaky and soaked and full of something you can’t name.

“Good,” you whisper.

And she smiles against your cheek.

Because now she knows you mean it.

—

The Woman Who Hates Tea

The rain passed sometime before sunrise, leaving the town soaked and softened, the clouds retreating in long, silvery streaks across the pale blue sky. The streets are damp and scattered with leaves and drifted sand. Palm fronds hang heavy over telephone lines. The sea is still loud—but not angry. Just breathing.

You and Rhea walk to the café in silence, your fingers laced together, her hoodie hanging off your shoulders like it belongs there.

She hasn’t let go of you since the night before.

Not really.

Not in the shower, where she kissed your shoulder until the water ran cold. Not in your bed, where she curled behind you with her arms wrapped tight around your waist like she could keep the storm out that way. And not this morning, when she watched you get ready to go out like she had every intention of ruining you again as soon as the town stopped spinning.

Now, as you reach the little café by the dunes, she gives your hand one final squeeze before you both let go—stepping inside to find Pearl already sweeping water from under the door, Jay wiping down counters with his usual music playing low from a Bluetooth speaker clipped to the windowsill.

“You made it,” Pearl says brightly, glancing up from behind the broom. “We weren’t sure you two would be in this morning.”

“We were already up,” Rhea says, grabbing a mop from the corner and leaning it against her shoulder like a bat. “Figured we’d help.”

You smile, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. Pearl eyes you for a long moment—curious and a little amused.

You’re not sure what gives it away. The hoodie. Or maybe the way Rhea hasn’t stopped glancing at you like she’s still checking for damage.

And as you pass Pearl, she leans just close enough to murmur, “So… is that girl of yours the kind that sticks around, or just good in a storm?”

You open your mouth—but before you can speak, Jay’s voice cuts in from the bar, dry and without looking up from the espresso machine.

“Rhea doesn’t drink tea,” he says, flicking a switch.

Pearl raises an eyebrow.

“Still,” Jay shrugs. “orders the jasmine rose every few mornings. Same time. Never drinks it. Just leaves with it like it’s for someone else.”

Your face heats.

Pearl glances between the two of you. Slowly, slowly, her mouth curves.

Rhea, still sweeping, doesn’t look up—but her voice carries across the café, casual and unbothered.

“I like the smell,” she says, then glances over her shoulder. “And the person who drinks it.”

Pearl snorts.

Jay just smiles behind the bar.

You shake your head as you drop a stack of towels on a nearby table, but you’re smiling too—because the way Rhea is watching you now, eyes half-lidded and proud, makes it impossible not to.

And when she walks past you a few minutes later, her voice drops low enough for only you to hear:

“You can tell Pearl the tea’s not the only thing I plan to keep coming back for.”

—

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