#but that’s. probably not true. he doesn’t seem like that kind of guy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

loveshotzz · 9 days ago

Text

Party 4 U

steve harrington x fem!reader // situationship

🎶 I was hopin’ you would come through, it’s true, it’s true, I only threw this party for you.🎶

summary: Steve hasn’t returned any of your calls the past two weeks, but Harrington never misses a party.

word count: 4k

warnings: 18+ heartbreak (I mean it’s based of party 4 u and also a little bit of my personal life), emotional cheating kinda, the classic I have to let you go because you don’t realize you’re in love with someone else trope. a little self destructive self aware delulu at the end. kissing. drinking and smoking. also lots of Eddie! 🎸

authors note: my first full fic in over a year 💕 i missed you guys and i hope you enjoy it.

With only a few more weeks of summer left. Everyone in Hawkins was chasing the last bit of those 9 pm sunsets and the freedom they bring only three months out of the year, which made convincing your two roommates to throw a last minute party easy. In fact you were so casual with it, they didn’t even notice the way your canines dug themselves into the skin around your nail bed the moment they both squealed ‘yes!’ in the kind of excitement that would usually be contagious, because who doesn’t love a house party?

Steve Harrington lives for a good house party.

The boy they had warned you about four years ago when you first moved to Indiana, the former king of Hawkins high, and now the current king of Hawkins Community College. A crown that he wears begrudgingly, but a crown with privilege nonetheless.

In fact the warning was so intense, you heeded it like your life depended on it, even when all the stories seemed far from the goofy guy you’d pass in the hallway or see laying out in the courtyard with his fast talking, daily nail color changing best friend, Robin. You stayed strong when he started saying “hi” on your daily passes to class flashing you his perfect pearly whites in jeans that fit him a little too tight. You even held it together when his big hand would spread out in a wave across the lawn in an effort to catch your gaze. His mossy green eyes lingering just a little longer on your thighs whenever it was warm enough to wear shorts no matter what animated thing his best friend was saying.

But at the beginning of May when you stumbled into your house at the crack of dawn after an end of year party with tequila fresh on your breath and his teeth marks decorating your neck, they had to warn you again.

’Everyone who grew up here knows he’s always going to be in love with Nancy Wheeler.’

’He’s never going to leave Hawkins, and you’re moving after college.’

’I think he’s probably dated or asked out every girl in this town at this point. Do you really want to be added to that list?’

Two weeks ago, you couldn’t wait to tell them how wrong they were. That you weren’t the fool they warned you’d become. Not when you’re falling asleep under the stars with him, a blanket that had been shoved in his trunk laid out while your heavy lids win under fingertips that trace the warmed soft skin of your face from a day out in the sun on the lake. You couldn’t be, not when you woke up to sleepy hazel eyes at the crack of dawn and that messy mane of hair at the top of his head somehow even more chaotic than before with a slow lazy smile pulling up at pink lips that constantly beg to be kissed.

There was no way something that feels like this would just go away with a couple hundred miles in between it when the time had to come.

But, that was two weeks ago, and multiple unanswered calls later.

You can start to hear the bells on your jester’s hat beginning to jingle in the distance. Taunting you, just like the sound of his voice mail but you don’t dare to tell them.

Strawberry pink skies bleeds into a dark plum as the setting sun kisses the tops of the swaying trees outside, the chilly breeze that only reveals itself at night in Indiana hits your sticky skin in a welcomed reprieve from the open front door. Anxiety tickles at your subconscious, while glittery fingertips tug at the bottom of your short dress, soft thighs sticking together underneath the thin cotton fabric despite the temporary chill. You’d been standing at the top landing for longer than you’d care to admit, eyes scanning the crowd of rowdy college kids for any signs of him.

Your house vibrates with the energy of twenty something’s on the cusp of the rest of their life, all mega watt smiles and blushing cheeks thanks to the keg Eddie Munson set up in the backyard next to the pool. A kind gesture and a ploy to get with one of your roommates, you just didn’t know which one because he actively flirts with both. It didn’t matter to you tonight, because your new mission was to get that joint you knew he had tucked behind his ear long forgotten since hiding it there before he left the trailer park, because the idea of Steve not showing up has you gnawing at your bottom lip so hard it might bleed.

Making your way through the crowd, there’s an anger that simmers just below the surface and you’re not sure if it should be directed at yourself for letting him get under your skin, when you should’ve known better. Or if maybe, he should take the blame, because the lack of communication on his end comes with realizations shrouded in the kind of sadness you’re not equipped to handle yet. Still, you look for him, smiling and nodding at a few people that you recognize zig zagging through the makeshift dance floor all the way to the kitchen.

At any party, you can always find Eddie Munson by the cheap bottle of tequila, a beer in hand and unlit cigarette dangling dangerously at the edge of his mouth debating peoples music taste. Which typically is annoying for everyone involved but it’s perfect tonight because not only do you need a shot to go with your much needed THC, he needs to finally smoke that cigarette, and whoever he’s trapped needs to be saved.

“There she is! I thought you locked yourself away in your tower for the night.”

The metal head grins wide enough to see his signature dimple poke the side of his cheek when you walk in, and sure enough that Marlboro red is hanging on for dear life. Heather Halloway sees this as her escape route and quickly shuffles out, she is a big New Kids On The Block fan and you know he can’t stand them.

”Thought about it,” you shrug with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, “pour me a shot?”

Eddie studies your face long enough to know something is off, so he pours you a double in a red solo cup instead.

”That’s funny cause, I heard this party was your idea.” He arches a brow, offering you the shot with a hand decorated in chunky silver that catches in the fluorescent light.

”Maybe.” You play nonchalant, downing the whole thing without warning or time for him to give you any kind of chaser which you usually demand with a look of disgust on your face any time you catch a whiff of alcohol.

”Jesus Christ.” Eddie huffs, finally knocking the dangling cigarette from its resting place but his reflexes are still quick enough to catch it, “not maybe, that’s literally what I was told when I was invited.”

”Ooo which one invited you?” You tease, making his cheeks turn pink.

”That’s neither here nor there sweetheart,” He tries fighting a grin before forcing a serious look on his boyish face, “what’s going on here? What’s wrong with you?”

Your stubbornness kicks in, giving him a shrug staring down into your empty red cup, not wanting to reveal all your pathetic cards just yet.

”Pour me another one,” you sigh, finally meeting his big brown eyes, “and then I’ll tell you.”

Eddie contemplates the idea of telling you no because he’s a firm believer of not drinking when you're sad but, he also thinks about the consequences of actually telling you no. So he pours you just a single, in which you down just like the first one tossing the empty solo cup in the trash with a small burp before pointing to the joint behind his ear.

”Also, I wanna smoke that.”

The metal head looks confused for a minute before his eyes roll up towards the joint he had indeed forgotten about, a realization that makes his lips curve up.

”You’re needy tonight aren’t you?” He teases with every intention of giving into you, the nicotine in his fingers calling his name “to the bonfire we go then.”

Goosebumps pebble across the skin that’s not lucky enough to be warmed by the flames in front of you, but the big inhale of your first hit that fills your lungs does what the fire can’t do. The temporary rush to your head settles the anxiety that’s been clawing at your chest for days and you relish in the relief for a little bit before finally confessing your secrets to Eddie under the starry night sky.

”It’s Steve.” You say simply, defeat evident in the way you roll your shoulders back and take your second hit.

”Harrington? Wait, you two are a thing?” He practically chokes on the smoke of his Marlboro.

”It’s new-ish, I mean since right after graduation.” You shrug, desperately trying to come off as nonchalant, refusing to meet his eyes.

”Three months? You and Harrington have been bumping uglies for three months and I never figured it out?!”

“Eww Eddie! You are making me regret this, oh my god.” Embarrassment sets your cheeks on fire, and you take another big hit to get rid of it.

”I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Raising his hands in surrender, the smirk that pulls up his full lips makes you want to punch him, “just not what I was expecting, I mean, good for you. I’ve heard…things.”

”EDDIE!” You huff standing up, smashing the burning end of the joint into the brick surrounding the bonfire, putting it out.

”Sorry! Sorry! Don’t go, please I’ll stop!”

He does his best to sound serious in between small giggles, metal bound fingers grabbing your wrist to stop you from leaving. Your desperation to finally talk about it has you forgiving him quicker than usual, but not without a glare and a heavy roll of your eyes, before you flop back into your chair.

”I can’t stand you.” You complain with a cross of your arms.

”You love me.” He grins, clearing his throat, “so, what’s going on with Steve?”

For some reason hearing someone else say his name makes the dull throb in your chest ache just a little more. Swallowing your pride, you even contemplate re lighting the joint before confessing, but ultimately decide against it.

”I haven’t heard from him in two weeks. I’ve called him a few times, nothing, you know, crazy or anything, but I’m getting pretty familiar with his voicemail.”

You hope that Eddie can’t hear the bitterness in your tone, the anger from before starting to bubble again.

”That’s weird, I literally just saw him yesterday at Wheeler’s house. They’re moving Nancy out, and he was helping everybody. He seemed fine, I mean I’d even say a good mood.” He says casually taking a long drag of his cigarette, not realizing that he just confirmed your worst fear with two simple sentences, punching a hole in your gut.

It’s too late for damage control when realization dawns on Eddie quickly adding in a panicked, “Jonathan was there too!”

But that part didn’t really matter, everyone who’s familiar with their history knew that.

”Umm, I’m uh, glad to hear he’s doing good. Not hurt or like, kidnapped.” There’s no hiding the crack in your voice, and you refuse to meet the pity in Eddie’s gaze that you can feel burning a hole into the top of your head.

”Hey, I’m sure it’s not like tha-“

”EVERYONE JUMP IN THE LAKE!”

Eddie’s attempt at easing your worries falls on deaf ears, both of you jumping at the sound of Patrick McKinny’s very loud exclamation, followed by an even louder round of cheers as most of the party starts running down from the house in a blur of clothes tossed into the air along the way. Conveniently ending your conversation with Eddie at the perfect time.

‘Everyone who grew up here knows he’s always going to be in love with Nancy Wheeler.’

“I’m gonna go with them, thanks for the joint.” You don’t wait for him to answer, getting up and quickly blending in with the crowd, before he can stop you.

The heartbreak tightens in your chest and restricts the air flow to your lungs, the corners of your eyes stinging because how could you be so wrong? How could you be so sure that you were the exception to the Steve Harrington rule?

You blink back tears nearing the edge of the lake, haphazardly kicking off your sandals, letting the soft waves lap at your toes, before taking a shaky breath finally lifting your eyes. The lake is full just like the people swimming in it, water splashes accompanied by playful screams and the kind of smiles that glow under the silvery moonlight. Carefree chaos orchestrated by you, but somehow you’re the one with heavy shoulders, and a broken heart. A plan that was doomed from the start, a truth you knew deep down after day two of his radio silence.

The water is colder than you thought it would be, but you don’t let that stop you from continuing deeper, only getting used to the temperature once you’re waist deep. A shiver runs down your spine, and you plug your nose before throwing all caution to the wind fully submerging yourself. Because who cares at this point?

It’s quiet under the water, and the party that surrounds you becomes muted in the peaceful darkness and it feels like you can finally slow your thoughts down for the first time since Eddie opened his unknowing mouth. Folding your knees you let yourself sink deeper, the soft cotton of your dress clinging to your curves like a second skin. You extend your arms out, spreading your fingers, feeling the soft water between them, letting the gentle currents soothe you. Cursing your need for oxygen, you ignore the screaming of your lungs for as long as you can, basking in your solitude for just a few seconds longer before planting your feet on the rough sand beneath you pushing yourself back up.

It’s almost jarring how loud the party is when you breach the surface, wiping the water from your eyes, you notice how many more people jumped in after you. It makes you wonder just how long you were actually under, especially with the way every deep breath you take stings in your chest. Pushing your hair back, a twinkle in the stars catches your gaze, craning your neck, you try and get a better look. Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you pick your feet up, letting the lake cradle your back. Floating. Weightless. Just like you.

The sky expands the more your eyes adjust, and it’s easy to get lost in its beauty just like your thoughts that come racing back. The sadness that you feel now, you know is a temporary kind of pain, because you had a whole life before Steve, and you’ll have another one after him. But it all hurts just the same, mourning the part of you that day dreamed the summer away about a future that might include him too.

’He’s never going to leave Hawkins, and you’re moving after college.’

It’s not Hawkins, that Steve won’t leave. It’s Nancy. He’ll wait here till her inevitable return when her new life with Jonathan implodes in on itself because anyone with eyes can already see the cracks in their foundation. He’ll help her pick up the pieces of her broken dreams and meld himself into them with her new ones. Everyone else between now and that fated moment is just here to pass the time. Practice for the main event. You’re just a visitor in Steve’s long path to the one that got away, whether he knows it or not. There’s a part of you that’s not so sure he even sees it yet, because putting her first has always just been second nature.

The thought is enough to ease some of the anger, but sadness just fills in the gaps, making the corners of your eyes sting again. It takes you a minute to hear it, too lost in your own head to realize the man that’s consumed every waking thought is calling out your name. Your reaction is stalled, heart racing because your plan actually worked after all of this. Your toes find the sand, pushing yourself back up onto your feet, and you hate that you meet his gaze almost instantly. Eyes locking together like two magnets searching for each other, and the smile that pushes up his cheeks makes your chest tighten and not in the way you’ve grown so fond of.

He waves excitedly like he hasn’t just dropped off the face of the earth the past two weeks to help his ex girlfriend move. You wiggle your fingers just barely above the surface and you know your smile doesn’t meet your eyes. He’s either too far to notice or is completely oblivious because the shine of his pearly whites doesn’t falter while he lifts his shirt over his messy bed head making you suck in a sharp breath, and another one when his jeans hit the grass too.

Of course Steve Harrington is coming to unknowingly stomp all over your heart some more in nothing but his underwear.

His skin looks tanner than the last time you saw him, which you didn’t think was even possible this far into summer. The patch of hair on his chest that drives you crazy is a dark contrast to the bronze he glows under the moonlight. His long fingers nervously card through his hair while he adjusts to the water temperature walking towards you trying to play it cool like he didn’t need extra time, and it’s almost enough for the corners of your lips to twitch.

“I was looking for the prettiest girl at the party,” he flirts like he just kissed you silly across the console of his car last night, “and Eddie told me she was in the lake with everyone else.”

Steve winks, looking for the eyeroll he usually gets in response to his relentless cheesy passes, but he gets nothing but an awkward half smirk, and that stupid smile on his face finally falters.

“Hey honey, are you okay?” Concern twists his handsome features, finally closing the space between you, water lapping at his waist straightening up.

Honey.

The anger from before finds its way back, warming your cheeks, and you look up at him between slanted eyes, doing your best to ignore the bergamot and amber that threatens to envelope you.

“It’s weird hearing you say anything besides ‘hey you’ve reached Steve, sorry I missed your call.’”

His face drops, catching the hurt that’s wrapped around your words, guilt making him unsure of what to do next, trying his best to read your body language despite most of it being hidden from his sight under the dark water.

“Look, I know I sucked at calling, but I swear I wasn’t doing anything but helping the Wheelers. Nance is moving to New York with Jonathan -“

”I don’t really care what Nancy Wheeler is doing Steve.” You bite, watching him flinch, satisfaction swelling deep in your gut.

“I just lost track of time, we did so much -“

”You didn’t talk to me for two weeks. What am I supposed to think about that? That I wasn’t even a thought in your head, I wasn’t even worth you sparing five minutes. You don’t even see how wrapped up you are in her do you?”

The tears that had been threatening to spill over finally do, and Steve can’t help himself, swiping them away with the pad of his thumb before cupping the side of your face in the palm of his hand that almost swallows you whole.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, but you refuse to meet his gaze, “I’m here now, I came here for you, I showed up here looking for you, to see you.”

He bends down, doing his best to get you to look at him, but you hold strong because you know that you won’t be able to fight how good it will feel to be with him tonight after wanting nothing more for the past few weeks. Even if you know it’s not the forever that you wished for, the one you were silly enough to daydream about despite knowing better. With just two months before your chapter in Hawkins is set to end, the thought of walking away from him while you can still have him is a different kind of torture you weren’t prepared for yet, one that would be easier when you’re miles apart. Not while he’s pleading for you now.

”I can fix this, I can make it up to you.” He whispers, gently tugging at the bottom of your chin, doing his best to coax you to lift it and meet him halfway. “Come on baby, let me.”

He can’t fix a problem he doesn’t realize is there, a truth he’s not ready to admit to himself yet, but you’ll selfishly let him have it this time because when you finally meet the emerald and gold in his eyes, you want to believe he can too for right now.

”There she is.” His smile is warm, just like his touch pulling you closer by the hip when you lean deeper into his palm. “I’m sorry. I really am, baby. I’m here now though, let me make this okay.”

You don’t trust yourself not to cry if you try to give him a response, so you don’t, encouraging him silently with your hands flattening against his chest instead. Glittery fingers getting lost in coarse hair, deciding to memorize this feeling while it still exists. The sounds of the party drown out for the second time as he bends down, the tip of his nose brushing against yours, asking for permission that you grant with the slightest tilt of your head, letting him kiss you dizzy like this isn’t the end.

#my writing #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #eddie munson #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic

493 notes · View notes

luckyartdoll · 1 year ago

Text

Imagine female Yuu having to cross dress to avoid unnecessary trouble at NRC and Idia finds out through Ortho. Because I can see Ortho finding out if Yuu ever got a minor injury and he was around to play nurse, knowing him he’d do a quick full body scan and find a very high amount of estrogen in her system.

And he blabs to Idia because he’s a snitch who doesn’t keep anything from his brother; if you tell a secret to him, you’re basically telling it to them.

Once Idia finds out, his mind INSTANTLY goes to those otome games and fanfics and gacha life videos about a girl in all boys school. He always thought those were just fun fantasies, but upon seeing that exact scenario happening in real life he becomes curious.

Prior to this, Idia probably wouldn’t think much about Yuu. To him, she was just the odd magicless guy his brother would occasionally run into; the most interesting thing about her was her cat, in his eyes. But now that he knows about her secret, he becomes heavily invested in her school life, he wants to see how this is going to turn out.

He doesn’t exactly stalk Yuu, it’s not like he’s putting cameras in Ramshackle or listening devices in her bag, it’s more like he just pays extra close attention to her when he has the chance, such as during joint classes and lunch. And since Ortho and her are on amicable terms, he encourages Ortho to spill any gossip he learns when around her.

To Idia’s surprise and delight, things end up matching up almost perfectly with what he’s come to expect from these kinds of plots. The ones close to Yuu, who seem to be privy to her secret from what he’s gathered, are all either falling in love or have already been in love. They’re extra protective of her, they’re affectionate and soft with her, and they get jealous when she gives too much of her attention to any one of them.

Idia knows about the overblot incidents, so of course he’d see the pattern in who starts getting closer. Every time someone overblots, Yuu will be there to help and both the overblotter and some other select people in their dorm will begin to fall. It’s a classic pattern.

At this point, Idia would simply see himself as an observer peeking in on this story and, therefore, he can’t be affected by Yuu. He’s not a love target in her story, he’s a side character.

It doesn’t matter that he’s occasionally run in with Yuu and each time he has she’s been a true friend to an introvert like him by making his anxious ass feel comfortable. It doesn’t matter because he’s aware of what’s happening and thus he can’t be affected.

But then he also overblots, and just like before she was there to help pick up the pieces. After that they ended up talking and Idia gets to know more about Yuu, more than he could learn by just observing.

Before long, he’s actually looking forward to seeing her again, to nerding out about his favorite anime’s with her in person because she’s always such a good listener. He’s looking at his manga and game collections and thinking about what she would like.

Idia doesn’t even realize his hearts been skipping beats when she’s around until one day when he’s in class and she walks in. Like a dog hearing their owner walk through the front door, his gaze shoots up and instantly that class gets fifty times more bearable with her around.

…And then he looks around and every other “main character” has had the same reaction.

Which means that he’s also a captured love target, just like them…

Oh how the turn tables for a dating sim loving nerd like himself

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland x yuu #fem yuu #twst yuu #twst mc #idia shroud #ortho shroud #twst #my rambles #I just love the idea of being freaked out cause #he didn’t expect to be a love interest too

2K notes · View notes

loveinhawkins · 2 months ago

Text

ao3

Robin’s double-triple-quadruple checking that Steve is okay—well, okay as he can be, gritting his teeth as Nancy wraps hastily made bandages around him—when she sees Eddie turn away out the corner of her eye.

She follows the movement unconsciously, but then she really looks, and at first she thinks it’s just this god-awful place draining the colour out of everything, but wow, he looks bad.

“Hey,” she says as brightly as she can, “you just checking out the scenery over here or…?”

Eddie shakes his head, and that immediately seems like a bad idea because his face gets even paler, which Robin didn’t even think was, like, possible.

“Just needed to—” he says faintly.

And that’s all he gets out before he weaves where he’s standing, and Robin reaches for him instinctively, grabs a hold of his hand; his palm is cold with sweat, and she suddenly finds herself thinking that the rumour going around a couple years ago, that Eddie passed out in the middle of a dissection in Biology, must have some truth in it.

“Okay, we’re okay!” she says quickly, and holds on as tight as she can. “We’re just gonna stand here and breathe.”

She says it a few more times, “We’re just gonna breathe,” and she’s got no idea if it’s the right thing to do or not, whether it’s just deeply annoying or making everything worse.

Eddie closes his eyes, and she worries about that initially, but the grip of his hand gets stronger, and he doesn’t sway again, and when he opens his eyes and looks at her, they’re clear and focused.

He squeezes her hand twice. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t let go, and he looks embarrassed about it, so Robin says that her sense of balance is so incredibly shit, and this is very helpful of him, thank you.

It works at least a little bit; he almost laughs. Then he swallows, and she can feel his urge to look back over despite himself. He stops the motion just in time.

“Is he—” His fingers twitch uneasily. “Is he okay?”

“Yes,” she says immediately.

She really hopes it doesn’t sound like she’s pacifying him. It’s just, she knows by now what to watch out for, she doesn’t even really need to be looking; an awareness of Steve in her periphery is enough.

She rushes to try and clarify, “Like, I know it seems like I was panicking with the rabies thing, I mean, I kinda was super panicking, but I got it all out my system, like I’m a worrier first and foremost, that’s my secret default emotion, you’re welcome, so when I say there’s nothing to worry about, obviously there are plenty of things to worry about, look where we are, but I promise nothing major currently in the Steve department, and I can tell you, like, instantly when that changes, it’s a sixth sense.”

Eddie blinks, looking slightly stunned. Shit, she forgets sometimes that it’s only really Steve who’s used to these monologues.

A big breath. “And I know it seems like I’m panicking because I’m rambling which—okay, that’s sometimes true, but in most cases—this one included, I swear!—me talking way too much just means I’m comfortable with whoever’s listening.” Eddie’s eyes widen. “So, um. Congratulations? Sorry? Take your pick. Does that, um, make sense?”

There’s a pause before Eddie replies—he’s probably still processing just how many words were thrown at him.

“I don’t think you talk too much,” he says in a taken aback kind of way. Then, “And yeah, sure, that makes sense. Just, uh, questioning your judgement.” A slight self-effacing smile. “I’m not typically the kinda guy folks are comfortable around.”

“Is it really so shocking?” Robin says, meaning it as a tease but—

“Yes,” Eddie says, and while he matches her tone, the word teeters between a joke and something vulnerable.

They both turn at a sudden grunt of exertion—Steve’s standing up, supporting himself with one hand leaning on the rock he’d fallen against. Nancy watches his movements with an anxious intensity; Robin follows her eyeline and notes with relief that the bleeding’s stopped.

“We can go to my house,” Nancy says like she’s trying to convince herself it’s a good idea. “There’ll—there must be some bandages or something just. Just in case.”

Steve lets go of the rock and stands up to his full height. It’s a deliberate show of reassurance, Robin thinks, as much for himself as it is for Nancy.

“Sure,” Steve says. “And guns too, right?”

Nancy’s startled into a laugh. For a second, the weight of concern leaves her face. “And guns,” she repeats.

Eddie catches Robin’s eye with an air of bewilderment. “Guns?” he mouths.

Robin nods.

Eddie looks, if possible, even more lost. Then his eyes slide away from Robin’s, and his expression changes; he starts to frown. At first Robin can’t tell what he’s noticed except that there can’t be any more blood, thank God, because he doesn’t look away. Then she sees it too as Steve takes a step forward with a nonchalant, “What are we waiting for? Let’s go,” like the determined normality of his voice can somehow hide the fact that he’s shivering.

Nancy bites her lip, looking like she’s come to the same unwelcome conclusion as Robin: that no matter what they say, it’ll just result in Steve arguing against it.

There’s a rustle off to the side. Robin glances over only in time to see a blur of denim; Steve catches it against his chest. Eddie’s vest.

“For your modesty, dude,” Eddie quips like it’s no big deal, but Robin can instantly sense the care he’s taken in how he’s said it, that he’s guessed intuitively about the kind of person Steve is: the kind who, when Robin once forgot her umbrella, shared his and made sure she was fully covered, despite him getting soaked in the process.

It’s like she can physically see the path that Eddie’s flippancy has opened up. This way Steve accepting the vest is just continuing the joke; he doesn’t need to admit that he actually needs it.

And it works. Steve expertly sidesteps around the vulnerability and shrugs on the vest, echoing Eddie’s levity right back at him.

“Oh, my modesty, sure. Well, in that case, don’t wanna offend you, dude.”

“You know me, propriety is my middle name.”

Steve laughs. He fiddles a little with one of the buttons on the vest then says lightly, as if an afterthought, “Didn’t know you cared.”

It still walks the line of a joke, but Robin can hear his sincerity, and from the look of surprise on Eddie’s face, so can he. And it’s not like Steve being genuine is a surprise to her, but—

The ground gives way beneath her feet; her stomach lurches as she loses her balance, and it’s only when she accidentally catches Eddie’s shoulder that she realises she’s not going to fall through an endless chasm, that the world is just shaking violently—still not a comforting prospect, but she’ll gladly take it over the alternative.

She barely has time to feel the relative relief before another shudder sends her straight to the ground; she’s too caught off guard to even protect her face with her hands. But her landing isn’t nearly as painful as it should be—as everything finally grows still, she finds the reason why: Eddie, who from the awkward twisted position of his legs looks like he was caught equally off guard, and yet he’s still managed to fling an arm around Robin, bracing to keep her from the worst of the impact.

“Did anyone touch the vines?” Nancy asks breathlessly.

Robin and Eddie shake their heads.

“Any, uh, particular reason why?” Eddie says in the tone of someone who’d really rather not find out.

“It’s a hive mind,” Steve and Nancy say simultaneously, in a very hive mind like way.

Robin hums the theme to The Twilight Zone; everyone laughs, some pressure finally released.

“So killer demon bats weren’t enough, we’ve gotta deal with booby traps too,” Eddie says.

Steve snorts. He glances childishly to Robin as if looking for approval; she rolls her eyes with an irrepressible smile. Seriously?

There’s a split second of disbelief before Eddie just grins in delight. “Real mature, Harrington.”

Steve shrugs. “Sorry, man,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Just providing what Dustin would’ve done.”

They sober slightly at the reminder that their group’s been split.

“You think they’ve figured out that we’re…?” Eddie wiggles his fingers vaguely. He’s slower at getting to his feet than everyone else had been—he’s still hunched over slightly, rubbing at his knee.

“They will,” Nancy says with conviction.

“Don’t underestimate them,” Steve says mildly.

“Oh, I’m not, believe me. They’re kinda terrifying.”

“Terrifying?” Nancy echoes, laughing again, right as Steve says, “Exactly.”

As if in response to their laughter, there’s a distant growl punctuated with ominous clicking. Steve and Nancy both go rigid, and Robin thinks of the night after Starcourt, when Steve stayed over at her place because neither of them wanted to be alone; and he told her how everything started for him, his voice tripping over the words like he was reliving it all over again: running back to Jonathan Byers’ house, hearing the snarl of a monster.

“Yeah, I’m all for going to the Wheeler sanctum,” Eddie says weakly.

But he doesn’t move initially, so Steve and Nancy end up leading the way. Steve repeatedly sweeps the beam of his flashlight back and forth, making sure that the path is lit up for everyone, and Robin wonders whether he’s so focused on that that he hasn’t yet noticed—

“You’re hurt,” she tells Eddie softly. She’s up and looped her arm through his without thinking—which is kind of a big deal considering she nearly threw up with nerves when dancing with a boy at her middle school Snow Ball—and she realises that, for once, she forgot to be nervous about it.

“It’s not that bad,” Eddie says dismissively, but she can feel him leaning on her so it must be at least a little bit bad. “Hey, we kinda even each other out like this, huh? Your balance is pretty good, actually.” He pauses, then, “I’m okay, promise, just didn’t wanna…” He shrugs, nods towards Steve. “Gotta prioritise, y’know?”

Robin doesn’t push back on it for now, just slows her pace so Eddie isn’t jostled. “Thank you,” she says instead, lowering her voice. She nods toward Steve too. “For the…”

“Style improvement? Yeah, you’re welcome.”

This time Robin only lets him get away with belittling it for so long; it’s important, she thinks, that he knows.

“I mean it. He wouldn’t have taken it if you hadn’t—he’s…” She sighs. The greatest Tammy Thompson impersonator. Stupidly funny. Serious, when he has to be. Caring. Selfless. My best friend. “Stubborn.”

Eddie laughs under his breath. “Oh, and you’re not? What the hell was that back there?” He drops into a gently mocking impression of her voice, “I made that shit up.”

“I was just being honest!”

“Way to give me a heart attack.” She feels him squeeze the crook of her elbow. “Don’t do it again.”

And there’s that balancing act again, joking but not. Robin hears it for what it is. Don’t leave me alone. She squeezes back.

“I won’t.”

She expects Eddie to change the subject quickly. Instead he laughs—smaller, sadder. “Shit, sorry. You must think I’m—”

“No,” she says firmly. “I don’t.”

Eddie looks down like he’s just watching his step, nothing more. But his hold around Robin’s arm tightens again. He clears his throat.

“Thanks, Buckley.”

“Hey, Robin, Eddie,” Steve calls; Robin feels Eddie jump. “There’s vines up ahead, like…” He turns around and indicates where with the flashlight. Then he catches Robin’s eye, knits his eyebrows slightly. You okay?

She smiles in reassurance before subtly tilting her head towards Eddie, wrinkles her nose.

Steve’s forehead relaxes. The tiniest nod. Yeah, I know. Got my eye on it.

Because of course he’d noticed the hurt knee despite Eddie’s attempt to hide it; Robin recalls now one of Steve’s rants about his time at school, how he’d often clock injuries during basketball games before the borderline neglectful coach.

And then she realises that Steve’s been walking backwards throughout their silent conversation, alternating between lighting the way for Nancy, and for her and Eddie.

She rolls her eyes, briefly draws a circle in the air with her finger. Now you’re just showing off.

Steve grins, waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. Oh, yeah? What’re you gonna do about it?

But he obligingly turns around, as Nancy gives him a sidelong, questioning look. He answers, too far away to hear, points behind him with his free hand like he’s explaining something. Then his hand goes to the vest, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly over the denim near the collar; Robin smiles.

“So, uh, how likely is it that I’m gonna get that back?” Eddie asks. He sounds amused, like he’s just noticed the same thing as Robin.

“Like, out of ten?” She pretends to think about it. “Two point five.”

Eddie snorts. “Wow, thanks.”

It’s a compliment, Eddie, she thinks, recalling the select few sweaters that Steve fiddles with in winter. He only does that with clothes he really loves.

“You’re not the first. He steals my sunglasses all the time.”

Eddie bursts out laughing. “Figures. He’d look good in anything, it’s so unfair.”

And it doesn’t sound serious; it’s said off the cuff, like it doesn’t have to mean anything. But Robin’s growing more certain that she can hear what’s hiding underneath—that, however hesitantly, she’s being tested.

“Yeah, but we’re not supposed to actually tell him that, he’ll never shut up about it.” As Eddie laughs, she elbows him gently, reaches across to tug at one of the zippers on his sleeve. “So are you providing a permanent service with your clothes? Cause I call dibs on your jacket.”

Eddie laughs again; the mix of disbelief and joy in the sound is familiar—Robin’s heard it come from herself not all that long ago. It takes a while to sink in, that friendship can be found so easily—an uncomplicated, earnest type of love once thought lost to kindergarten; it doesn’t have to hurt.

(“I didn’t need the truth serum to say it,” Robin had confessed during a terminally slow day at Family Video. “I think, deep down, I trusted you.”

“Oh,” Steve said softly and watched the rest of the movie they’d thrown on dewy-eyed.)

There’s a spring in Eddie’s step now despite the limp. He calls out like he’s on a summer hiking trail, “Are we there yet?”

Nancy chuckles. “No. Are you five?”

“Wheeler, I’m shocked that you’d repeat the baseless lies of the school faculty.”

Steve turns, his grin caught by the flashlight—and he looks younger suddenly, Robin thinks, like he’s in class, sneaking a look at someone in the seat behind.

“Wow, dude, I’m so sorry. Are you bored? I forgot to book the entertainment.”

“Did you, Steve?” Eddie asks, all innocence. “I thought you were the entertainment.”

And as they go back and forth, it’s as if the darkness of the woods can’t reach them anymore—as Steve starts a game of I spy, and Eddie encourages Nancy to come up with equally outlandish guesses, the two of them barely keeping their giggles under control, violets, vixen, velociraptor?

“Vines, you losers!” Steve says, still grinning, walking tall like he’s totally forgotten about his injury; and Eddie turns to Robin like that had been his aim all along, “Your turn, Buckley.”

Oh, you’ll fit right in, Robin says to herself before jumping into the game—as they all, at least for a little while, leave fear behind.

#an s4 scene rewrite #recontextualizing “for your modesty dude.”#pre steddie #eddie and robin fic #robin buckley fic #steve and robin fic #steddie #steddie fic #eddie and robin #steve and robin #steve and robin and eddie and nancy #robin buckley #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie

579 notes · View notes

cruel-as-sin · 2 months ago

Text

what happens when you say “i hate you” to different versions of logan (gender neutral) (smut version)

inspired by a conversation with @lostinlovingrevery, hope you all enjoy!

70s!logan

you’ve been having a really bad day. a really, really bad day. the last thing you need is logan brushing you off because he’s “got shit to do, doll.” so you say it, with a stomp of your foot for dramatic effect. you don’t mean it, he knows that. but you aren’t expecting him to also know exactly what you’re asking for, rough hands grabbing you by the hips and shoving you down onto the couch. he grumbles curses under his breath, fumbling with his belt buckle, and you can’t even process what’s happening before he’s pushing into you. the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness, cause your eyes to roll back into your head. upon seeing this, a pleased expression comes to his face. your mind goes blank within moments, no thoughts except the man pounding into you, cigar still perched in his mouth, smoke blurring your vision as he grunts. “there we go. finally fuckin’ quiet.”

origins!logan

you don’t hate him, you hate the grocery store and those assholes at work and the guy who cut you off when you were driving home. but it just kind of slips out- you’re stressed, anxious, and your sweetheart of a boyfriend unintentionally becomes your punching bag. you’ve barely gotten out an apology before he’s wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. he studies you with a serious expression, hands rubbing circles against your hips. “you hate me, huh?” you try to reassure him that no, of course you don’t, but he won’t listen, the playful glint in his eyes betraying his true intentions. “seems like we oughta fix that.” despite your protests that you’re fine, he carries you to bed with ease, laying you down and using his tongue to work as many orgasms out of you as you need to be happy and satisfied. “feelin’ better, sunshine?”

animated!logan

it comes after he’s slammed you into the danger room floor for the twentieth time that day. you’re utterly exhausted, just wanting one fucking win, but he’s not letting up. he doesn’t take it easy on you- never does. you have a lot of respect for him for it, but goddamn does it piss you off. that was probably the wrong thing to say, though, given the way he’s staring down at you right now. “hate me? that’s harsh, bub.” something predatory flashes in his eyes. “must not wanna touch me then either.” you get to your feet, glaring daggers back at him. he draws it out with a smug smile, waiting for you to admit the truth- it’s not about if you give in, but when. you’re too proud to admit it- so instead you drag him to the nearest closet, sinking to your knees and unbuckling his belt. his hand fists itself in your hair, guiding your pace as he fucks your throat. he makes you take all of him, forcing you down to the base, grinning when you choke on his cock. “don’t worry. i’ll take this as an apology.”

trilogy!logan

you’re play fighting in the kitchen- a common occurrence as he tries to interrupt whatever you’re doing. today it borders on arguing, which is why the exasperated words direct themselves his way, punctuated by a “so much” for emphasis. he just looks at you, with his gorgeous face that has your stomach doing flips, taking a few steps closer until he’s invading your space. “that’s not what you were saying last night, baby.” the memory of last night, his touch and his filthy words in your ear, brings heat to your cheeks. his breath hits your skin, his mouth tantalizingly close to yours, the proximity making you squirm. before you know it, you’re upstairs, a smug smile on his face as he makes you fall apart with his fingers, begging and pleading for more. the way you writhe underneath him confirms what you won’t confess, and he hums in fake contemplation. “guess you don’t hate me that much after all.”

2013!logan

you want to go out into the city, he tells you it’s not safe. it’s a debate that’s been going around in circles for days until you finally let the words slip. his silence, paired with the flash of anger in his eyes, tells you that was a mistake, but it’s too late to take it back now. not that you would dream of it as he drags you to the bedroom, one rough hand grabbing your chin and forcing you to look in the mirror as he sinks you down onto his length. the other lifts your hips up then drops you back down again, a slow but brutal pace. it’s too much, and you feel lightheaded as he growls in your ear. “what do you say, sweet thing?“ still, you’re coherent enough to remember your manners, babbling incoherent thanks and apologies, reduced to a basic vocabulary as he impales you on his cock over and over. tears begin to stream down your face, and his firm hold keeps you there, made to see the way he wrecks you completely, the way you fucking love it.

dofp!logan

you’re tied down to the bed, silk rope binding your wrists and ankles. he’s been teasing you for hours. logan always likes to play with his food- slow, methodical, taking his time with you. and god, you enjoy it, but you’ve been good today and you just want your reward. the words are muttered, frustrated, and you’re grateful when he keeps going. you think must not have heard you by the way he’s bringing you closer and closer to that delicious peak, until his gravely voice is right next to your ear. “careful.” he takes your chin, making you look at him as he pulls his hand away from where you need it most. his eyes are serious, his tone a warning, one that only further turns you on. a whine escapes you, your hips bucking at just how close you are, how much you need this. “don’t want me to leave you here, do you, honey?” he smiles in satisfaction when you immediately shake your head, begging him not to do that to you. “that’s what i thought.”

old man!logan

you know you shouldn’t have said it. of course you know you shouldn’t have said it, but that didn’t stop you from doing it anyway. logan doesn’t move from the armchair he’s sitting in, whiskey bottle lowering from his lips. he raises an eyebrow, looking up at you with an unamused expression. “you done?” meekly, you swallow and nod, mumbling a sorry and thinking that’ll be the end of it. but you think wrong. he sets the bottle on the table, turning to face you again, something serious in his eyes. “c’mere.” he pays his lap. you move to sit, but he stops you with a firm hand against your thigh. “bend over, sweetheart.” your heart races as you realize what your punishment will be. you do as he says, and soon enough, your eyes are filled with tears from the spanking he delivers you. “you know better than to pull that shit on me.” he grumbles, clearly disappointed in your attitude. “don’t do it again, y’hear me? got enough to worry about without you bein’ a brat.”

worst!logan

you’re standing outside the door of your apartment when it happens. you’ve been lamenting to wade and vanessa about how much logan drives you crazy, with his stupid face and huge muscles and unfairly sexy voice. unbeknownst to you, logan is just down the hall, coming back from the grocery store. looking back, you’re fairly certain both wade and vanessa knew he was coming before you did, deciding to leave you to your cruel fate. it isn’t until you feel strong hands on your hips and warm breath on the back of your neck and a suspiciously familiar sexy voice in your ear that you realize the trap you’ve stepped into. “you’re hurting my feelings.” you turn around and are met with a fake pout. who knows where wade and vanessa went, all you know is that he’s backing you up against your door, continuing to get closer even as you stumble through apologies. “that’s it? you’re sorry?” he flashes a toothy grin, something predatory gleaming in his eyes. “come on, angel. i know you can do better than that.” he’s cornering you: nothing to do, nowhere to run- except, of course, his lips. so you give in, tongue crashing against yours, his body enveloping your senses. and trust me, he’s gonna make sure you never think a single damn bad thing about him again.

patch!logan

you’re in the casino, begging him to let you get in on a game. he says your job is to just “sit here and look pretty, darlin’,” but you’re getting really fucking bored. the moment the words cross your lips, you regret it. not just because you don’t mean it, but because you can see immediately that logan is pissed. he gives you a look the likes of which he’s never given you before, and nearly shoves you off of his lap. you wait by the edge of the table until the place empties out for the night, thinking maybe he just needed to get it out of his system. but even when the two of you are alone once more, he still doesn’t say a word, just leans back and spreads his legs- a command, and you must obey it. so you do. crawling towards him on your hands and knees, reaching up to undo his belt buckle. as you pull his cock out, beginning to stroke him, the tip of his boot presses against your thigh, and you realize what he wants you to do. you’ll do anything to make it up to him, including sacrificing your pride. so you do: grinding on his boot, pathetic whimpers leaving your lips, muffled by the way your mouth is wrapped around his cock. all the while he says nothing, staring down at you with a menacing expression, and the only thing you can do is pray that you’ll be good enough that he’ll show you mercy.

cowboy!logan

you don’t even remember what you were fighting with him about. no, that left your head the second the unimpressed expression took over his face and the words “that so?” left his lips. you nod- stupidly, you nod. then you step back, but it’s too late, his lasso wrapping around you and tugging you closer to him. “ooh.” he sucks air in through his teeth, shaking his head with a heavily disappointed expression. “that’s gonna be a problem, isn’t it?” he doesn’t let you answer, pulling on the lasso a little harder and sending you stumbling to the ground. he leans down to be face to face with you, jerking his head toward the empty farmhouse a few hundred meters away. “you’d better find a way to make it up to me, sugar. and fast.” when you still don’t move, don’t say anything, he frowns, clicking his tongue at you. “get to it.” and now his voice has that commanding tone, and suddenly you are letting him pull you towards the dirty mattress in the farmhouse, tying your wrists to the bedpost as he cages you in.

#cas drabbles #im too lazy to tag anyone in this #if you see it you see it #logan howlett xmen #logan howlett #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #wolverine smut #wolverine x reader #old man logan #old man logan x reader #cowboy logan #dofp logan #patch logan #worst wolverine #70s logan #worst wolverine x reader

469 notes · View notes

fairestwriting · 2 months ago

Note

hello! may I request hcs on how the first years are when they're dating their housewarden's younger sister?

𐙚 Ace Trappola

Oh, you know he’s smug about it. He was kind of averse to the idea of even getting too close at first, thinking Riddle’s younger sister surely would be a rule freak like Riddle himself is, not really someone he’d want to associate with…

But, who would’ve guessed, you two turned out to get along just fine. You seem to appreciate his humor, and Ace appreciates that in return. ”Y’know, I thought you’d be all uptight like your big brother. I guess that gene skipped you, huh?” He jokes one day, and he just keeps on doing his thing, whether he’s under Riddle’s scrutiny or not. What’s he gonna do about it anyway? He’s not breaking any rules by just hanging out with his sister, is he now?

His attitude honestly doesn’t change that much when you two get more serious. He’s totally unsurprised to learn that Riddle wasn’t really that thrilled by you dating a troublemaker like him. Of course he treats you well, but it’s the same sort of treatment you’d get even if you had never heard of Riddle Rosehearts in your life. Maybe he’s a little more generous with gifts, especially snacks, knowing your mother doesn’t let you have them at home. But that’s as “different” as it’ll get.

Whenever you two are spending time together and Riddle is also around, he makes sure to be in his very best behavior just to spite him. It doesn’t always work, if only because of the sheer amount of rules that Riddle remembers summed up to his now actual desire to humble Ace is definitely… a force to be reckoned with. But, well, so is Ace. Riddle never gets his way when that happens either, because Ace is just cackling away when Riddle slaps that collar on him for the third time this week.

𐙚 Deuce Spade

Part of his desperate attempts to become a “true honors student” includes properly introducing himself to any new people he meets, which means asking for their full name and giving his in return. He’s decided he must redouble his efforts to be cautious and polite around you as soon as he heard you say Rosehearts right after your first name. He ends up nervously asking, ”Oh. Rosehearts, like… our dorm leader?” and you confirm you’re Riddle’s younger sister. That just confirms his own thought process to him.

Deuce is honestly genuinely scared. Not of you, of course! Over time he finds that he really enjoys talking to you, your conversations flowing easily. Deuce is surprised he could even have so much fun with another person, even though he has and has plenty of fun with other friends— It’s just that the knowledge you’re Riddle’s sister… never really leaves the background of his thoughts.

He knows Riddle didn’t get the best impression of him, and he doesn’t necessarily regret his own actions from that time. Now though, that he’s starting to really notice his crush on you, and he wants to ask you out properly— Would it really be right to do that when he’s in bad terms with your family? Deuce is conflicted. It’s not a thing of believing you need Riddle’s permission to date him or anything, he’d just feel… kind of bad, knowing his girlfriend’s brother thinks of him as some unserious delinquent. He wants it to be known that he only wants the absolute best for you!

So… he tries. Like Ace, he’s in his very best behavior whenever there’s a chance Riddle might be around, with about the same success rate. Except he really apologizes profusely every time he learns he’s breaking a rule, promising he’ll remember it in the future — He probably won’t, but the same is true for any other normal person, really — in a way that honestly surprises Riddle sometimes? As much as your brother will always be at least a little bit distrustful of any guy that comes close to you, in some situations, even he can’t do anything but admit that yeah, Deuce is nothing if not dedicated to that “mission” of his.

𐙚 Jack Howl

Leona was basically his idol for so long, you know he’s kept up with what little media appearances he had. Nothing crazy, anything more than just watching the few interviews he’s given or the broadcasted Magift games just gets into celebrity gossip territory, and Jack doesn’t like that— But basically, he’s watched just about enough to see you on a screen, and yeah, he always thought you were really pretty, but that was all there was to it for a long time.

He did get… pretty disappointed with Leona when he met him, yeah, but he doesn’t let it affect how he views you. You’re his sister, not an extension of his person, it’d be silly to make assumptions like that. Jack is as polite to you as he is to everyone else, and he’s pleased to discover you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. That it’s actually really fun to talk to you, even though he usually doesn’t like talking to people much.

When you actually get together, Jack starts to get pretty nervous. He’s serious about dating, as we all know. If he’s asked you out, it’s because he really wants to be with you. And that means family gets involved. He’s more than happy to introduce you to his, but yours, well— He’s never thought he’d struggle with a significant other’s family, but you’re a literal princess…

It’s not at all about Leona though. None of Jack’s hesitations over your relationship have anything to do with him, really. In fact, telling Leona that you two are together is something he sees as a sort of “practice session” for the day he meets your entire family, and Leona is just fine with it. You’re clearly happy, and he has no intentions of smothering you, especially when you’re dating Jack Howl out of all people— He knows the guy literally wouldn’t even dream of trying anything funny.

𐙚 Epel Felmier

Epel is out of the loop, even if he’s seen Vil on the TV screen back home, he never used social media enough to fully grasp how much of an influence he had over anyone. And you’re so insanely pretty, so much more than any girl he’s ever met, he ends up blurting out a ”Wow, if I didn’t know you better, I would’ve guessed you and Vil-san are related!”

…So that’s how he realizes the situation he’s gotten into, not too long after you two start talking, and his crush on you begins to take shape. And he’s intimidated, yeah. Anyone would be. But at the same time… Epel couldn’t bring himself to lie about how proud of himself he feels. Like this is just insane to him. He hears more and more about how famous and important Vil is every day, and you, his younger sister, decided to hang out with him out of all people? Wow. He feels so important now.

But, as much as his unease grows as you two get closer, he’s not about to let it stop him. He knows he’s not experienced or anything like that, but if he’s going to be your boyfriend, Epel’s top priority is making sure you get treated right. He’ll still be opening doors for you even months into your relationship. Hell, he’ll even make a good effort at learning all the fancy dining etiquette he hates, so he can have a proper introduction dinner with your family.

Epel figures that, even if Vil was pretty protective, he couldn’t scoff at him for… doing his best to be a good boyfriend to you, could he? He’s heard you mention how picky Vil is with the boys you talk to, most of his issue is when they’re not trying hard enough. That doesn’t apply to him, he’s determined to make it so that it never does too— And he wins on that front. Vil sees how happy you are and how well he treats you. He can’t complain about Epel. It still surprises him sometimes.

𐙚 Sebek Zigvolt

Honestly, he’s scared to do as much as touch a single hair on your head. You’re literally Malleus’ sister. His crush is not recent at all, the two of you having met long before Sebek even considered attending NRC— And Sebek himself having, at some point, quietly decided that he should content himself with a life of (not so) silent, distant pining…

…Meanwhile, you most likely think of him as just a kind longtime acquaintance. A real oddball, for sure, but he’s never been anything but kind to you. Maybe you even see him as a sort of friend. When you both were younger you really didn’t get to meet a lot of people your age, but Sebek was often there, and he always listened to what you had to say— Even though he’d often blurt out lines like ”M-My Lady, I’m simply your family’s servant, we must both keep that in mind…!”

Because of this specific dynamic between the two of you, you’ll… pretty much have to make most of the first moves. And Sebek is receptive to them, despite all his claims that you two shouldn’t get “too” close at all. It’s a little endearing, how flustered he gets over pretty much everything— Eventually, though, he tells himself he has to get it together, it’s clear that you wanted a relationship with him, and he knows very well he wants a relationship with you. As much as it goes against… nothing but his own mentally edited version of the rules related to his position, as soon as he decides to get serious with you, he gets really serious.

As for Malleus’ opinion on the whole thing… well. It’s Sebek. Malleus would usually be very, very protective over his beloved younger sister’s chosen partners but, he knows Sebek. He knows him maybe even better than he wants to— And he knows, even before he sees him insisting to carry your schoolbag while you’re on your way to class together, that he wouldn’t dare to offer you anything less than his very best efforts. Malleus is a little surprised that he actually managed to get over that sort of idol worship thing he had towards your family to the point that he asked you out, but he’s pleased. You definitely have his blessing. And bonus points for keeping Sebek too busy to be as neurotic over him as he usually is, Malleus does appreciate the extra quiet time.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #ace trappola #deuce spade #jack howl #epel felmier #sebek zigvolt #ace trappola x reader #deuce spade x reader #jack howl x reader #epel felmier x reader #sebek zigvolt x reader #twst imagines #twst headcanons #lis writing

530 notes · View notes

strangersatellites · 27 days ago

Text

I owe you a black eye and two kisses

933 words | idk M adjacent I guess

The interviewer’s name is Brooke. Steve isn’t sure who she’s with, he wasn’t paying that much attention.

She seems like a nice girl. Really, she does.

Steve is a little distracted though, trying his best to be earnest when he answers her questions.

“How did it feel when Jeremy told you he wrote the character specifically for you?”

“What was the most meaningful scene for you to film?”

“What was it like working with Nancy Wheeler? She’s my favorite.”

He thinks he does a pretty good job all things considered.

Well- considering that all he can hear is “Eddie! Over here” from the wall of paparazzi to his right. As kind as Brooke seems, he would much rather be hanging off his boyfriend while the crowd screams his name and begs for autographs.

Dating another famous person is all fun and games until work calls you both at the same time.

He looks over his shoulder between questions and catches Eddie throwing him a wink. He’s stood on the red carpet with the other Corroded Coffin boys and they’re all joking and laughing and acting like they don’t have a care in the world.

Steve knows that’s not true. They were all but shaking in their boots on the car ride over while their manager threatened them each on their lives to behave themselves.

He laughs under his breath and tears his eyes away.

“Okay! Now for some rapid-fire fan questions!” she says.

Perfect, this will be a good distraction until Eddie’s done being a goddamned model behind him.

Steve claps his hands together and furrows his eyebrows.

“I’m ready, let's do it.”

“What’s your favorite cereal?”

“Frosted Flakes, obviously.”

“When was the last time you went to the dentist?”

He snorts a laugh. “Uh, about a month ago actually. I chipped a tooth on set.”

“Yikes.” She looks down at the card in her hand. “Who is your most played artist on Spotify?”

He smiles, doesn’t need to pull out his phone to know the answer to that one.

“That would be my boyfriend.”

Brooke smiles at him and leans in conspiratorially, “If he isn’t really, I won’t tell anyone.”

He laughs. “He really is! If you wanted some juice though, Sabrina Carpenter is my second.”

She laughs and nods. “That’s perfect. I so see it. Okay, last one, what is your favorite snack to eat in bed?”

Oddly enough, he doesn’t really have to think to answer this one either.

“Pretzels, easy. We’ve been watching “How to Get Away With Murder” before bed every night and I’ve probably been through three bags this week. Honest.”

Brooke breaks her professional character to laugh and it spurs him on.

“It’s one of those things, I probably haven’t thought about a pretzel in three years and now that I’ve remembered they exist, I cannot put them down.” He notices now that even the camera guy is nodding and laughing. “You know when I was a kid, I used to love dipping a pretzel in my Coke can and hearing it fizz. That shit-”

He cuts himself off with a smile when he feels a warm hand slide around his waist.

“Hey hot stuff,” he giggles.

Eddie smacks a dramatic kiss to his cheek and squeezes his hip. His pretty smile taking over his face once he gets a good look at the blush that paints his cheeks.

“Hey babydoll. What’re you guys talking about?”

Steve’s head whips back around to Brooke. “Ooh! Ask him! I want to see if he says the same thing I did.”

She smiles and points the mic towards Eddie.

“What’s your favorite snack to eat in bed?”

Eddie puts on a faux contemplative look, puts a hand on his chin. He hums.

“Hm. That’s a tough one. God, I just don’t-”

Steve cuts him off, wraps his own arms around Eddie’s frame and gets in his face with a laugh.

“Oh come on, I know you’re thinking it! I want to be right!”

He makes himself giggle into Eddie’s shoulder thinking back to a few nights ago when Eddie had stuck two pretzel rods in his lip and pretended to be a walrus. So his confusion as to why Eddie isn’t answering only grows when he sees the filthy smirk on his face.

Eddie leans back far enough that he can see the mic flag.

“Who did you say you were with again?”

“E! News.”

Oh good. Steve had wanted to know that.

Eddie chuckles and Steve figures out what’s happening as soon as he feels Eddie’s hand shift. He can’t move his own fast enough.

“Well, Brooke from E! News, my favorite snack to eat in bed is my baby,” he punctuates it with a smack to Steve’s ass, “what else?”

Steve buries his blushing face in his boyfriend’s jacket and rushes to smack a hand over Eddie’s mouth before he can get out a, “Have you seen his-”

“OKAY, that’s enough out of you,” he looks back toward Brooke who is laughing hysterically, “I’m so sorry. He’s an animal.”

Steve is going to beat him up. Really, he is.

Eddie grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away from his mouth and settles it over his chest, bare under his studded jacket.

“Can you blame me? Look at him. Never tasted anything better.”

Okay, he’s done for real this time. He grabs Eddie’s arm and pulls him away, back toward the boys and more importantly away from the cameras.

“Thanks so much Brooke, you’re a gem, I am so sorry, again.”

Eddie cackles behind him and he just knows that they’ll never live this one down.

(He doesn’t really want to.)

#if you know the two interviews that prompted this idea #let me kiss you on the mouth #if you don’t #look up that mtv interview of Angelina Jolie and billy bob thornton NEOW #also Keery once genuinely answered the question about pretzels #unironically #steddie #steddie fic #eddie munson #steve harrington #gin writes #gins got jokes #shot of gin #gin wrote

349 notes · View notes

appocalipse · 1 year ago

Note

heyy if ur taking requests could u maybe do like bestfriends steve + reader where steve, eddie, nancy and robin have to pick up reader from a party and she’s like REAL drunk and just idk super clingy w steve and doesn’t wanna not be touching him. maybe eddie, nancy and robin all make fun of him for it but they acc find it rly cute.

thank you for your request! ♥♥♥ | 2.2k words

"Stevie!"

You collide into him suddenly, nearly knocking him back a step or two with the force of your momentum; there's a smile on Steve's face when you look up at him through eyes that are more than a little hazy with inebriation. You're drunk. Probably way past drunk, if the way the world won't seem to hold still is anything to go by, but you don't care. There are other things vying for your attention—like how warm he feels against you, how safe he makes you feel, how pretty he looks from up close...

"Whoa," Steve says as you lean even further into him and loop your arms around his waist in a tight hug. "How much did you have to drink, exactly?"

He doesn't mean it in a mean way, which is why you grin up at him from where you've got your cheek pressed firmly to his chest. You can feel his heart beating under the palm of your hand now, a steady and calming rhythm that soothes something inside of you.

"Dunno," you reply, grinning stupidly when you catch sight of maybe three copies of Eddie Munson standing off to Steve's left; all of them have identical amused looks on their faces. "Might've had, like, a couple..."

Steve sighs deeply, though there's no exasperation or disappointment to be found in his expression when he tilts your face upwards to look you over properly. You just beam dopily at him, because he's so pretty right now you don't know what else to do.

"Dude," Eddie speaks up, drawing Steve's gaze away from you while your own attention goes back to pressing yourself even more snugly into him, "she is totally sloshed."

You frown, shaking your head in fervent disagreement.

"Am not!"

"Sure you aren't, sweetheart," Eddie agrees placidly, but you get the impression he doesn't really mean it.

Before you can point this out, however, the blurry shape of Robin Buckley steps forward. The room is dark with flashing strobe lights and smoky with incense and cigarette smoke, but you'd recognize her voice anywhere.

"Who let you drink this much?" Robin asks as she lifts a hand up to brush some hair back from your forehead.

It's oddly soothing and so you lean into the contact with a happy hum. Robin and the others laugh — but then again, it sounds kinder than mean, the kind of laugh that bubbles up when you find something unexpectedly endearing, and so you don't mind as much as you maybe should.

"Nobody," you mumble as you press your face into the side of Steve's neck and take a deep breath in; his scent is the same as always, earthy and warm with an underlying hint of that stupid spray he likes to use sometimes. "I'm here alone. 'Cause Steve here blew me off for you guys, but that's okay," you say, even though, to be fair, it sort of isn't true — he didn't blow you off.

"Hey," Steve starts, sounding half-indignant and half-apologetic all at once. He's got an arm around your shoulder now, supporting you and keeping you upright, which makes you want to tangle yourself up in him completely. "You didn't tell me you wanted me to come hang out with you tonight!"

You sigh mournfully against his skin, feeling wistful all of a sudden. It's true. You hadn't told him. That was partially due to the fact that you had been trying to prove to yourself that you weren't so desperately and helplessly infatuated with him that you needed his presence constantly, but that plan had obviously backfired on you spectacularly.

"No," you mutter unhappily as Steve moves the two of you towards a nearby couch. "But I missed you. Don't wanna miss you."

Nancy, Robin, and Eddie, who are watching the two of you with expressions of varying degrees of amusement, exchange looks. Steve pretends not to notice, probably because he knows he won't like what they have to say if he hears it, and instead guides you down onto the cushions next to him. "You're drunk."

"You're pretty," you reply without hesitation, even though you're very clearly changing the subject. "It's unfair, y'know?"

You hear Robin snort, followed by a quiet thud like someone's just been slapped on the arm, and you know it's her who laughed, and that it must have been Nancy who'd shut her up. You don't know where Eddie is; you're not even sure when he wandered off, to be honest. You're too focused on Steve and the way his face looks under the colorful flashing lights.

"Oh yeah?" he asks, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too widely at your comment. His eyes are bright with laughter when you meet his gaze and nod confidently. "How do I get 'unfair', exactly?"

"'S all in the face," you say matter-of-factly, your own fingers trailing down his cheek in an almost absentminded gesture. "Kinda makes it hard to think about anything else sometimes, if I'm being real here. Like, it's not really fair, 'cause then what are we supposed to talk about? Oh, oh—and then there's your hair!"

"My hair?"

Robin wheezes somewhere behind you, which would have made you giggle if you were still paying attention to the people in the room besides Steve, but you're not.

"Mmhmm," you hum, your eyes running over the soft brown locks on top of his head. "Love it. Wanna touch it all the time. Y'see, Steve? You see? This is why it's not fair at all. And, and—" you trail off here for dramatic effect, squinting at him theatrically before leaning closer with your hand cupped to the side of your mouth, as if you're about to share something private. "—the way you make my insides feel? So, so unfair. Totally your fault, buddy."

"Wha-" Steve croaks out, looking alarmed and caught off guard by your drunken confession. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh," you regain your serious tone, frowning at him in a somewhat bemused manner when he continues to gape at you. "Not 'sposed to tell you. S'not the rules."

Eddie barks out a laugh somewhere off to your left, but Steve ignores him. "Rules?"

"Yeah, 's against the rules, dummy," you say, like he should've already known that. "Gotta follow the rules! Duh. Steve."

"Yeah, Steve, duh," Robin pipes up, earning herself a glare from Steve as well as a smirk from Eddie. "Oops, sorry. Please, continue."

"Can I touch your hair? Like, please, 'cause I might die if I don't, 'kay? If that's okay. Gotta test the theory. Just a little bit, though." You can tell by his expression that he wants to laugh, and that he's also mildly worried that you've lost your mind. "Please?"

Robin, Eddie and Nancy have their hands clapped over their mouths to contain their laughter. You're too drunk to notice, but Steve narrows his eyes at them in warning. "Yes," he says. "Just—yeah, go ahead."

With a little noise of excitement, you reach out to card your fingers through his hair. He smells really good — like clean laundry and fresh pine trees — and the feel of his hair in your palm is exactly what you had imagined, though you're loathe to pull your hand away now that you've felt it.

Steve goes unnaturally still as you press your face into the juncture between his neck and shoulder, a move he should have expected but didn't, and you sigh happily when the scent of his cologne hits you full force. He's like a living, breathing, cuddly teddy bear, you think, a combination of warmth, softness, and comfort all rolled up in one gorgeous, handsome, unobtainable package.

"You're warm," you mumble, feeling like you could fall asleep right now. "So, so warm. 'S like you've got a space heater in your chest, 'n that's like, so awesome."

He blinks a few times, momentarily speechless as he tries to come to terms with the fact that you are, in fact, drunk enough to be saying whatever the hell comes to your mind. "Uh, thanks?"

"Smell nice too," you murmur, hugging him tighter to you. "Like, wow. Love your hair, like, love love."

His cheeks are burning hot now, his heart beating erratically in his chest when he notices Eddie staring at the two of you with a knowing gleam in his eye. "That's—thank you, but, hey, come on now," Steve says, his voice faltering a little. "Let's get you home, okay?"

"I don't wanna."

"Don't you wanna sleep in your bed?"

You pause, considering his words, and eventually concede that, yes, your bed does sound lovely right about now, so you give him a brief nod in response. "I guess, but can you come too?"

He chokes on air, but manages to play it off by clearing his throat. "What—to your bed? No!"

"Why not?"

Steve shifts a little under your intense, alcohol-addled scrutiny; he feels strangely guilty, as though he's letting you down by saying no. "Because you're drunk?" he says, feeling flustered and unreasonably nervous all of a sudden.

You scrunch up your face in a pout. "Oh, that's a dumb reason."

Steve chuckles and you sigh happily again, because you love his laugh and everything else about him, and he seems to realize this, given the way his expression softens. "Come on, you drunkard. Let's go home," he says gently, tugging on your arm in an attempt to get you to stand.

You resist at first, shaking your head stubbornly as you hold onto him. "Can't. My legs don't work anymore. They're all wobbly."

Steve closes his eyes for a moment, huffs out a soft laugh, and you can't help but grin up at him. He's so pretty that, like, how is that even allowed? How can you be around him and not spontaneously combust or something?

"Well, what if I carried you?"

"Like a princess?"

Steve looks at you with an expression you can't decipher — it's halfway between incredulous and endeared, and it makes your heart feel too big for your rib cage.

"How romantic," Nancy observes.

"So long as she doesn't throw up on him," Eddie adds, nodding sagely in agreement.

"Oh, I hope she does," Robin says, with a devious smile, "he'd deserve it for being such a coward."

"I'm...right here, guys, and I can still hear you." Steve finally says, throwing them a scathing look that only makes them laugh. "If you're not going to be helpful, you can wait in the car."

"As if," Eddie counters.

Steve opens his mouth to tell him where exactly he can stick his opinions, when you grab the front of his shirt and drag him closer.

"Steve," you say, the smile falling from your face as a sudden thought occurs to you. "Are you mad at me? Because I can go home by myself. That's okay."

"Hey, no," he replies softly, "I'm not mad at you, sweetheart. Not ever."

"'Sweetheart'? Really?" Eddie mutters to Nancy, who elbows him in the ribs when he doesn't lower his voice in time. "Ow, okay, okay—just saying. Don't want them to keep dancing around each other forever, is all."

"I'm not dancing," you tell him, completely unaware of Eddie's snickering, "I don't have any shoes on, Eddie. Wouldn't be able to dance without shoes on. Silly."

"My bad," Eddie says, his lips twitching with badly concealed laughter, "forgive me."

Steve scowls at him before turning his attention back to you, his face so close to yours that you can momentarily feel the tickle of his breath against your skin. "Okay, come on," he says, "up we go."

And then, in one swift movement, he slides his arm under your knees and scoops you up into his arms. You let out a squeak of surprise and automatically wrap your arms around his neck to steady yourself.

"Oh, oh, oh," you say excitedly, "you really are gonna carry me."

"Told you so." Steve adjusts his grip on you and makes his way towards the exit. "Are you good? Am I hurting you?"

You shake your head slowly, grinning as you stare at him from a whole new angle. "No," you tell him, feeling much more awake than you were moments before. "This is...this is like, actually kinda cool."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you repeat, smiling shyly back at him. "Feel like a real life Cinderella now. Whoa, you're, like, super strong."

"Yeah, Stevie, you're 'super strong.'" Eddie teases, waggling his eyebrows when Steve sends him a quick glare. "Aw, don't look at me like that. It's cute. The two of you."

Nancy doesn't tease like Robin and Eddie do. She walks behind Steve, making sure to stay a couple steps behind to give the two of you some privacy. Even so, when you look over your shoulder to make sure nobody's listening, she gives you a wink and a small thumbs-up that makes you smile.

The parking lot is filled with teenagers all wandering aimlessly in groups, so it takes Steve a while to navigate his way through the crowd. By the time he finds the spot where he parked his BMW, you've grown drowsy enough to rest your head on his shoulder.

Eddie immediately pops open the door to the backseat, slapping it a few times as he looks over at Steve and grins. "Hurry it up, lover boy," he drawls out, "she looks half-asleep already."

"She's fine," Steve shoots back, frowning in annoyance when Eddie and Robin both pretend to yawn exaggeratedly, "shut up. I hate you guys."

2K notes · View notes

padmerry · 30 days ago

Text

Ford & Stan: bravery and heroism

This is going to be about Stan’s vs. Ford’s types of heroism/courage. More specifically old Stans. I want to focus on the period at which they’ve already matured and already gone through and survived the worst of their lives. Them at their bravest, you could say.

I’m going to start with something a tad (or very) controversial. Among my Gravity Falls merch, there’s my sticker album. This is how they describe Ford (translation below) 👇

“Differently from his twin brother, [Ford] is valiant, intelligent, and has six fingers.”

“Valiant” is basically a fancier way to say “brave,” so... yeah.

The friends I’ve showed this to were indignant on Stan’s behalf. My album was being unfair to him! And yes, I agree. If Stan wasn’t brave, he wouldn’t have faced Bill alone. And regarding his intelligence—Alex has commented before that all four Pines are quite intelligent, just in different ways. Mabel, for example, has much more emotional intelligence than Ford. But I digress. That isn’t the subject of this post.

The thing is: I wasn’t very surprised about Ford being considered more stereotypically intelligent than Stan. Ford is, after all, a recognized genius, of a very obvious sort. His nicknames go from “IQ” to “Brainiac.” But Ford being considered braver than Stan... where does that come from?

Certainly, old Stan has never behaved in a cowardly way in situations where Ford in his place would never, right?

Or perhaps... perhaps he has.

Meanwhile, Ford was doing a Ford-core speech about the true meaning of being a hero.

Was this an exception to the rule? Or the norm?

Looking at Stan’s and Ford’s expressions as Probabilitor the Annoying appears, probably the norm.

Or Stan’s behavior in these self-explanatory moments from the comics:

“But,” you might say, “Stan had so many brave moments too! Against the zombies, against Bill!”

Yeah! He sure did!

But what did all of those badass moments have in common?

Ah, yes! His family—mostly Mabel and Dipper—being in any kind of danger and/or needing his help.

In fact, what I found hilarious about the very first moment, with Waddles, is that he started off as a complete coward. The same kind of man who ran away screaming from the goat. Attempting to sacrifice poor Waddles while he hid beneath the mushroom, survival instincts kicking in. But if it truly concerns Mabel’s happiness? And, let’s be honest, Waddles’, because he does have a soft spot for the pig? Then he finds it in himself to face a dinosaur!

Waddles knows how he works, hahah.

Stanford Pines, meanwhile, is a different breed of dog.

When in danger, his first impulse doesn’t seem to be fear, but pure, unbridled rage.

That’s pretty much his default mode. Ford has a classic, very obvious type of bravery that is easily identifiable as such. I could keep giving you guys examples, but if you’ve watched GF or read Journal 3 at all, I won’t need to. I think it’s self-explanatory given that this guy wanted Dipper to suppress his fear by focusing on his intellect:

To him, emotions are a weakness. They hinder his clear thinking. They need to be suppressed.

I also find it fascinating that he canonically endured insane levels of torture at Bill’s hands. He was emotionally, psychologically, and physically abused—Bill manipulated and deceived him, haunted his dreams, controlled his body like a puppet, threatened to commit suicide with it, hurt it all over to the point of giving it bruises, used it to ruin his reputation with the townsfolk, tattooed it without his consent, made his eye bleed, drove a nail through his hand, made him eat live spiders, pulled his bones out of their sockets, threatened to erase his memories, messed with the meaning of words in his brain, hunted him down, humiliated and mocked him publicly, turned him into a golden statue, electrocuted him—overall violated his consent and bodily/mental autonomy in horrific levels and subjected him to excruciating pain. And yet, every time he faces Bill, he faces him with impressive courage, always confrontational, always resolutely angry. He never wavers in that anger, not even for a second.

Ford’s biggest moment of fear as a lone hero, even if brief, was when Bill threatened him with, “I’ll make you talk! It’s only a matter of time,” before beginning the very torture pictured above.

That’s still him being courageous, of course. Courage is not the absence of fear, but doing the brave thing despite the fear, and we watch him resisting Bill’s torture resolutely after that.

Remember, though, how I said Ford conducts himself as if emotions are a weakness? Despite all of Ford’s bravery and resistance, Bill is right when he tells Ford, in that very scene, “Everyone has a weakness, tough guy!” Because what finally, finally breaks Ford is to see his family—the most important people in his life—in danger.

It’s the same old weakness Bill used against him in TBoB, calling Stan’s number to threaten suicide in Ford’s voice—the one thing that made Ford say, “But then [Bill] crossed a line” and “No. [Bill] wouldn’t,” in despair, even after all the terrible things Bill had done to him.

In this sense, Stan and Ford are perhaps opposites of each other. Look at how, even though Ford looks defeated here, Stan’s expression hardens in the second gif—with determination.

Look, too, at how Ford looks away, how his hands shake when he has to erase Stan’s memories, the sacrifice that Stan is making so stoically, due to his feelings for Stan:

(Read this meta, if you want, for more on how this must have been terrible for Ford.)

Why do I say Stan is making the sacrifice so stoically? Why does he acquire this look of determination as Ford is hopelessly planning to give himself up to Bill? Well, Alex seemed to imply in the commentary of Weirdmageddon 3: Take Back The Falls something I already believed to be true: that it was Stan who offered himself up/volunteered as the one to have his memories sacrificed to save all their asses, not Ford who suggested it to him. (“And even though it’s Stan who agrees to—‘I’ll be the one! Erase my mind! It’s fine. It’s worth it.’—like, it’s a sacrifice for both, like, Ford at this point is willing to get his brother back and has to lose him again.”) Stan shines when his family is in danger!

Meanwhile, when does Ford’s brand of bravery shine the most? I think it’s telling that, despite the jokes about Ford being a damsel in distress, you still have a man who survived thirty years completely alone in the multiverse while having a bounty of an entire galaxy on his head. In a way, I think Ford is way more in his element, so to speak, when he’s his own company, he’s the only one in danger, and he just has to take care of himself. He’s the lone hero, after all.

Even with Dipper, before whom he peacocks by showing his more cavalier side, sometimes to the point of recklessness (according to Alex and Rob Renzetti in the DD&D commentary, Ford would never act that irresponsibly around Stan), he seems to get hindered by his responsibility to care for his nephew, as it was shown in Dipper and Mabel vs. The Future with their fight against alien technology. The robots wouldn’t even have been activated, after all, if not for Dipper’s adrenaline levels.

Stan, on the other hand, is at his core a family man. He will make himself brave even in occasions he wouldn’t normally be, for his family! All for his family!

In the commentary of Not What He Seems, Alex and Matt Chapman point out the badass side of Stan:

Alex Hirsch: When I saw the storyboards, they managed to make Stan this awesome action hero while still keeping him Stan. [...] He steals a wallet, he smashes somebody against the wall, he sasses him but he also has this just great Inception moment, and it’s because we’re building to a big question about “who is Stan?,” I felt a moment of seeing him be kind of awesome further increases your “who is this guy?,” right? He keeps going back and forth between like “oh geez my back” and you’re like “all right that’s the Stan I know” and then like “whoa, he just did an awesome jailbreak! Is he some kind of super villain? Who is he really?”

Matt Chapman: And in Scary-oke early on too, you know, you get to see Stan—the street-fighter in Stan come out too.

Alex Hirsch: There’s more of Ford in Stan than I think Stan realizes. I think it only comes out in certain moments.

Stan’s badass moment in NWHS was, too, in service of his family, particularly one member: Ford. Stan needed to escape the agents, to ensure that the portal was fully activated and successfully brought Ford back. He needed to be there for Ford. The “Ford in Stan” that Alex mentions does come out when Ford himself was in (perceived) need of Stan.

If Ford’s bravery (or at least his suppression of fear) comes from focusing on his intellect, as he advised Dipper, Stan’s bravery comes from the opposite thing: focusing on his emotions, on his feelings for his family. Ford might be right about emotions being a weakness, but they are his weakness. They are Stan’s strength, in the same way their loved ones are Stan’s strength and Ford’s weakness.

At the end of the show, Ford learns that Stan has been so terribly brave and noble and saved the world for the sake of those feelings. That is part of the weight that Ford’s “You’re our hero, Stanley” carries.

Hopefully, by the end of it all, Ford has come to a place where, despite not regretting his previous mindset, he sees both emotions and people as a valid source of strength!

#ford pines #stanford pines #stan pines #stanley pines #stan twins #gravity falls #ford pines meta #stan pines meta #stan twins meta #gravity falls meta

235 notes · View notes

almostempty · 8 months ago

Text

too good to be true

(frankie morales x f!reader) | wc: 10k | other fics | Ao3

summary: frankie, a regular at your coffee shop, is there for you when your boyfriend joel breaks up with you and disappears practically overnight. despite not knowing each other long, frankie just seems to be perfect for you and you fall hard and fast

song inspo: can’t take my eyes off of you

warnings/tags: explicit smut, dark!frankie, stalker!frankie, dubcon, lies, deceit, coffee shop au gone wrong, bad bf Joel, abandonment issues, anxiety, breakup grief, sex to avoid processing emotions (yay!), face fucking, masturbation, crying, love bombing (aka emotional abuse), frankie doesn’t have a job bc he nefariously acquired a large cash settlement from his return trip to the jungle– or maybe he has a military pension idk don’t ask questions, revenge porn, jealousy, delusional reader, no y/n, unprotected sex with no consequences bc it’s fiction so it’s free to imagine it raw; f!reader is able-bodied otherwise, no specific descriptions; likely many mistakes and i accept that

update: i gave this a re-read bc i wanted it to be fresh before i carry on with part 2, and was paralyzed by the typos (kill me). the story hasn’t changed, but i’ve done some heavy editing to hopefully improve some of the flow and impact in certain scenes (there’s probably still mistakes)

You don’t remember meeting Frankie for the first time—only the feeling. How he slipped into your mind before your alarm even rang. How you sprung out of bed in the dark, already thinking of him. You remember the heat that rushed to your cheeks when you caught yourself grinning and waving at him before he’d even made it across the cafe to the counter.

Once he started visiting your coffee shop, he quickly became your favorite regular. He had an enticing mix of confidence and calm. Always polite. Always kind. Once you learned his order–dark roast in a for-here mug–you’d have it poured just as he approached the register.

He’d thank you with his deep morning voice and a smile that made his eyes crinkle before he’d slink away to find a table. He came in at the same time every morning, a man of routine, right when your rush would hit. Everything demanded your immediate attention–the screaming steam wand, the line that formed at the register, the whirring coffee grinder. Frenzied as it was, you’d sink into your own routine. A flow state, slinging drinks and greeting regulars as they trickled in with their suits and shiny hair.

It made the shift pass quickly, but you never had a quiet moment to start a conversation with the one man you looked forward to seeing. It wasn’t too busy to sneak glances at him though. Sometimes, he’d scroll through his phone, and you’d steal a moment to take in his features—wondering what, exactly, people read in a cafe before sunrise. Other times it was like he knew you were looking, his eyes would flit up, matching your gaze before you could play it off.

You would’ve denied it at the time–but when he caught you watching, the way he smiled back, unafraid to hold eye contact–it gave you butterflies. You wouldn’t acknowledge the meaning in that or admit to the daydreams that he sparked. It wasn’t anything real! And besides, there was nothing to it. You weren’t single, or looking. He was just a good looking guy that seemed to have manners and a pleasant attitude.

And, for some reason, that was refreshing. It wasn’t like you had time to get to know him anyway. There was never time for more than a quick good morning, or have a good day when he’d leave his empty mug at the end of the counter.

Until it changed.

He started slipping in the front door in the quiet dark of the morning, while the espresso machines were still warming up and you were stocking the display with fresh pastries. You’d slide the mug toward him and he’d stay at the counter while you finished setting up. His curls were still damp from his post-workout shower and you’d let your eyes linger on his neck, his shoulders, his arms between tasks or his eyes, his nose, and his lips between questions.

The conversation between you flowed so easily you’d find yourself buzzing around the cafe before you’d even had a sip of your own coffee. He’d share as you worked, giving you plenty to absorb as you cleaned and prepped. You learned about when he moved to town, how he lives in another neighborhood but kept coming back for the coffee and the atmosphere.

You learned that he’s single. Ex-military.

You laughed, flashing him a grin. “That explains everything,” you quipped.

“Everything?” he asked.

“You know,” you waved your hand at him like it was obvious, but he waited patiently for an explanation. “The routine? Up to workout at the asscrack of dawn, getting your coffee before half the city gets up for work. The manners and the whole...” You trail off before completing the end of that sentence.

Frankie tilted his head, something playful and knowing in his eyes. “I’ll concede to most of that, but my mamá raised me to have manners long before the military.”

As the mornings passed you learned more. Not just from what he shared, but from your own observations. He remembers details. He asks follow-up questions on Monday mornings about the weekend plans you shared on Friday.

Did you and your boyfriend see that movie you were thinking about?

Did you get to sleep in like you’d hoped?

Did he take you to the farmer’s market?

Did he like the recipe you wanted to try out?

It was sweet.

And infuriating.

Your stomach twisted. A man you barely knew remembered your plans, your throwaway comments, your interests. He saw you. He wanted to know you. The realization sank like lead, heavy in your chest, lingering long after he left.

In your heart, you knew it wasn’t intentional, but it stung when he’d ask about your plans. Every time you had to come up with an excuse for why they never happened. Poking holes in your relationship. And shining a spotlight on the disappointments that you’d been trying to sweep under the rug.

You carried that discomfort around like a parasite. It ate at you while you poured lattes and cleaned the ice machine. It soured your mood as you ran errands and walked home. And finally, it spilled over into your relationship.

As ugly as it was, you almost appreciated Frankie for picking at the wounds—forcing you to finally confront the truth with your boyfriend. Joel had been drifting away and you were afraid to acknowledge it. As if saying it outloud would make it true. But it already was real. The closer you tried to get, the farther Joel would run—emotionally. Well, maybe in other ways too.

He was slowly disappearing. Staying late at work instead of coming to yours, cancelling on your weekend plans, always too tired to fuck, generally just a bad-tempered brick wall rather than a boyfriend. All things considered, you thought addressing him directly would be the final nail in the coffin—but it wasn’t.

After some long and serious conversations that left you both exhausted at work the next few days, you’d come up with some strategies to reconnect. He’d agreed with you, acknowledging his own avoidance, and claiming he wanted to make changes.

It was working, too. You scheduled date nights. You sent flirty texts during the day—even if neither of you had time to respond right away. You assured him you’d rather see him for only an hour between him getting home late and you having to go to bed early than not seeing him at all.

On those nights, when he had long days that made his whole body ache, you’d give him a back massage. Straddling his ass, rubbing down his shoulder blades, kneading circles with your thumbs, and savoring the view of his broad back and the heat of his body beneath you.

It was meditative. Your touch dissolved his tension and his presence soothed your anxieties. Sometimes the rhythm and pressure would elicit low groans of pleasure from Joel. Each time it would ladle heat in your core. You’d do everything to find out what sounds he’d make for you.

Some nights, you’d keep going until you lulled him to sleep. But on your favorite nights, he’d roll onto his back, keeping you on top, watching you ride him until you were both slick with sweat and in need of a shower.

It’s those tender moments that make it hurt so deep now. Like the pain seeped all the way to your bones, threaded through all your muscles, and numbed your nervous system.

It makes you nauseous. Cycling through rage, shame, and something bleak and endless.

To know after everything that Joel could throw you away like this. That he didn’t even care enough to have a face-to-face conversation about it with you. He couldn’t give you closure. Just leaving you a note. A piece of paper. Here’s your memo letting you know he no longer requires your services. Barely longer than a postcard. He realized he can’t do it anymore. He can’t be a part of your life. He can’t do just friends. He’s sorry.

Fucking coward.

The letter is flimsy in your hand as you scan the words for the thousandth time. You’ve got it down by heart at this point, you re-read it just to confirm that it’s real. That you aren’t insane–or at least that you didn’t make up the note—or the whole relationship.

With a deep sigh, you slip the folded paper back into your apron pocket. It fits neatly. Your token. A reminder that this hell is your reality.

The tiled floor is unforgiving as you trudge back toward the front counter, plastering on your best customer service smile.

And of course. It’s fucking Frankie.

The wrinkle between his brow deepens before he makes it to the register. Are you that easy to read? You’re never going to survive this shift. You turn away from him, pouring the coffee in a daze until it nearly overflows. You dump the mug out and get a whole new one, forcing yourself to stop the tap before it’s a burn hazard. With one more blink you pray you’ve mustered enough strength to survive this interaction without another breakdown.

“Hey,” Frankie starts softly, as if he might spook you. “You doing okay?” Stupid big brown eyes. Just like Joel’s. They make you weak. You can’t be weak. Pulling your shoulders back you search for a defensive–no, confident–stance.

“Why? Do I look like shit today?”

“No, never,” he tries to reassure you. Unfazed by your prickly questions.

You swallow down a grimace. He’s too kind to you. Too good.

“Sorry,” you correct yourself, pushing the mug toward him. “I just mean, I would be surprised. I feel like shit.” The words come out grumbly and you drag a hand over your face annoyed with yourself.

“I take it he’s still gone then?”

Your head feels heavy as you nod back in agreement. It’s too much to see the concern in his round eyes; you linger on his mouth instead. It feels like a safer place to stare. Until it shifts into a frown.

“You deserve better, you know.” His voice is quiet. A confession only meant for you and his coffee to hear.

“Sure,” you sigh. Maybe he’s right. You deserve someone that could look you in the eye when they break up with you. Who could explain with more than a few scribbled sentences why they’d block you and disappear like a fucking ghost. Everytime you run through it, the details feel colder and colder. Harsher and crueler. Maybe you never really knew Joel at all. Not if he could do this to you.

Your still swollen face burns when your eyes begin to well up again. Anger flashes in your eyes—you’re so sick of the emotional whiplash. The lights in the cafe blur. Your pulse pounds, erratic and sharp. Questions race through your mind.

Were there signs the whole time that you missed?

Was it something you did?

Will you ever know?

“Hey,” Frankie murmurs, “breathe.”

It’s soft, but the timbre of his voice draws your attention.

“Breathe,” you repeat.

He places a hand on his stomach, modeling deep, slow breaths. Willing away the sobs, you copy him with only a few shudders interrupting the rhythm. The fresh coffee wafts into your nose, earthy and rich. Frankie’s broad chest looks solid, expanding steadily like he’s some kind of breathing guru robot. The thought makes you laugh, but the laugh almost cracks into another sob when everything rushes back in at once.

“Fuck,” you curse at yourself. “I’m sorry, I must seem pathetic. Or crazy.” You suck in a shaky breath, trying not to have a complete breakdown in front of a customer.

Frankie doesn’t waver. He assures you that he doesn’t think you’re losing it and you believe him.

Somehow, you get through the rest of the morning. And the next. Day by day, you crawl through the week. Fighting everything inside of you that wants to scream and decay in bed for the rest of your life. By the end of the week, all you’ve got left to cling to is that it’s your last shift before the weekend. It’s all you’ve got to keep your feet moving and your fake chipper morning greetings.

There’s no way you could do this another day. Dragging yourself through the motions like an undead barista. It’s survival. On edge, fragile and raw. You can finish this shift and then you’re free to spend the weekend indulging in your worst ideas. Wallowing, ugly crying, binge eating, anything.

Everything nearly comes apart when Frankie shows up with flowers for you.

It’s too much. Too sweet. Why does he care?

Your brows furrow, unreasonably skeptical of a kind gesture. You start to process what he’s saying to you through the fog. He wanted you to have something to cheer you up over the weekend.

It’s thoughtful. It’s an overwhelming gesture.

He thinks of you? He worries about you?

Then a sick voice slithers into your mind. Frankie makes it seem so easy. To notice you. To care. To make your life better. He makes you wonder if you aren’t hard to love.

The realizations hit like falling dominos. Too fast to stop. Too late to change course.

Frankie notices the way your eyes shine, tears threatening to roll down your cheeks. He apologizes, “If it’s too much, you don’t have to take them. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I definitely didn’t want to make you cry.”

The fear dies in your throat.

“They’re lovely, really.” Your eyes are round and wet as you blink sweetly at him. “Thank you.” You give him your warmest smile through your misty eyes.

You take the flowers home after your shift. They fit perfectly in the crystal vase that was collecting dust on your window sill.

You move them to the kitchen table where you can see them from your living room too.

And you stare at them all weekend.

Your favorite flowers. How did he know?

You stare and stare until they don’t look real anymore. And all you can think of is Frankie.

His reliable nature. His thoughtfulness. His kindness.

The qualities you thought you had found in Joel.

You let yourself embrace your agony for the weekend. Determined to make it through at least the first stage of grief. As if you can allot a number of hours to it and just check it off your list. Brute forcing yourself through the wreckage trying to re-emerge unscathed.

Your friends send texts checking in on you. Gratitude flickers in your chest but you don’t have the capacity to respond. To fake it or, worse, to be real. It feels wrong, but even though you can’t fathom the idea of talking to a friend, you’re drawn to the thought of Frankie. Knowing you’ll see him Monday morning. That he’ll check in, too.

And he does.

Dependable as ever, he shows up in the cover of darkness. You greet each other with raspy morning voices. The first words of the day, murmured just between you. It feels intimate. Special. Like something that belongs only to the two of you.

The thought sends warmth curling in your chest. You smile genuinely, for the first time in days.

You keep going to work.

Frankie keeps showing up.

The world keeps turning.

Soon you get to the point where you can fall asleep without having to exhaust yourself completely. Some mornings Frankie’s jokes make your ribs shake with laughter and some of the suffocating weight sloughs off of your chest. Rest begins to heal you. Frankie’s charm brightens your darkest days.

One afternoon, you’re dropping an armful of grocery bags onto the counter and your heart squeezes with an ache. The flowers Frankie gave you are starting to wilt. With one twitch of your hand and a shake of your head, you hesitate. You aren’t ready to toss them out. Convinced they’ve got another day in them, at least.

You sweep the fallen petals and pollen into your hand, then spin the vase to find the best angle left. The flowers may be fading, but Frankie’s presence has taken root in your mind and only grows stronger.

You lay in bed making mental notes. A joke about a show you both watch. A story from your walk home. A question you meant to ask but forgot—because you got distracted.

By things that shouldn’t be distracting. But are. The shape of his bottom lip. The curve where his neck meets his shoulder. The way his hands look wrapped around his coffee mug, fingers slow and steady, like he’s holding something delicate.

The way he smiles—wide enough to show his dimples—when you bicker over movies or the best takeout spot in town. You replay it. Again. And again.

You smile at your ceiling, telling yourself it’s harmless appreciation. Lying to yourself when you hope he finds his way into your dreams.

The next morning, your jaw drops–stunned. Fresh flowers. Frankie stands on the other side of the counter, holding them out like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s as if he knew. Like he heard through the grapevine that you hesitated to throw the old ones out. That you weren’t ready to let them go. That you didn’t want to lose the evidence of what he gave you

You squint at him, making a playful accusation. “How did you know?”

“It’s been a week,” he shrugs. “Figured it was time to refresh.”

A week. It feels like it’s only been a day, and at the same time, it feels like a whole month has passed.

It helps.

The following week is much of the same. Morning chats with Frankie. Busy shifts with rushes and endless cleaning tasks. Running errands, trying to keep in touch with friends, trying to keep yourself too busy and distracted to fall back into the sharp pain of loss. Of coming home to an empty apartment. Of waking up alone. Of the way Joel erased himself so completely from your life, you have to find tangible reminders that he was ever real.

You stop hoping Joel will show up with an apology. Stop waiting for a text. He won’t even hear you out—won’t answer a single question. You let go of the idea that any of this was a mistake.

There’s still a hole rotting in your heart, but if you stay busy enough, you can ignore it. Mostly.

You stick to your plan, steadfast that time will heal your wounds. Days pass, and you find yourself once again asking Frankie what he has planned for the day. But this time, he hesitates.

Frankie tells you he’ll be out of town for a few days. You aren’t sure why, but it feels like he jammed his fingers into that hole in your heart when he tells you. Don’t abandon me. Please.

He must see right through you.

“Here,” he says, holding out his hand. “I know it’s only a few days, but I was thinking I don’t want to miss out on your remarkably accurate reality TV predictions. You take the napkin with his number written on it. How old-fashioned. It makes your heart flutter. “Keep me updated.”

You swallow the butterflies and turn the energy into a smirk. “You’re so going to regret this,” you tease.

You feel lit from within, glowing and floaty for the rest of your shift. Getting the hot regular’s number gives you a rush. It’s not like he asked you on a date or anything, but still, it feels good to have someone want to keep talking to you.

Until you clock out and immediately start spiraling. Should you text him now just to give him your number? Wish him a safe trip? Play it cool and wait until tomorrow morning? Or maybe he’s busy in the morning? Shit. You never even asked what his trip was for.

……

It’s early afternoon when Frankie’s phone buzzes. He smirks. Your shift must have just ended.

You: it’s me! You: figured it’s only fair you get my number now, too

Frankie: Hey you :)

You: hey :) You: i hope the trip goes well

Frankie: Thanks, it’ll be better now.

You: how come?

He thought it would take longer. Thought you’d make him wait. You’re already reaching for him.

Frankie: Well, I just got this pretty girl’s number. Now I’ve got her updates to look forward to.

He exhales, stretching out on his couch. Maybe he didn’t need the ruse at all. You don’t need the absence to suck you in any deeper; you’re already moving on. Good.

He scans the apartment—bare walls, empty space. He needs to fix that. Needs to make it a place you’ll want to stay.

He checks the notes hidden in his phone of places you shop, your favorite color, the way your apartment is decorated. He already knows what you want. What you need. With that thought, he drifts off, satisfied, into a long nap.

He doesn’t wake until his evening alarm goes off, checking his phone to see what reality show you’re going to be glued to tonight. MILF manor. Who comes up with these? He rolls his eyes, stretching, yawning, and traipsing across his apartment to find some cold pizza in the fridge.

Holding one slice between his teeth and the other in one hand, he debates whether he should take a drive through your neighborhood or stay in for the night. His phone buzzes again, and he figures it’s a sign. He drops his pants near the hallway and scarfs his cold dinner as he settles back in the living room, unmuting the show and opening your messages.

You’re funny.

Sending quick-witted observations and callbacks.

You force him to pay attention. You’re sharp. If he doesn’t watch, you’ll know. You always call him out for missing the nuance. You challenge that he could predict the next winner if he paid closer attention.

When you get frustrated with him and huff about how he missed something completely obvious, he memorizes your expressions. The fire in your eyes when you’re passionate. You feel so deeply and express your emotions so freely.

He likes that about you. Funny. Smart. Bold. Passionate. Sexy.

Perfect.

He lets his mind wander as he leans back. The room glows from the light of the TV, flashing brighter and dimmer. The look on your face when he said he’d be gone for a few days pops into his mind, how your eyes flashed wide and the soft pout that tugged at your bottom lip.

You need him. It’s so clear. And you’re so perfect.

The show is just noise. Static.

He closes out of your messages. Opening up his photos. Scrolling through pictures of you. Some from social media, and some taken while you were working and unaware.

Perfect.

His eyes fall shut as he tips his head back, relaxed and comfortable as he sinks deeper into the cushion.

“Perfect lips, perfect mouth,” he mutters to himself as he sets the phone aside altogether.

It’s a simple but effective scene that plays out in his mind. A go-to fantasy since the day he first laid eyes on you.

He wedges his boxers down just far enough to free his half-hard cock. He tries to start slow, with languid strokes as he imagines the heat of your mouth sucking him deeper. The sight of you looking up at him with your lips stretched around him.

“Just perfect,” he groans to himself. He can’t hold back his urgency at the thought of you, quickly amping up the speed of his wrist and the strength of his grip. It’s minutes, or maybe seconds before his muscles are tensing and jerking as he comes to the thought of you.

It eases the tension, but he still needs you. Soon.

……

The rest of your week passes quickly.

Your head is in the clouds over your new texting buddy. You check your phone on all your breaks but send yourself into another spiral, trying to work out the balance between enthusiastic but not needy. Responding quickly, but not being too much. You don’t want to come off as crazy.

It fully absorbs your attention. The excitement and the anxiety. The rush when you get a new message and the anguish over every word you type. Rereading your messages until you get a response. Worrying yourself over your silly jokes and banter. But when he responds, it’s addictive. You’re smitten when he matches your energy or sends a flirty quip.

It makes you smile so hard your cheeks burn. You get distracted taking orders. It’s all-consuming.

………

Frankie keeps tabs on you the rest of the week. When you walk home from work, when you run errands, when you’re out with your friends. He picks up things for his apartment while you’re at work. At night, he drives down your block. He watches you watching TV. Until dark, then you diligently shut your curtains just as the last dregs of the sunset disappear.

Tonight, he lingers, still parked across the street from your apartment building. He sends another text, and his eyes flick to your curtains like you might open them back up just for him. You’re such a good girl for that, though–not letting anyone else watch.

Frankie: I’m back tomorrow. You have weekend plans?

You: that’s great! no plans for me

Frankie: You want to watch tomorrow’s episode together?

You: that would be fun!

Frankie: Perfect :)

………

You don’t know why you offered to host. Your place is a mess. Since Joel left, you’ve been letting your depression piles calcify. You shove your laundry into the washer, toss your unopened mail into a drawer, and do your best to make it look like you’re a fully functioning adult.

Something about having Frankie over has you feeling pent up.

You’re nervous. Excited. And you’re still unregulated and exhausted from the emotional devastation of Joel disappearing on you. You’ve been letting yourself sink into the distraction of making a new friend. A hot, new friend. But as helpful as the distraction is, you still haven’t really processed the pain.

Maybe it’s too soon to let yourself think about Frankie all the time. Maybe you need to really feel your misery and figure out what you missed. What you did wrong. No, even your body rejects that idea, sending a shiver of anxiety through you.

Fuck it.

You’re both single adults. There’s no rulebook that says you can’t entertain a new crush. So what’s the harm? You’re hoping that seeing Frankie in person will help you get clarity on the flirty vibe of his texts. Are they truly flirty, or are you just delusional?

You do your best to find a casual “just watching trash TV” type of outfit after your everything shower. You bought enough snacks to feed a high school football team, you know, just in case. You flutter around your space, hastily cleaning anything else you can think of, worried about details that only an evil in-law would scrutinize you for.

Despite your frenzy and feeling on edge all afternoon, the concern all seems to vanish when Frankie shows up at your door. You welcome him in and swoon a little over the fresh flowers he brought you. You still have some nerves that don’t relent, but they’re the smiley, giggly, butterfly type of nerves now.

As you get settled, it all feels surprisingly easy.

You make each other laugh. You offer your insane spread of snacks, and he settles next to you on your sofa before the episode starts. He appreciates all of your commentary and banters with you over your strongest opinions. It feels surprisingly natural to be spending time together like this. Without an espresso machine between you.

You’re taken with his presence. He balances you. Even when he debates your controversial takes and unpopular opinions, he doesn’t get worked up like you.

His calm demeanor is grounding. His nearness and steadiness relaxes you.

The stress let down makes your head feel heavy, and without thinking, you rest your temple against Frankie’s shoulder with a deep sigh. It feels comforting until you realize how forward you’re being and snap your head back up.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you blurt out, scooting away. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” he reassures you, voice soft and low.

He’s staring at you so intently. You feel the heat in your face, embarrassed at acting so comfortable with him and self-conscious under his gaze. You still don’t really know what he wants. And you don’t want to fuck anything up. But he doesn’t seem bothered. In fact, you swear his eyes drop to your mouth before they flick back up.

“More than okay,” he adds, and your stomach flips at his honesty. “Here,” he shifts and invites you to scoot under his arm. You get comfortable, resting your head on his chest.

You try to watch the TV, but you can feel Frankie watching you. It makes you restless and unable to think clearly. You peer up at him. It’s a charged look—maybe it was obvious all along, but you hadn’t felt confident enough to put the pieces together until now.

“What?” You whisper, unable to fight the smile pulling at your mouth.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs.

Uh oh. Your breath hitches, and something in you cracks. A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and you try to hide it, whispering thanks into his chest and looking down.

“Hey,” he tilts your chin to look up at him. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” you choke out, trying to will away the emotions that bubble up inside of you. “That’s really sweet of you.” You steady your breathing, slower and deeper. What is wrong with you? You expected something flirty. You didn’t expect something so.. heartfelt?

You slow your breathing. Frankie’s scent—clean, warm, steadying—grounds you.

But why? How does just breathing against him make you feel safe?

You can’t even think about safety. You can’t count on anyone else. What if he leaves out of nowhere, too? Your thoughts pick up, racing. Falling deeper into your anxieties. You aren’t even on a date; you shouldn’t be worried about this guy abandoning you.

Your fears eat at you, worsening your fragile state. Your body shakes gently as you try to breathe through the anxiety.

Frankie runs his hand along your back. He’s so warm, solid, and strong.

You must seem insane, your emotional flooding has you drowning now. He just keeps murmuring at you about how you’re okay, and he pulls you into his arms to give you a firm hug, regulating you. Fixing you.

When you lean back to apologize for crying on him, he shakes his head in disagreement.

“Don’t apologize,” he says it like he means it, like he won’t be taking questions or arguments. You sniffle as you do your best to accept that. “You still look beautiful,” he says, pulling you back towards him.

It’s everything you didn’t know you needed to hear.

Your face nestles against his neck, warmth pooling in your chest. You shouldn’t—should you?—but the way he breathes, slow and steady, so sure of you, makes you crave something grounding. Something solid. A shiver trails down your spine, and before you can second-guess, you press your lips to his neck. Frankie hums, deep and approving, fingers curling against your back.

You do it again.

The exact spot you’ve been so distracted by on so many mornings. His skin is soft and warm; you can taste your tears, wet and salty on your lips. You do it again before you freeze. What are you doing?

Frankie’s hand slips up the back of your neck, cradling your head in his warm palm. It feels like encouragement. You test your theory, pressing another gentle kiss to his jaw where his scruffy beard tickles your nose.

The TV might still be on, but all you can hear is your breathing and his. The sound of your lips against his skin. And the low-pitched noise in Frankie’s throat that urges you on. Provoking a needful fire within you. Intense and frantic. You nip at his ear before stamping open-mouthed kisses back down his neck, pulling back only to breathe hot and humid against his skin.

You hesitate, a frenzied desire has you wanting to straddle his lap and take more and more, but something makes you pause. Frankie knows. He feels your weight shifting and makes the move for you, pulling you onto his lap.

“I know,” he says as his large hands wrap around both sides of your jaw. “Keep going.” The encouragement pours over you like warm honey. Face to face, you wrap your arms around his neck. The last thread of your doubt snaps and you close the gap. Pressing your lips together. Softly for a second, before your mouths are parting and your tongues and teeth work fervently to express your desire.

Then it becomes a desperate blur, your fingers curling into his hair, tugging until he’s groaning into your mouth. His hands slipping under your shirt, hot against your skin, snaking back down to knead the curve of your ass while you roll your hips, grinding into his lap in search of friction.

You feel him hardening beneath you and a molten hot thrill radiates between your legs. There’s a raw quality to your movements as you bite at his lip, scratch at his shoulders, and whine with a frustrated edge.

You’re taking out all your emotional distress on him. Or, rather, you’re begging him to erase it all, to bite back harder, to use force, to dominate. You keep trying to use your body instead of words. Just teeth, nails, and needy writhing. Anything sharp, forceful, rough. An offering.

Tears still roll down your cheeks, hot with anger, anguish, and everything you can’t name. You aren’t interested in exploring your emotions. You need something more visceral.

You sit back, hands shooting towards Frankie’s belt, chasing more, when he stops you in your tracks. His hand possessively grips below your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

Your cunt throbs at the look on his face. The soft, gentle Frankie is gone. His face is hard and dangerous as he studies you. For some reason that makes you want him even more.

His fingers dig into your cheek eliciting a sharp inhale from you, parting your lips into a small “o” shape, before he releases you. You know you’re a mess. Teary, panting, wild-eyed–but his lips curl into a sinful grin. Reflexively you tilt your pelvis, drawing the heat of your core along the ridge of his erection.

Your eyes flutter shut, chasing sensation—until Frankie’s chest shakes with a dark chuckle. Condescending. Your hips still. You blink at him. The air thickens. The rest of the room fades. Your thighs tense.

“Keep going.”

It’s a demand this time, not an affirmation or encourager. His sinister smirk is gone, replaced by a frighteningly blank stare. His carnivorous eyes drop, watching your fingers as you work open his belt and jeans.

Shit. You can tell he’s big as you trace your fingers along his cock, over his boxers, savoring the heat in your palm. The damp fabric at the tip pleases you, and you peel the waistband down to reveal the glorious vision that has you wetting your lips.

“Shit,” you repeat out loud this time. A primal, hungry need possesses you as you admire his cock. The glistening head, thick shaft, and dark patch of curls at the base. Just the sight of him is intoxicatingly masculine and dominant.

You need him in your mouth.

You slink off his lap, sinking to your knees between his legs. Excitement flutters in your pussy and you feel like you’ve fallen into a trance. Your body moves faster than your mind, tugging at his jeans as he repositions at the edge of the couch.

“I know,” he mutters under his breath as you wrap your hand around the smooth skin. “I know what you need,” he continues. You can only hum in response. Preoccupied by the slip of your thumb dragging a trail of precome down along the underside of his cock.

He cups the back of your head, urging you to his tip with a commanding growl. You want to pout for not getting the chance to tease and savor the moment, but you don’t have the time when he slides past your lips and hits the back of your throat.

You choke, sputtering around him and pulling back. His hand encourages you to try again and you’re eager to take it like he gives it. Refocusing on controlling your breath, you look up to see the fierceness in his eyes on his otherwise blank face. A confusing mix of warning and excitement stirs in your core, making you squirm on your knees.

The discomfort makes something flicker across his face.

You try again, determined, like you’ve got something to prove. You pull his other hand to your cheek. Please lead. You catch the start of a smirk on his face before he’s guiding you once again. It makes your mind blank; all you can do is breathe and focus on relaxing your muscles. It’s a welcome release from stress. Grounding you in the present. You can only think as fast as he can glide along your tongue.

As you build a rhythm, he verges on brutal, but when you’re rewarded with the delicious sound of Frankie groaning because of you the intensity means nothing. Your eyes water as you refuse to gag out of sheer willpower. His thumb smears your tears across your cheekbone, and he pulls you off of his cock.

He takes in your swollen lips, ragged breathing, and wet lashes like he’s committing the details to memory as you catch your breath, before he’s tapping at your cheek. You open wide for him and he rests the head of his cock on your tongue, shallowly tipping you back and forth.

Your jaw could be aching or your knees may be digging into the rug, but it doesn’t matter to you. It’s much easier to meditate on the weight of his length slipping along your wet tongue. Centering yourself on that thought, your eyes flutter shut.

You wonder if this side of Frankie has always been lurking beneath the surface. Chillingly collected, but with something viscous bleeding into the edges. You wonder if maybe you’ve called to this part of him with the mayhem of your state of mind.

“Yeah,” Frankie rasps in his gravelly tone causing you to blink back up at him. You wonder if he can read your mind; if he was answering you. The hint of a smile remains on the corner of his lips when you look up, “Making you feel better already.” He’s presumptive but accurate.

You give a muffled affirmation that vibrates in your throat as he slides past your lips and you take him deep as he can be. All your senses are filled with Frankie when you inhale, when you swallow, when you blink. You give, pliant for him, trusting him with the control. You don’t care how obscene you look, tears rolling down your cheeks. You just want to hear what other sounds he might make for you. His thumb drags over your cheek again, wiping away the wet streaks.

“This is the only reason you ever cry for me.” Frankie’s voice is dripping with affection. And possession.

It makes everything foggy. The sentiment, the delivery, the authority. He doesn’t let you dwell on the unspoken commitment in his statement. Doesn’t give you the time to question him or spiral inward.

Your head swims until he pulls you up, strips you, and settles you back onto his lap. Some action movie autoplayed after your episode ended. The crashing and explosions of the chase scene in the background don’t ruin the moment, in a twisted way it’s almost a fitting soundtrack for the two of you.

You pull his shirt over his head, and time slows. The heat between you is nothing compared to his gaze. His grip on your hips is firm, guiding you closer. Dizzying.

You go entirely mindless when the head of his cock nudges your clit, gasping as it slides along your wet seam. It brings everything into focus. Greedily you reach between your bodies to guide him directly to your deplorably empty cunt.

“Oh, fuck,” your word turns to a groan as he breaches your entrance, and you tense at the stretch, holding still.

“Keep going,” he orders lowly, and you inch down until he impatiently takes control, slamming you down until you meet his hips. Your mouth hangs open at his move and the immediate fullness. His hardened look softens as your walls ripple and flex, adjusting to his size.

At least until you start moving, grinding against him, slowly at first. Then the sharp sternness returns. You’re unaware, chasing the friction as your clit rubs against the dark hair surrounding the base of his cock.

“Knew you’d be perfect,” he says it more like an I told you so to himself than praise for you, but the words affect you just the same. Your chest rises, swelling with pride, and you chase his approval instead of your pleasure.

You ride him until your thighs burn. His hands are everywhere. Rolling your nipples between his fingers, squeezing all of your soft curves, spreading your legs wider to watch where he disappears inside of you. You bounce eagerly for him, spine arching to draw his eyes to the way your tits ripple from the force of your body colliding into his.

You whine in disapproval when he interrupts you, pulling you flush against his chest, grazing his teeth along your neck. “Give it to me,” Frankie demands, his voice rough and raw, breath hot along your sweat-damp skin.

He runs his hand down your body, thumb circling your clit, adding the pressure you need. You edge closer and closer, body taut with anticipation. “Come for me,” he commands. It’s his authority, his gravelly voice rolling through you, that launches you into a shuddering release.

Frankie continues talking while you’re disoriented by the overwhelming pleasure. “For me,” he grunts through clenched teeth as your pussy contracts around him. “I know that’s what you need.” You can only moan as you cling to his broad shoulders. “Only me.”

You figure he’s just rambling until he grabs you by the jaw again, demanding you respond. Demanding you repeat it for him. And you do. With glassy eyes and you mutter his words back to him. Declaring you only come for him. That you need him.

Your words unlock something within Frankie. “Good,” he approves. “Good girl.” He praises you gruffly as he holds you steady, pounding into you with an untamed strength. You’re floating, starry-eyed and soft headed at his praise. Murmuring sentence fragments and his name, conjuring throaty grunts from Frankie until he stills, coming deep inside of you. “Only me,” he echoes and you confirm.

“Only you.”

In your unguarded state, it’s a welcome commitment. Maybe you haven’t had any real dates yet, but he knows you. He wants you. He tells you he wants to take care of you, and that feels fucking good.

You collapse against his chest, matching his breathing. The movie playing behind you reaches a tragic twist, setting the third act in motion and solidifying the protagonist's dark path. You run your tongue along the column of Frankie’s throat as the score of the film hangs unresolved on a dissonant chord. He pulls you to his lips, kissing you possessively and captivating you.

Your bodies flow, connected and attuned. In his lap, in his arms, with his tongue slipping between your lips, you feel wanted. Assured. Content to accept that he knows what you need.

And he’s unrelenting. Determined to prove it to you. Again and again.

All night. On the couch, in the shower, in your bed.

Until the night bleeds into the morning and he doesn’t disappear.

You take turns waking and watching one another sleep. Reassuring yourselves this is real.

Until the sun heats your room and you find yourself curled into his broad frame. His chest to your back as he draws his fingers down the dip and swell of your waist and hip.

“Did you mean it?” you ask, in a strikingly solemn tone for the soft setting. Breath shallow as you stare off toward the window. Not ready to turn and face him in the daylight.

“Every word.” He punctuates his affirmation with a tender kiss behind your ear. His reassurance satisfies you; warmth blooms from your chest spreading to your fingers and toes.

You spend a lazy Sunday together. Eating, laughing, fucking, and gazing at each other like lovesick teenagers. It’s too sweet to end. Instead, you become inseparable, taking turns staying at each other’s places until you have to go back.

The world feels bright again. Lighter.

He’s paid such close attention. Almost suspiciously perfect. Your favorite takeout. Your favorite movies. Fresh flowers, always.

Somehow, you can never get enough of him. You think about him all day at work, even though he still visits you every morning like clockwork. Your heart swells when he meets you at the end of your shift to walk you home.

You find yourself canceling your happy hour dates with friends to stay in with Frankie instead. Postponing and rescheduling, you’ll see them soon. It’s like there aren’t enough minutes in the day to get your fill of Frankie.

You need him constantly—his mouth, his hands, his cock, anywhere, everywhere. You’re never too much. He always wants more. It's a mutual obsession. The two of you feed off each other, dark and insatiable. He frees the parts of you you’ve never let loose. Takes what he wants. Gives you what you need.

With your head in the clouds, all you can see is how much he cares about you. He texts you whenever you’re apart, picks you up after your shifts, shows you off to his friends.

You barely have to do anything for yourself. He’s always thinking of you, predicting your needs before know them yourself. He picks up your mail for you, runs errands before you get home, and stocks his apartment with all of the products you use and love so you don’t have to go home for days at a time.

Things are so good that it’s rare when something goes wrong.

But when it does, it really fucking hurts.

When you get into an argument, a real one, he doesn’t fight with you. He leaves, swiftly and without another word. He doesn’t respond to your texts or calls. It feels like you’ve been torn in half; you sob and shake alone in your bed until your alarm blares and your headache throbs.

He doesn’t respond the following day, doesn’t come in for coffee, and doesn’t show any signs of existing. You move through your shift like a hollow corpse haunting the cafe. Time drags agonizingly slowly.

Every time the door opens your eyes snap towards the entrance, hoping to see the familiar curls and broad shoulders, but it’s not him. You restart your phone just on the odd chance there’s something wrong with it. He wouldn’t abandon you. He knows that would destroy you.

The void in your chest is cold and dark. Anger simmers somewhere inside of it, but it’s not strong enough to set you off. When Frankie shows up at the end of your shift, the anger is snuffed out completely. His presence immediately erases your heartbreak, and suddenly you’re apologizing before he even gets a word out.

You have to. He has to know you wouldn’t do anything to make him leave. He can’t. He’s calm, accepting your apology and taking you home where he erases your pain. With his hands, and mouth, and cock. Until you forget what the argument was ever about, and what it felt like to watch him walk away. Until it’s back to normal.

Every day you rely on him more and more; you can’t breathe without him. But when he’s with you, everything feels easy. Right.

Not many things can throw the two of you off. Your friends seem happy enough for you, despite their questions and insistence that you come out with them more often. You get along well with Frankie’s friends. They’re quick witted and welcome you genuinely.

They treat you like family, but it doesn’t stop Frankie’s jealousy from flaring up. If Benny smiles at you for too long or if you rest a hand on Will’s bicep when you laugh it only takes minutes before Frankie’s fingers dig into your arm and he whisks you away.

It gives you a perverse thrill every time.

When he folds you over the bathroom counter at his friend’s house. Demanding you watch in the mirror as he reminds you with a fierce snarl and devastating thrusts that you’re his. When you can still hear his friends horsing around outside, but he pounds into you with such force, you can’t quiet yourself. He slaps a hand around your mouth to silence you, growling into your ear that you’ll take it quietly, like a good girl.

Sometimes you aren’t even sure what triggers him.

Like when he fucks you against the side of his SUV in the parking lot of the trendy bar Benny had invited you both to. All you can piece together is Frankie muttering something about your dress as he yanks the top of it down letting your tits spill into the cool night air. He’s reckless and animalistic, claiming you roughly under the stars and streetlights before you can even get into the car let alone through your front door.

…..

Tonight, you both know exactly what got under his skin. Maybe not the why of it all, but he’s sure you know how he feels, and he wants to hear you say it.

It started this afternoon. He picked you up from work, like usual, and you chatted in the car as he drove to the grocery store. You sighed, tiredly as you recounted an exchange with a rude customer. Frankie pulled your hand toward his mouth kissing the delicate skin on your inner wrist.

Predictably, you light up. Like a flower turning toward the sun. Knowing your buttons doesn’t dull the intoxicating effect you have on him, though. He loves how easily you brighten for him, how it only deepens his conviction. That he is exactly where he should be. That everything he does for you is right. That he knows exactly what you need.

You led him through the aisles, chatting, doubling back for something you forgot. You darted ahead, laughing—

Frankie stopped in his tracks.

Your laughter is cut off.

“What the fuck?” Your voice was quiet, disbelieving.

Joel. Walking past you, bouquet of flowers in hand. He didn’t even look at you.

You called his name, again. Louder. He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t turn. Just kept walking, bouquet in hand, like you never existed.

Frankie grips your wrist, watching your face as emotions flicker—shock, confusion, something darker. He doesn’t give you time to process.

“We’re going,” he says.

“I didn’t know he even lived here still,” you remarked.

He doesn’t. The possessive fire tore through Frankie’s veins. “We’re. Leaving.” he commanded in a low tone that made your eyes flare wide.

“What?”

“Now.”

“We can’t ditch our groceries.”

“Nobody’s gonna stop us, baby.” He argued, as he all but carried you out the door, ushering you in a blur to his car and all the way home.

Frankie moved swiftly and silently. Wholly consumed by the need to feel you writhing underneath him and crying out his name. He needed it so viscerally, he didn’t even have time to process how he was going to deal with Joel.

Until you’re breathless and shuddering beneath him. Repeating everything he wants to hear.

“Only for you,” you repeat as you rake your nails down his shoulder blades and the plane of his back.

“Again,” he demands. You don’t know if he wants you to keep talking or to come again, but both are inevitable at this point.

“I’m yours,” you pant, wrapping your legs around him as if you could pull him any deeper inside of you. He shifts slightly, angling your hips and your cunt clenches around him pulling him devastatingly close to the edge as you moan his name.

He stills and you whine in protest as Frankie stretches past you to pick his phone up off the bedside table. “Keep going,” he orders as he points the lens at you. He needs you to say it again. He adjusts to resume his pace, snapping his hips into causing your lips to part with another moan.

“I’m yours,” you repeat, “all yours.” He gives you a dark smile as he records you. Capturing all the lewd, wet sounds as he drives his cock into you, the euphoric smile that spreads on your face, and the words you know he always wants to hear.

“Mine,” he agrees.

……

You don’t see Joel again. And you don’t have time to dwell on the encounter anyway. Frankie keeps you busy and satisfied, and even surprises you by asking you to move in with him officially. Maybe it feels soon, but you spend nearly every day together anyway and the idea delights you.

It’s an easy transition. You downsize some of your duplicate appliances, joking with him about how he must have great taste for having so many of the same products. He admits that you inspired a few of his purchases.

You settle into a routine quickly, not much changes.

Some mornings, before sunrise, as you slip out of bed for your shift, you wonder if any of this is real. If someone can really care about you this deeply. But by the time you’re showered and dressed, Frankie’s lips are on yours. Sleepy. Warm. Familiar. By the time you’re in the car, you forget the question entirely.

You let your gaze linger this morning. Trailing along his profile as he drives, admiring all the details that you used to wonder about from the other side of the counter. His neck, those arms, his hands, those lips. They’re illuminated in flashes as you pass under the streetlights.

You catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He always knows when you’re looking. He rests a hand just above your knee. He always knows what you need.

An idea takes root, and you do everything not to smile and give yourself away. It’ll take a few days to organize. He’s almost impossible to surprise.

……

By the end of the week, Frankie’s on autopilot. Kicking off his shoes and pulling his sweaty shirt over his head before he lopes towards the ensuite for a shower. He only makes it a few strides before he’s on edge, noticing the lights he didn’t remember leaving on. He hears your voice. Relief and confusion twist together in his chest. How did you get back here before him?

Walking into the bedroom you are a sexy surprise wrapped in red lingerie he’s never seen you wear before, but something is wrong. Your shoulders are curled inward, your cheeks are wet, and you’re hastily tying up your matching red satin robe.

He scans the room, swallowing thickly when he notices the open closet door and the missing box on the shelf.

He calls your name softly.

“What the fuck is this, Frankie?” your voice shakes. Wavering between fear and anger.

You hold up his phone. Well, his other phone. Shit.

…..

“Answer me,” you beg. Desperate to understand how you went looking for the box with fuzzy handcuffs and instead found a phone with a new message from a number you still recognized.

Your heart is pounding in your chest and when he takes you into his arms you flinch. You want to shove him off of you. Despite your hostility, your body is still drawn to his. He always knows what you need. In his arms your heart feels tethered to his, like they could merge through the proximity of your rib cages. Like they beat for each other.

“You trust me, right?” he asks.

“Explain, please,” is all you can whisper.

“It was to keep you safe,” he starts.

“From what?”

“To protect you. Joel wasn’t good for you. He couldn’t take care of you. Not the way you deserve.”

“How would you know?” it’s still not making sense to you.

“You told me.” He’s so self-assured. Like, he’s always right. Like, he can’t even imagine why you’d be upset right now. “I did it for you,” he adds.

“Did what?” you need him to say it out loud. You need him to fix this.

“I know you thought Joel was trying, but he was only going to drag it out. Disappoint you over and over. Can you imagine what it would’ve been like for me? Having to watch you go through that?”

You don’t answer.

“I couldn’t watch. I made him an offer, but he’s a stubborn man.”

You snort quietly at that understatement. Nobody tells Joel what to do.

“I just had to find the right leverage.”

Frankie holds you so tight, you can’t wriggle around to look him in the eyes.

“He couldn’t give you what you need, not like I can. I know what you need. And, think of how fast you got over him anyway. You were mine all along.”

You’re lightheaded. From the shock of finding the evidence. From his words. From the way you believe him. You want to sit down. You tap at his arms insistently, begging against his chest, but he keeps talking. His deep voice rumbling in your ears.

“You wouldn’t have understood it then. I had to keep it from you to protect you. So we could have this. What we have now.”

He’s not listening to you. Not letting you go. You snap.

“Let go of me!”

“You have to understand first.”

“I’ll listen,” you plead. “Just let me breathe.” He lets you step back, but doesn’t release you from his grip. His hands are glued to your arms. He waits, steady and chillingly calm.

The pieces slam into place. The unanswered questions. The way Joel vanished. Oh, God.

“I thought he just left,” you whisper to yourself.

“He did,” Frankie argues.

“I thought he didn’t want me,” you continue.

“He didn’t. Not the way that I want you.”

Something cold trickles down your spine and you look at Frankie. For a moment he’s a complete stranger. Your stomach sinks and your vision spins. Slamming your eyes shut, you filter through your racing thoughts.

It wasn’t fate that led you into Frankie’s arms.

You wound up crying on his cock by design, trying to fuck away the pain of a heartbreak that wasn’t even real. You’ve fallen into a whole new life, while the man you had loved may have never stopped loving you back?

“You blackmailed Joel Miller?”

“Technically, it’s extortion.”

Your hands tremble as you grip the phone. The air feels thinner, your chest too tight. The numbers on the screen blur, but you still recognize them.

The texts. The sent video.

The video.

Your stomach lurches. Your mouth opens, but no words come out. Frankie watches you, patient, expectant. Like he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s all there on the surface. Exposed between the two of you. Who Frankie really is. Cunning and competent. Devoted and dangerous. Possessive and powerful.

“It worked, until he came to town for someone’s engagement party.”

“When we saw him at the store?”

Frankie nods.

“And then you sent him the video we made that day.” The words fall from your lips as the reality sinks in.

“Hearing it from you seemed to do the trick. He knows you’re mine and you only want me.”

Frankie gives you time to study him. Absorbing the information. The gleam in his dark eyes. The same eyes from when he would visit you at work. Just as fierce and just as earnest.

You’ve always known him for his true self. He’s been yours since he first laid eyes on you. And he knew you needed him.

“And you did it… for us.”

“For you.”

You can see it plainly on his face. He’d do it again and again to have you. Because you’re his. It’s all you ever wanted. It has to be wrong, but it’s the hottest thing anyone has ever done for you.

You push him onto the bed, straddling him without a second thought. Instinct. Need. He’s already hard beneath you.

"You’re sick," you whisper, breath hot against his skin.

Frankie grins. "You make me fucking crazy."

Your mouths collide, hungry, desperate, perfect.

dividers by @/cyberangel-graphics

General tags 💗:

@lovely-vamp-princess

@gothcsz

@auteurdelabre

@adoreyouusugar

@swankyorange

@itwasntimethatdidit40 tags for folks who seemed interested when i shared a lil wip about it (aka no worries tags)

@hoelaris @punkseyes @ace-turned-confused @magneticecstasy @lotusbxtch

@bitchesuntitled

@baronessvonglitter

@thundermartini @milla-frenchy

#frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal smut #ppcu fanfiction #frankie morales x f!reader

596 notes · View notes

sophiethewitch1 · 1 year ago

Text

What We Want - Chpt. 6 - Round Two. Fight!

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

Damn. Your indulgent TV stalking of the Wayne’s really doesn’t hit the same once you technically knew them. And you were hiding inside one of their bedrooms, inside one of their clothes, using their TV subscription. It just didn’t feel right. Morally, of course, but that wasn’t what you were talking about. No, you were just pissy your favourite pastime was basically ruined. You shovel another spoonful of cookie dough ice cream into your mouth, glaring through tired eyes at the screen.

There’s an up-close shot of Dick Grayson’s abs. The presenter ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over his physical form, and you have to agree. You wish you had abs like that. Unfortunately, you did respond to most unwanted experiences with stress eating. As always with these celebrity figures, you can’t really tell if you want to be Dick or be with Dick. Your butt is nowhere near the level his is at.

While you hadn’t really set out today looking for shirtless pictures of the Waynes, it wasn’t like you were going to say no to them. So, when the gossip channel had switched from the reactions of the Waynes to last night’s fiasco to… this… you’d just kept watching.

You wonder if you should stop doing this. It’s definitely kind of creepy, and now you’d technically once been his… step-sister. What a mind fuck. You’ve been crushing on these dudes for a while, and now they were your ex-step siblings. This was like the start of a bad porno, but you knew you were not that lucky. And it wasn’t like you were going to start thinking of him as a brother any time soon. You hadn’t even met the guy. No, he was still firmly in the ‘celebrity crush’ section of your mind. Pretty and untouchable. The way things are supposed to be.

Which was also bad because you would probably have to meet and interact with him at some point. Probably in the near future. God knows you’d absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the fucking Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne,. Twice, in fact. You didn’t even want to think about the display you’d shown for Bruce Wayne or Damian Wayne.

You didn’t really know what to do with your slightly obsessive crushes. And you could see it definitely being a problem in the near future.

…You decide that what you do in your private time is absolutely nobody but your business, and keep watching. It’s a mix of bitter spite and genuine mental breakdown levels of desperation that leads you to that decision. You feel like you’re a child with their toy being taken away, and it’s making you mad. And sad too. Even if you shouldn’t do this anymore, you still want to keep the habit. You’d mentioned before your creature comforts were one of the few things that kept you going. And while you were mostly very good at not being the jealous, heinous creature you really are, you knew you wouldn’t be giving this up.

They’d have to tear your gossip channels from your cold dead palms. You weren’t giving them up, not without a fight at least. Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed determined to wrestle away literally everything you loved.

Guilt’s for tomorrow. Today is for ice cream and purposefully ignoring everything. Speaking of which, you can not remember the last time you had a good Ben & Jerry’s. They were so expensive these days, as all groceries were. You simply couldn’t afford it. The Waynes, of course, had multiple tubs in multiple different options. Alfred had seemed delighted that you’d taken the ice cream, for which reasons you could not perceive.

Oh, yeah! His name was Alfred. Very butler-y. You’d remember it this time, he was a very nice man. And he called you ‘young miss’ which earned him points. He also didn’t seem to hate you on sight or treat you like a two-headed freak, like some of the other people in this household. Not naming names. Yeah, fuck that noise, Damian Wayne obviously has issues and it’s much less attractive in real life.

The woman drones on, and your eyes flick to your phone. Yup, she’s still yapping. It’s not like you don’t appreciate Dick’s abs or anything, it’s just that you think she might’ve been talking about this one specific photo for over half an hour now. Lady should get a hobby. Wait, wait, this is her job. Maybe you should start a podcast where you rant about the Wayne’s exercise regimes. It seems to be quite a lucrative field.

You shriek when the door slams open, nearly tumbling backwards off the bed. Hands manage to grip the bedcovers before you tip over, not making a complete fool of yourself. As it goes, you lose your spoon to the carpet. Bits of cookie dough spread over the floor in a divine sacrifice. And you lose your sanity to the man standing in the doorway. To be fair, he looks just as confused as you feel.

You blink at the physically perfect form of Dick Grayson and then turn your head to the TV to look at the other physically perfect form of Dick Grayson.

…You really wish you had a good explanation for this.

He mutters out your name, lips parted. Dick Grayson seems absolutely shocked to find you here. His eyes flick around the room and eventually land on the TV. Said baby blues widen to the size of saucers when the reporter makes a really, really unnecessary comment.

“And in news that broke the hearts of both ladies and gentlemen everywhere in Bludhaven, Dick Grayson has announced he will be returning to Gotham to assist his family in this difficult time. My cousin in the Blud is probably crying right now. There’s no ass out there quite like his, and there’s no replacement for Bludhaven’s favourite young rich bachelor,” she winks at the camera, and then the shot of his toned stomach phases forward to take up the entire screen.

Well, there’s a lot to say about that. First of all, fuck. Second of all, shit. Third of all, she really couldn’t have said that part about Dick coming back to Gotham sooner? Perchance, before you’d found yourself in this situation?

You said you weren’t that lucky, you meant it.

“But still, ain’t that lucky for us Gothamites? I myself have spent a lot of time on Dick’s Tiktok and Instagram, and his acrobatic videos have been used in a lot of my personal-”

You snatch the remote from the sheets and pause it right there. The silence is tense. You wait for him to say something, but he just stares at you. Completely stunned, mouth-catching flies. You want to pull the covers up and hide under them, but you don’t think that’d make him leave.

“I couldn’t find my room,” you finally manage to say. It’s the worst excuse you’ve ever heard, sounds like a complete lie. And yet, unfortunately, it is the truth.

Dick’s eyes drift to the TV, which you still haven’t unpaused. You can’t tell if it would be worth it, just to get rid of his golden brown abs staring at you judgementally, even if you’d have to deal with the extra embarrassment of the dialogue over them. Maybe if you muted the TV? It wouldn’t make up for the insult of his paparazzi photos on a widescreen.

It takes you even longer to come up with an excuse for… that.

“I was checking the news about last night,” you continue, the panic in you rising like a tea kettle left on the stove for too long. You might start shrieking like one too.

You don’t think he believes you. He looks down at the Beatles shirt you’re wearing. You know what he’s going to say before he does, but you still dread it.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” he mutters, his voice awed.

You want to say, ‘Nooo! No, no, no! Don’t do this to me, damn it! Not anymore! No more, please! It’s enough, enough suffering! This is genuinely ridiculous, damn you!’ but instead you reply with a shaky, “…Didn’t have any of mine.”

Also, you’ve been huffing Eau de Dick Grayson? That’s definitely in character for you. You want to beat your own head in with a stick.

“And I couldn’t find my room, and uh, thought this one wasn’t being used,” you continue, daring a glance back at him. He still looks completely stumped.

“It wasn’t,” he answers, but it sounds like he’s a thousand miles away.

You know, Dick Grayson was supposed to be a lot more charming than this. You’re almost proud you managed to stun the man into near speechlessness. Almost, almost. Almost not going to kill yourself once he leaves.

If he leaves. He doesn’t look like he’s getting up. You eye the gap between you and the door. Your animal brain is telling you to just run for it. But Dick has Olympic level athletics, and you don’t doubt he could catch you if you ran. Would he try though? That’s the deciding factor here.

He doesn’t seem like he’s actually going to fucking do anything though. He just keeps staring, like if he looks for long enough, it’ll all start to make sense. Which, you wish.

“Do you know where my room is? I couldn’t… remember…”

He nods, instead staring at his own abs on the TV.

“Can you take me to my room?”

He nods again. Still doesn’t look back at you.

“…Mr. Grayson?” you say, and almost immediately regret it. ‘You’ wouldn’t have used his last name, even though you might’ve. ‘You’ had been a casual person, as far as you could tell. That was the kindest way you could say it, at least.

His head snaps to you. He somehow looks more confused. You wonder if you should pinch him or something, god knows you’ve done your fair share of pinching yourself recently.

“Yes, right, sorry. Let’s… go,” he gives you a cheery smile, shaking his head, but it seems quite strained. You’re probably matching. This is the most humiliating moment of your life, and of course, it’s with the most beautiful man on earth right beside you.

A break. You want a break.

The two of you quietly shuffle out of the room, and when he guides you forward, you follow him obediently. Your head naturally bows, shame making it hard to look at him. You stare at the wooden floors as you walk. Watching it shine in the morning light that filters through the windows.

Eventually, he comes to a stop in front of a door that has obviously been avoided. Though it’s as clean as every other inch of this house, there are no marks in the rug from the door opening and closing. And even then, it seems… well, it sounds silly, but the door seems sad to you. Too many things seem sad to you these days.

Your thoughts must show on your face because Dick clears his throat and gives you a worried look. Is it rude to say you’re sick of those sorts of looks? That they just make you feel sick and burdened these days? It’s not like you could bring your family back from the dead, or convince your cheating boyfriend to not be a piece of shit. It was out of your hands.

“…Are you alright?” he asks you, blue eyes sincere. You tilt your head to the side.

“No?” you say, but it sounds more like a question. No, you are not alright. Yes, you will be okay. It’s the only option. It’s one of your rules. You have to be okay. You just have to.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You almost laugh.

“No,” this time your voice is firm, confident. Dick seems like he’s going to push it, but something in your eyes makes him stop. You give him a forced smile and say goodbye, closing the door gently in his face. Once you do, you crouch down and once again, press your face to your knees. Then you press your hands to your mouth and let out a scream that had been bubbling up for a while. After that, you feel you can live with the humiliation that is your existence without jumping out the three-story-height window.

You stand up, turning to the room. The first thing you notice about it is that there’s dust in here. Same as Dick’s old room. Now that you think about it, Alfred doesn’t seem the type who’d randomly leave certain rooms uncleaned, so it must be something he does out of respect for the tenants of Wayne Manor. Or maybe the old you requested it? God knows.

Sitting down on the old bed, your eyes rove around the room. It’s well decorated, as the rest of the manor is, but you can’t see anything that would make it your room. There’s none of the novels you’d collected from the used books store, no dorky little items you impulse bought, no pictures of your family. The apartment hadn’t had those either.

‘You’- she- seemed like a ghost to you. While you’d often felt like you’d barely been alive, simply going through the motions, this girl seemed like she hadn’t even been conscious half the time she was doing it. It made your stomach swim, your face pulls taught.

While you’d had few things holding you afloat, it’d been enough to keep you alive. Molly, your co-workers, the need to work so as to not starve to death. She hadn’t had anything like that. No liferaft. You’d been sputtering and gasping your way through life, and she’d been drowning. Maybe already dead, at the bottom of the sea, hair tangling with the seaweed.

This room feels like a coffin, and this manor like a cemetery. It makes you physically sick.

Showing off your fickle-mindedness, you realise that despite this being the Wayne manor filled with all your idols, you actually don’t want to fucking be here. You need space to clear your head, and the creaking floorboards that echo down the creepy hallways just don’t offer that. The atmosphere at your too-modern, too-minimalist apartment is leagues better than the atmosphere at this gorgeous old house which you’d usually love spending hours getting lost in.

Usually. Unfortunately, this place was more suffocating than the workplace when you knew you were about to get fired again. And you weren’t getting paid to stay here, so why the fuck would you?

Once you realise you’ve decided to run, you’re quick to pack up your shit. There’s not much in the room you need. A pair of sneakers, because you would rather die than put those heels on again. And you’ll grab some shirts because they’re comfy and remind you of home. Hopefully, it’ll make everything… grate… a little less. All of this is thrown in an old ratty backpack, which is then tossed over your shoulder. Shoes slipped on, and tapped against the floor so they’re on comfortably. And then you’re ready. Ready as you’ll ever be. With one hand on your phone, you take a peek outside the door. Coast is clear.

You press call for ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’. Jeanine picks up on the third ring.

“Hello, Jeanine Ryans here,” she says, her voice all business.

“Jeanine, I need an evac, stat,” you whisper to her, creeping down the hallway of the manor. The floor is unbelievably creeky, so it’s pretty fucking difficult to be stealthy about it.

“…What?”

“Get me out of this fucking manor, please,” you beg, now going down the stairs. Almost out, almost out.

“Right, on it. I’ll have a car outside in ten minutes if that’s alright?” Jeanine replies, immediately on the case. It almost makes you cry. You know she’s being paid for this, and very desperate for the job for some reason, but it’s still a hail mary that you are so grateful for.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” you say, turning a corner and-

Oh, fuck. Damian Wayne glares down at you, green eyes cataloguing every single guilty piece of you in existence. He sees your hand tighten around your backpack, hears Jeanine telling you not to worry through your phone, and probably notices the way your eyes desperately flicker behind him to the door. To your goal, to the exit to this labyrinth.

You can practically hear the wind blowing, see the tumbleweed drift by.

And then, he moves past you, twisting his body so no part of it touches you. There’s a moment where your brain freezes, something spicy smelling (cinnamon, maybe?) flowing past you, and by the time you turn around, he’s gone. Your deer-in-headlights tensed-shoulders look falls, leaving you confused in the foyer. He didn’t even say a word to you. You felt like you just got passed over by a boss from a Dark Souls game.

…Well, you’ll take the wins where you can find them! Quickly, you hurry out the front door, skittering down the steps like some sort of rat. It’s a long walk to the gates, and you don’t really know how to open them to let the car in, so you decide to take your time and enjoy the walk. The early morning dew apon the clean-cut blades of grass glint and sparkle, the gravel on the road crunches under your technically-not-stolen sneakers, and even if it’s a miserable life, it’s a pretty day. From the hill the manor lives upon, you can see Gotham’s tall skyline, cloaked in its characteristic fog.

Eventually, you find yourself in front of the gate, where you can see Jeanine waiting with a black car on the otherside. There’s a big green button next to the side gate, which you press, and it clicks open. There’s a moment where your neck tingles, and you glance up at the camera pointed down at you. The red flickering light beside it holds your attention. You can see your bedraggled reflection in its lense.

Shaking your head, you move on, greeting Jeanine. She gives you a quick bow of the head and opens the door for you. You hike the bag over your shoulder, give the Wayne manor one final, lingering look and then you step into the car. Jeanine starts speaking to you about some future appointments you have, and you’re too tired to understand a word of what she says. She realises you’re not processing anything she says, and hands you a pair of headphones with a wire adapter.

You could kiss her right then and there. You don’t because that’d be weird, but you definitely think about it. Headphones on, you watch the rolling hills and luxurious manors turn into highways and honking traffic, to finally the upside part of town which was now apparently where you lived.

Eventually you find yourself being delivered in front of your swanky new apartment. With a passing goodbye, Jeanine tells you that she’ll be busy for the rest fo the day so if you need anything to call the number on the card she hands you. You tuck it in your pocket, certain you’ll lose it like every other business card you’ve ever been handed.

The elevator ride up to your room is contemplative. The music is boring, your reflection is bedraggled and tired, and the gentle feeling of gravity under your feet tugs at you. You rock slightly when you finally reach your floor. The doors open, but you don’t make any move to leave. They shut again, and you’re left staring daggers at your mirrored self.

You’d woken up, still here. It wasn’t a dream. It was reality. And more than that, it seemed more and more like you’d be staying in this reality. You didn’t think you could go home. Sure you were rich but… but your home. Your few things you’d managed to save. Your meagre group of friends and your hard-sought job. It made you nauseous. Where had you lost it all? Why were you here now? Why did you keep having to lose everything?

You manage to snap yourself out of it before someone else calls the elevator. Striding out of the space, you look to the right where you remember your apartment coming from. It’s not hard to find the unit, as there are only three on the entire floor. Rich people.

The door closes with a satisfying thud behind you, and you nearly melt with exhaustion.

This apartment is the ninth circle of hell for you. Scrambling around on your knees, you’re desperate to find the damn phone that won’t stop ringing. You can’t understand where the sound is coming from.

Under your bed? You shine your other’s phone’s light under it. Nope. Behind the dresser? Nada. You search inside the drawers and then peek inside the fancy lamp. Absolutely nothing. You’re ready to tear your hair out when you spot something… odd.

There’s… You think there’s something stuck in your floorboards. You dig at the space with your fingernails and the piece of wood pops open. Inside is… a cardboard box. An awfully familiar cardboard box, actually. The sight of your Mum’s old keepsake box makes you cry out with joy, lifting it from its little enclave. You’d lost a lot in the past few days but at least the old you knew how to keep your family’s stuff safe.

This apartment looks brand new. And apparently the past you dug into it to hide her stuff. You can’t really judge, you have a hidey-hole back at your apartment. It was a brick that had already been loose in the wall, so it didn’t feel quite as criminal as this.

The ringing is coming from inside the box. When you pull the lid up, you find a keepsake box a little different from yours. While yours only ever had your family’s old passports and photo albums, this one had a sleek phone sitting on top of all the mementos. It’s an exact copy of the phone on your bed- or well, it would be, if you hadn’t dropped it.

Two phones? This bitch was greedy. And so are you, eagerly sweeping the expensive item into your gremlin hands. Your thieving high is instantly quashed when you see who’s calling.

Of all fucking… George.

You roll your eyes before hanging up, tossing the phone to the side as you start rifling through the old keepsake box. You flip through family photo albums and lovingly cradle old stuffies. The phone buzzes. You ignore it. You find one of your mother’s old necklaces, and because you’re desperate for anything that can ground you, slip it over your head. The cool heart locket rests just under your collarbone, and you clutch it with one hand as you keep exploring. The phone keeps buzzing. It’s only almost half an hour later when you realise something about this is strange.

Why is George… not blocked? You glance down at the vibrating object like it’s radioactive, a despairing frown pulling at your face. Cautiously, you pick it up, making sure not to open the notifications lest it tell George you read any of his messages.

He’s… apologising for not being there for your birthday. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. And it’s not even a proper apology, it’s one of those ‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings’ bullcrap. He keeps spamming you, and eventually, you realise that he’s not going to just stop.

You decide to nip this in the bud quickly because even remembering his cheating face makes you feel like throwing up.

‘You’: Why are you contacting me?

‘George <3’: Seriously? Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there yesterday. I was busy, you know that.

Stupidly, you reply:

‘You’: ‘No, seriously, why are you contacting me? I’m done with you.’

You wonder how you ever loved this jackass. Even if he was obviously more of a jackass here, than where you’d come from. He was just better at pretending there. You keep scrolling, ignoring the new texts that pop up. Your stomach sours at the number of texts he himself had ignored, of the amount of ‘sorry baby, can’t come tonight’, the begging, the pleading.

No, he wasn’t worse at pretending. He just didn’t care.

You wonder if this could have been you, further along down the line. Abuse happens slowly, right? Like a frog in a pot. You’d have forgiven and forgotten, written away his worse behaviours till you couldn’t anymore. Till you couldn’t leave, till you were trapped.

You think George Lancaster would’ve tried to. He would’ve isolated you from everyone you had left if he hadn’t screwed up and got caught.

You realise now there were a lot of red flags in your relationship with George. Molly always hated him and he hated her. He’d constantly complain about how much time you spent with her, spamming you with texts when you went out.

You were only… only two days since you’d actually broken up with him. Which was sort of crazy to think about. You feel like you’ve lived eons since then. Like that one traumatic incident aged you thirty years. Anyway, you still hadn’t processed the whole George thing. You’d been sort of busy fighting for your life.

‘George’: I’m here, can you at least open the door so we can talk face to face?

Freeze. A knock sounds, and your head snaps up to the front door. You don’t move. You just wish it away. The knocking only gets louder and louder.

You feel like a dumb girl in a horror movie as you walk towards the door, unlocking it and creaking the knob open. George Lancaster stands on the other side, and before you can slam it in his face, he grabs you by the arm and yanks you out of the door. And then he’s pulling you to the elevator, even as you try and get your bearings, get yourself away from him.

“You can’t just ignore me like this,” George says, pissed off to high hell, “We’re going to miss the reservation I booked specifically for you. I told you it was happening today and-”

There’s white noise between your ears, you can’t hear what he’s saying. Told you? It wasn’t in any of the texts. He’s still talking even as the elevator dings, even as he shoves you in a white sports car that’s half parked on the curb. Even as he drives his way through Gotham’s streets, he won’t fucking shut up.

Why are you letting this happen to you? Why aren't you fighting back, wrenching yourself from his grasp? He takes you into a restaurant, one so upscale that normally you wouldn’t be able to get in for months, and your head snaps from staring socialites to watching politicians to gawking celebrities. You have the eyes of the world on you right now, and they’re all watching George yell at you.

And you can’t find your voice.

It's like a scab you can't stop picking at. Like you think this is what you deserve or something. And it's not. You know it's not. And yet you follow obediently, chastised and embarrassed, as he pulls you through the restaurant. When he picks a table in the centre of the room, you don’t protest. When he chooses your meal for you, even though it’s not to your taste, you don’t protest.

Looking at George, scrolling lazily on his phone, your hands clench against the table. They’re sweating, shaking, nails digging into your palms.

You… you didn’t have to break up with him again, did you? You realised it earlier, but you didn’t- it didn’t really sink in. Your first breakup with George Lancaster was a miserable traumatic experience, and it had been in the solitary streets of Gotham’s Narrows. This one, this one would be seen by literally everyone.

Nauseous. You feel so damn nauseous, your mouth dry as you swallow down bile. This was ridiculous. You couldn’t stand seeing his face. Was he texting her right now? God, did she even know? You’d just stormed out that night, running from what you’d seen.

George had chased after you. Had he left her there? Your stomach churned at the idea. You had to hate her on principle but, well, you also had to sympathise with her. Contradictions, that was the average you. You didn’t want to help this random girl. Didn’t want to have to ever think of her again.

…Staring at George, a definitively awful person, you can’t do it. Can’t just leave her to it.

“I’m breaking up with you,” you say.

“What?” George replies, not even looking up from his phone.

“I’m breaking up with you!” you shout. It’s not even intentional, just a result of being pushed too far, of breaking too easily.

The restaurant goes quiet. Guess you’re up for another scandal then. Whatever, it wasn’t like you would’ve lasted much longer anyway. This was all too complicated for your recently traumatised mind to handle. And it was just too damn stupid to bother with anyway. All of this was fucking stupid.

You included.

Just pull the bandaid off, right? You could already see how this version of you had so many scandals to her name. You probably should start giving a shit. Or at least trying to. You don’t think you want to, though.

George puts his phone down face down on the tablecloth, giving you a calm look. That slightly pitying stare activates something in your brain you didn’t really know was there. It’s a type of rage you haven’t known since you were a kindergartner and one of the other girls said you couldn’t play princesses. Since your first service job where your manager felt you up. Just pure, petty, anger. The type of anger ready to burn the world down as long as it burns whoever pissed you off as well. He opens his mouth, probably to say something condescending, and your hand whips out and snatches his phone.

“Hey!” George says instead, his eyes widening.

You turn the phone back on. Hm, passcode. You flip it around and use facial recognition to open it. Despite the fact that George wears the most comically shocked expression, with saucer-wide eyes and a mouth open to catch flies, it unlocks. Nice.

“Hey! What are you doing?” George demands, reaching over the table for his phone.

You twist away from his reach. Password. You flip the phone, and despite George’s comically shocked expression, it still unlocks. He shouts again when it does, probably realising that you might be taking this seriously. That he might actually be in trouble. That his sugar mummy might not take too kindly to the numerous texts to other women on his phone.

…You really can’t believe you’re a sugar mummy. And for George of all people. What a horrendous waste of money, it’s fucking tragic.

He’s got the texts with someone known as ‘Pizza Hut’ pulled up, with some very flirtatious messages. You scroll up furiously, ducking under George as he gets up from the table and tries to get the phone. Still, backing up, the sight of a very poorly shot dick pic of George’s has you grimacing. Your focus on the picture, trying to decide whether his penis looked so unappealing before you’d learnt of his betrayal, has you distracted when one of the servers come around.

And, well, shirt, meet soup. Very, very hot soup. Everyone? Meet a screeching, klutzy moron.

George takes the chance to advance on you, snatching his phone from you. He doesn’t even seem to care you’re currently getting third-degree burns. The sting scorches through the thin fabric of your dress shirt, burning your skin. George grabs you again, his grip harsh enough this time you know it will bruise, and you can’t really say why you do what you do at that moment.

Your aunt used to have a chihuahua. It was an ugly, grumpy thing. She’d rescued it late into its life, and it had been treated poorly beforehand. It didn’t like to be touched at all and used to run from anyone who tried. And if you tried to touch it? Cornered it?

Well, of course, it started biting.

George’s howl is the most satisfying thing you’ve ever heard. His squeal of “bitch!” might be even more so. He slaps you away from him, and the sound echoes in the restaurant. Your face stings. When you land ass first in the puddle of still-too-hot soup, you wonder if you might try and bite him again. You don’t think you even broke the skin, considering you can’t taste blood. The other patrons stare on in genuine horror, like they’ve never seen a messy breakup before. One woman raises a hand to her mouth, and gasps-

You find yourself staring up at a furious George, one with a menace in his eyes you’ve never seen before. You wonder, idly, if he’s ever hit you before. Well, not you, but ‘you’. You realise now that he has the capacity for it, that he probably always did.

“What the fuck!?” he hisses, angry eyes darting from side to side, “Biting me?! In fucking public?! Have you lost it, you crazy bitch?! And you got my phone fucking soaked in soup!”

“Did you buy it?” you ask, wiping your mouth with your sleeve to get George’s dirty taste out of your mouth.

He blinks, confused, thrown off by your question, “Huh?”

“Did you buy that phone?” you repeat, your staring starting to turn into a furious glare.

You don’t think he did. Your George had never been able to afford those sorts of things, he’d been as broke as you were. Of course, you’d seen him lust over those items, but you’d always managed to convince him not to go into debt over silly things like sports cars and fancy phones. And even then, you’d been the one to buy him a PS5.

He looks down at the phone and back at you, and you can see his jaw tick.

“I bought it. That’s mine.”

“It was a gift. You’re going to be such a bitter bitch to take back everything you gave me? Gonna leave me out on the fucking street?” he says, spittle flying with angry words.

This was escalating fast. Maybe before you’d have been cowed by his words, but you were genuinely off your rocker by now and were very much willing to tango with this bastard. Like yes, he did terrify you, but so did everything else. You could handle this much at least. You weren’t ready to back down.

“And if I did? What then George? What could you even fucking do?” you throw back, voice rising to match his.

“It’s not your money either, it’s theirs, you little leech!” says the pot.

“Does it matter?” replies the kettle.

Pushing to your feet, you find George without another answer. He stands between you and the exit. With the plain murderous rage on his face, you think he’ll try to grab you again if you run past. He wouldn’t bite you back, but he might slap you or something. So instead, like any good coward does, you run straight to the girl’s bathroom. It hasn’t failed you yet, and you doubt it will today.

You shove into the bathroom, past a woman doing her makeup. Her head bobs up and down as she takes in your seemingly infamous face, and your stained shirt. You stride as far away from her as possible, darting into the last bathroom stall and sitting on the closed toilet lid. You pull your knees to your chest and hiss out a sound of frustration when that presses the sticky liquid against your chest and pants. Not your brightest idea, but you were sort of running on fumes right now.

The bathroom stall is extremely clean. One thing you were quickly realising about rich people is they didn’t have to suffer shitty public bathrooms. You didn’t think they deserved it. Like customer service jobs, and traffic, they built character.

What were you doing? Right, trying not to cry. You’re doing much better than yesterday. Still, sitting on top of the toilet’s closed lid, your phone pressed to your face, you wouldn’t say you’re doing ‘good’.

But because you knew George was too much of a pussy to ever enter the woman’s bathrooms, you refuse to move a single inch. You don’t want to go out there. At all. At all, at all. You’d tried to call Jeanine, but she hadn’t answered. Some P.A. she was. You still weren’t going to fire her. Then you remember that she told you she was going out later, and that she’d left a card with you. Digging through your pocket, you decide it’s finally time to die when you realise you lost the card somewhere along the line.

So, she wasn’t going to come save you as your knight in shining armour.

You can’t remember Molly’s number. Who did these days? That was your phone’s job. So you were left with… this. You were left with this. Four blocked numbers and a third had sent an automatic reply because he was driving. Alfred was probably busy. Weren’t butlers always very busy?

…Rich people weren’t often very busy. They had butlers and assistants to do all their chores. You unblock all four of the Waynes that you have on your phone.

The first thing you notice is the amount of texts between ‘you’ and Dick. Scrolling and scrolling, you find most of them are him checking up on you and one-word replies from the old you. He’s friendly and accepting, even when you respond in cruel and aggressive tones. The further back you scroll, the kinder your replies are. At one point it seems like the two of you had a good relationship.

You check the other chats. Tim’s message log is filled with coffee requests sent back and forth between you, Damian’s is completely empty, and Bruce’s has had no response from your phone in years. But eventually, you scroll back far enough that you find an actual conversation instead of just ‘Call Alfred’ repeated every few days.

‘You’: I miss them.

‘Bruce Wayne’: I know. I miss them too.

You press the back button, sighing. That felt like you’d seen something you shouldn’t have, like you’d peeked into someone’s diary. Which was unbelievably stupid. All of this is unbelievably stupid. You should just leave, you should just be brave. Two days ago you faced off against one of your worst fears, but today you couldn’t even handle George Lancaster.

You want someone to rescue you. You know no one will unless you ask. It makes you choke on your own self-disgust. This is the second time in one day. God, maybe you should just do it yourself. It’s not like you couldn’t pay for your own Uber.

And still, you find yourself clicking on a name and begging. Skin crawling, you type and retype the text probably a hundred times. You go from long apologies to begging to rants you never intended to send in the first place. Tap, tap, tap, and then you delete, delete, delete.

What you settle on is simple.

‘You’: hey. can you come pick me up? thx

Maybe a bit too simple. You cross your arms and tuck yourself in the good ol’ fetal position. You feel like you’ve spent half your time holding yourself like this the past three days.

‘Dick Grayson’: I’ll be there in five.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

#Series:WWW #yandere batfam #batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

1K notes · View notes